Ruminations in Belize

In a conversation in the asylum outside of an impossibly secluded town a character named Peter told Bibi, the protagonist of the story 'The Hope Valley Hubcap King': "I'm a cynic, and a true cynic feels superior to everything. I have developed the unique ability, through criticizing my own attributes again and again, of feeling superior even to myself."
Hierarchical pricks unite! The moments in which we are drawn so deeply inward, to our own thoughts and ideas, even to the degree where it manifests physical pain, can promote a sense of 'realness'. In this place time is irrelevant and the moody ruminations eclipse the mact of the fatter that all things are temporary. In fact, if one tries to grasp at this, it often just hurtles them to an even deeper degree of moroseness. Yet it is the moments when we are furthest from this that we are closest to the rest of us, to the world around us as an extension of our selves and we of it. A confluence which my mind at least is not yet pliable enough to grasp. But there are those instants of abandon.
Two days past I was sanding a board, watching the sander in my hand, caressing the texture and watching the patterns in the mahogany. The saw and the sander were loud but my MP3 device further drowned any outside sound. The metal roof over head blocked me from the weather and I was only aware of cloud cover or sun in the way it lighted the material at hand. All my senses were preoccupied would be the more direct way of saying it. In an instant all things around me faded as a smell reached me. I stopped and looked up to identify the source. It was the smell of steeping rain, of flowers being caught with their heads thrown back and their mouths open by a storm. From the blue sky came a deluge of rain. It was beautiful and I was drunk in it. I put down my work for just a moment and wandered out into it. I cannot claim the smile that came across my face as being my own, only a reflection of the wonderment struck by that moment. It passed. I returned to my work station.
I kept the smile, if only to try to retain that moment and wondered where the rainbow which accompanies such phenomena was.
My Granddaddy shut off his saw and looked around and in his gruff, old man, Southern accent demanded, "Well what in the world!? It doesn't even know the right way to rain in this country!"

Monday Morning - so fun it makes my face hurt

Reticence had nothing to do with it. Really, truly, I was simply and profoundly affected by the weather. The drizzle outside was enough of a departure from the sunny status quo to send me into a maddeningly deep and dark downward spiral, albeit a brief one. I sat somber and morose, working on nothing and yet working to stay looking busy. What a sad charade - actually even a little embarrassing - and not the least bit beneficial, for anyone. I mean, here I was, in a climate all but unchanging in its awesomeness, and I still manage to slip into some abject pit of despair at a moment's notice. At least the rain would help clear away the smog, I thought, and yet somehow this was still slightly depressing. What was worse was that the rain had made this morning's drive to work even less convenient than usual. Drivers here have a habit of freaking the fuck out when the road starts to shine - the seldom-seen effect of precipitation on pavement. Still, I had a sneaking suspicion that my temperament was less-than temporary - it was logical to assume that I had been working up to feeling under the weather. I had been writing too much, drinking, and surreptitiously smoking out of my apartment's kitchen window, so at this point I was merely looking for an excuse to emote. I looked out at the grey, thought for a moment about how everything looked less sexy under its new-found coat of shit-water, and imagined God with a gravy boat.
My eyes wandered over to the girl in the BMW next to me. I fell in love with her for as long as the streetlight would allow, and was abruptly brought back to reality by a blasting car horn. I had yet to change my Missouri license plates over to the coveted California tags, so my fellow road-warriors took every opportunity to remind me I was in the way.

a nu derection

Alright - two things:

Hey Ladytron - stop making sexy music that means nothing. Or better yet, keep making it. Make albums, audiobooks, self-help cd's, and disseminate your product throughout the globe. May it serve as a constant reminder that vanity just doesn't sound right. Give me Elmore James, Townes Van Zandt, Dylan, or anybody else with even a moticum of sophomoric melancholy. Your metallic tunes stupefy and entrance, making cool guy think it's the shit. E.g. "Ladytron is huuuge in L.A. - what - you haven't heard of Ladytron?!"

Second thing: Who wants to do a podcast?

Consumerism

Listen - I don't want to be made a target - but I will open myself up for a bit a criticism - just on this issue:

Why is it that the only stuff I ever feel driven to write about is 'the cool?' I truly don't get it. Not that any of these faux-philosphical files are 'cool,' but it's the intent to write about such vain and unimpressive observations which are just that; vague blatherings that describe little and scream of indecision. There is loads of other stuff - more substantive, more interesting - that people write about everyday. I can't even seem to keep my thoughts on one subject, or write from the same perspective for long enough to make this whole mess make sense. I suppose I could ask for direction; take suggestions - but no one will know better than me about what I should write.

I'm not looking to pigeonhole myself, I promise (I think). But the direction of this whole project has always been uncertain. What if I decide to write about a music group that I think is doing great things? Would anyone be interested in reading that?

Back, After a Short Break

Nothing really intelligent to spew from the depths of my bitter, hollow shell. I am in training right now for my new job, passing my intelligence onto the youth of this nation so that others may question the system, fight the oppression - even if it's only seen being imposed onto others, and stop listening to the lies of old, dead, white men.

I'll be back from now on to ramble and rebel rouse. For now, just take this nugget of wisdom from ole Al Einstein.

"Any fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction."

Then again, didn't he help create the nuclear weapon?

-Thanks, Management.

The Betters

In light of recent events - and even my more recent musings, I got to thinking. I don't presume to be the purveyor of all things altruistic. Benevolence, mental buoyancy, optimism – all that bullshit has its time and place, right? I find it far easier to write what comes to mind, whether that be the despondent dialogue of my darker side, or that sanguine shit that I’ve been spewing as of late.

So - as a turning of the tide - allow me to curmudgeon. I promise to make it justifiably worth your time – not that old-man brand of expostulation – but the kind that needs to be heard. At the very least, it deserves to be heard. Some think the memoir of a ne'er-do-well a ‘testament to dead ideas,’ but they're not whose ear I'm seeking. I'm aiming at the folk who need to hear a social commentary on why we ought to throw out our extended-dance mixes and settle down to some sensibly irresponsible, time-tested rock and roll.

I’m sick of the soulless techno travesty – I want to champion something worthwhile. More on this soon.

-IE

Foreword for the book yet to be written

My name is Ryan and I live in Cincinnati.

Now – you’re probably looking for a premise. I'm happy to report that you will find no such substantive shit in these shallow pages, save the occasional invigorating encounter with the opposite sex, or vivid depiction of a fetching first listen. And while this sad bastard saga will bemoan love loss, the agony of enduring shitty people and their terrible taste, and undoubtedly document gin-drunk diatribes, there is also a lighter side. Because, for all my elderly idiosyncrasies, I’m really just a young man trapped in an even younger boy’s body. A Zevon. And cliché as it may be – fuck you – it’s true.

-IE