Who I am; Where I come from Pt. 1
My parents met at a coffeehouse in Ashland, Oregon; My half-brother Jeremy spilled a bowl of cheerios and my dad Eric Nelson volunteered to help clean up. He was getting his Master's Degree in English Education... having earned his B.A. from U.C.L.A.. My mom Cecelia was finishing her studies as a ...read more
To The Noble Mind
The dream is dead.
The King of Rome shall not live.
I shall never hear the media crunch of the first step upon Mars.
I shall never taste the caviar of the future.
I shall never smell napalm in the morning.
I will never take that hot-balloon ride over the Willamette Valley with a champagne lunch.
I will never find the bottom of the politic water-fall, where peace and fury foam.
My dream is dead,
dead upon the page,
dead for you to read.
The Tragedy of a Spider
As I was reading Eastman's: "From The Deep Woods to Civilization," a fascinating account of a Sioux doctor on the Sioux reservation during the time of the ghost dance, I noticed a black spider on the white ceiling. Above a wilting house plant, near a heater vent, he hangs from the ceiling. He ...read more
Filet of Soul
When I was six, I dreamt that my father died in a lush, forest park.
I am usually ill at ease and it is my practice to turn this into the intellectual problems of the world.
Because I am largely blind to my own moral failings, I perceive the world as being immensely injust.
I do, however, have some reason to believe in my own moral value and to resent certain aspects of society.
I wonder what death is, i.e. how consciousness might perceive it.
Is my consciousness separate from that of other people, even those whom I like?
My thoughts and feelings, but not my actions, support this idea.
I am quite afraid of dying but only a little of being dead.
What A Long, Strange Trip It's Been
Well, I feel fat and satisfied. I've eaten a lot of life. I've been to all kinds of nice restaurants: Thai, Indian, Moroccan, German, English, Carribean, you fucking name it. Indian's my favorite; If I could afford a personal chef, I'd eat nothing but Indian food. Well, we could slide in a little sushi now and then, and maybe an occasional American breakfast, an omelette and some bacon or something.
I've had lots of road trips and day dreams. I've seen Hawaii, Canada, the American Southwest, fucking Sweden. Sweden was an icier version of Washington, and with commies. Hawaii was cool. I remember eating at some super-posh restaurant called GayLords, on the island of Kauaii I think. We had some kind of flaming liquor drinks and I had a filet mignon. Then I love funky, cosmopolitan Seattle where it always seems like Kurt Cobain just turned the corner.
Everywhere I've gone: I've thought, I've read and I've dreamed. I've walked in a lot of Gardens. I've shared books with so many authors. I've gathered cans to buy paint and brushes to make my inspired but slap-dash paintings. I've gone to so many special lectures, documentaries, art-parties, etc. I've learned from most of them and the rest at least stirred my mind.
I've listened to all kinds of music from super-modern classical to blues to industrial. So often, I come across an old favorite album and it takes me back to some distant chapter of my life. Green Day's "Kerplunk":The budding rock star- an ackward but powerful chick magnet. Nirvana's "Inutero": The isolated, hateful high school scholar. Marilyn Manson's "Mechanical Animals": the social, long-haired sophomore stoner. Sublime's "self-titled": the heart-broken lush and Ephedra addict.
One thing you know: there will always be another song... if anyone's listening.
My life is pending. Confusion is omni-present. Heaven forbid that anything should offend old ladies. Today is MLK day. Now what does Martin Luther King mean to me? He represents a race that is not mine that I see needed some help. It's difficult to rise from slavery to equality. But the authorities are so set on deifying MLK that I can't help but distrust him. I know that these authorities stand for oppression, human slavery, and the destruction of everything that is great. Why they stand for these things I don't know but it is apparent that they do. No, what MLK Day means to me is that I can't go lap swimming because the school pool is closed. Seven-Eleven is open; they'd love to sell me more alcohol but the pool is closed. I had to struggle to find a place where I could swim. You see, water really stimulates my mind and my soul. All my best creative work is done around water. I'm listening to this Native-American flute music; it needs to be harder and angstier. But then the cuppies wouldn't like it. "Cuppies" is my new word for corporate yuppies, which is really what's emerged. You've got all these goofy conformists going around with this limited liberality; they love politically correct causes as long as they wouldn't offend Mrs. Hoover. They'd kill you for insulting MLK but heaven forbid that we should actually help the blacks out of the ghettos. Fuck, I wanna go swimming.
Right now, I feel like I'm living in the Matrix. Everything seems so strange to me. There's a headline in today's Yahoo News: "France seeks new start to relations with US." Now to start with, that's bull because it pretends like we're dealing with all these deep issues, or at least cultural, social ...read more
Craig Wright, my favorite creative writing Professor, gave the class the following challenge, which he in turn took from Hemingway. This is what Hemingway said: "Write just one sentence; write the truest one you know." I don't remember what I wrote at the time but today in class, I was creating this beautiful doodle of a sea unicorn and a crab with a samurai face on its back(the latter does exist and is quite remarkable.) I was too tired to draw anymore and was looking for a way to complete the page. So I came up with this sentence: "You cannot enclose the universe in a book." I look forward to seeing what the rest of you come up with.
In the Sweat Lodge
In the sweat lodge, all ideologies melt away.
There are no corners and no lines and everybody is a temporary friend.
Furthest from the door, I don't do much talking.
Eyes closed, I walk amid the ruins of my life.
First, there's the void, the answer to my question: ...read more
Murder! Read All About It!
You know, quick decisions well made are the most important thing in the world. And the only way you can make them is to rely on emotion. There are reasons that we feel the way we do. Reason can mislead you. God knows that words can mislead you but your gut, if nothing else, represents all the ...read more
I want more than I can steal
I want more than I can steal. I mean, bags of $40 a pound Mocha Java Organic coffee with low acidity and hints of citrus and blueberries is easy enough; Chard, carrots, Progresso soups, Montana farmed salmon and rib-eye steaks are easy enough. Likewise, the $250 Titanium graphite raquet didn't take much works, just a clever observation; even the vacation to Hawaii was doable, though it took a little planning. But I want a Monticello, a nice, loveable wife and a stable place in society; these things were stolen from me.
How To Overcome Seasonal Depression
It would be difficult to find more of an expert on the subjects of cold weather, depression or their combination. As for depression, I had a Caesarean birth and came out screaming, clawing and crying, which I managed to sustain for almost my first year. And unfortunately, the unhappiness never ...read more
Kris Novoselic, Nirvana's bass-player, back-up vocalist and sometime co-song writer, once scrawled on a wall:
Now this was taken up as a sort of maxim of the grunge movemement, finding its way onto T-shirts, etc. One has to keep in mind the ironic spirit in which the grunge movement was launched. Kurt Cobain didn't have a homosexual cell in his body but he sought out the reputation, kissing drummer Dave Groll on national television. Here are my variations on the Novoselic:
Now here's a more cuddly variation:
flower child tappin'
fern green smokin'
earth first check stuffin'
Now go ahead and outdo me, which you're all very capable of doing.
to forget and be forgotten
The cactuses spread out infinitely,
the air is hot,
the sky is blue,
there is not the slightest sound,
here we turn inward to seek..
something we lost in the city.
We seek to lose track of... reality.
These sands help us forget the maps and the shape of the globe.
We don't know what state we're in or how old Jesus is.
We don't have the internet here;
I smashed the cell phone;
I wonder if it has a platonic ideal.
There isn't any context here;
the world is not a text.
Here, we forget and are forgotten.
The desert animals creep and crawl,
seeking a forgotten order.
We can all forget that the dinosaurs are extinct,
that Kipling fell from political grace.
We can close our eyes,
turn the sun into a vengeful God and become the most advanced beings on earth.
beyond the beyonds
Perhaps you could see past me, or through me,
because I don't want to see anymore, or be anymore. It seems so useless to say what I have to say but I'll say it anyway. This life has been a nightmare; I just want to wake up in heaven. God knows I deserve it. I've stood for something good, complet, whole. If I've been weak, I haven't been greedy. When I've been strong, I've been noble.
dishwashing as service Yoga
You can change dishwashing into Yogic practice with the magic wand of right attitude. First of all, pre-occupation with the past and attachment to the future must be cleared from the mind. Secondly, a CD must be selected. Eric Clapon "Unplugged" and REM "Out of Time" are two good selections. An appropriately enlightened mantra can be helpful. "The bowls had to be smoked; the dreams had to be dreamt; the dishes have to be washed." is a working example. Next, meditative attention to detail is useful but perfectionism brings only disturbance of the mind. A little dried cheese on the silverware will not kill you. End practice with a brisk cleaning of the counter, which will be white and shiny, just like your aura.