Hello, world. I've been having a minor writer's block lately, or more so an everything block. Not much has changed in regards to my habitat. My neighbor and friendly acquaintance, The Sicilian, has moved from the upper tier (where I reside) to the bottom floor. This is unfortunate since we now have to scream to communicate, but good for him considering he got a radio out of the deal. Other than that my shorts are still orange, my windows are still bulletproof and my butlers are still on time to interrupt my imaginary adventures displayed on the underside of my eyelids.
I find my days mostly exciting, but still at times stressful and frustrating. The excitement is a product of my nascent interest in everything. It derives and is fed through the literature I read, the news I follow and the correspondence I keep with many interesting and special people. I have four cousins (mother, father and two sons) who recently moved to the island of Jakarta in Indonesia. The father keeps a blog and I exchange emails with his wife and get interesting updates about what life is like in such a different place. I have an uncle who lives a few miles from the penitentiary. He is probably my favorite pen pal simply due to the rich substance of our conversations. We talk politics, philosophy, news and every now and then just how each of our lives are going.
He has something around forty years seniority on me along with a trough of intellectual experience and wisdom that I am very fortunate to be welcomed to inquire on. I state my opinions based off a half-forgotten elementary education and my current stint with auto-didactism and usually get put in check on most subjects, but that is a piece of what makes our relationship so meaningful. These are just two examples of a large and supportive family who have truly been wonderfully unconditional in their love. I also have two dedicated and interesting parents as well as a lovely, mischievous and clever little sister. I have many cousins, aunts and uncles who even amidst this epic of a decade find the time to drop me a line and say, "I love you" every now and then.
My excitement and blessings truly outweigh my frustrations, so much so I almost forgot to elaborate on the latter. Well, I'd say the source of my discontent pretty much boils down to conflicting actions opposed to my aspirations - meaning the procrastination that so often cripples the potential extent of my perseverance. Simply: I'm enjoying my learning, but waste time thinking about wanting to learn more and the possibility that I'm not learning enough. Can you relate? I could also use some suggestions on how to read critically and effectively and techniques on expanding my vocabulary. I'd appreciate even the slightest suggestion.
Until next time, take care - don't be square.
Note from the "scribe." Should you have suggestions (i.e. websites, resources, etc.) to pass along to Sway, please feel free to leave comments here and/or send an email to sometimesthesewallstalk@gmail.com. I'll be sure he gets it!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Letter to an Addict - "fiction"
Dearest Me,
Wake up, slap yourself! It's Me, You, and somehow I'm sending Us a letter from Myself in the future. I know what you're thinking, Pal. You think that it is considerably far into the future. Far enough that technology has granted Me the ability to send our foolish, younger self a warning through some sort of time traveling fax machine. You're probably surprised we're still alive. You are also likely thinking I am now a pathetic and toothless old man who got lent the stereotypical idea while enduring his 314th trip to rehab to write his not so bright younger self an urgent message reporting the tragic news on just how devastating a toll that first shot of whiskey has taken on his poor brittle bones... or something.
Actually, no, it's only next year, not much farther into the future than tomorrow and to admit that I understand how You, Myself, is actually reading this non-existent note is way beyond my own faith in the potential greatness of future technology. When this note is finished I plan on slipping it into a state-issued envelope addressed to our wonderful mother still living in Los Angeles. I'll then hope it is somehow sucked into a portal that is kind and understanding enough to teleport its contents somewhere near a city sidewalk, last year, soon to be crossed by an ignorant and reckless young man on his way to spend his last greasy one hundred dollar bill on a peculiar brown, toffee-like substance barely the size of a gumball. You know who and what I'm talking about, Me. And you are probably expecting at this point for me to direct you to turn around, go home and ask our fiscally responsible father to invest that stained one hundred dollar bill in gold, identity theft protection or something - you know - with "promise."
Alright then brother - go home now, turn around, the destination you've chosen happens to be an empty and forsaken place. When was the last time you told that wonderful mother or fiscally responsible father that you love them? When I venture to be realistic I realize that these words are no use. You will continue your quest to buy the sticky heroin and when your itch has been relieved you will then go home and tell mom and dad how much you love them. Sounds good. Unfortunately the next time you will get a chance to tell your mother how wonderful she is, you two will be separated by a piece of bullet proof glass. Your eyes will sweat briefly in harmony with hers, but your tears will not drain on her behalf. Your pain will be selfish but justified for such torment suppressed is likely to leak every now and then.
As I continue to write you, my friend, I playfully expect to suddenly disappear and be where I would have been if we would have listened to that adversarial voice, the unconditionally loving, forever sabotaging, Myself. But as I sink back to reality once again you whisper, "It's no use." Even if science fiction were to play a part in these affairs, a miraculous letter appearing at your feet wouldn't hold more than an initial shock. These words are no different than the nagging spirit that chimes in every time you begin to do something I deem extremely foolish and vice versa. What an ambivalent conscience we have! And what an irony it is, the lack of respect it's been provided. And you are with me now. I don't need a time machine to tell you anything. Sometimes I want to hate you and sometimes I exhaust myself doing so, but like a small child scored for an unconscious mistake, the contempt is never any match for the power that is wrought through patience, love and understanding.
Wake up, slap yourself! It's Me, You, and somehow I'm sending Us a letter from Myself in the future. I know what you're thinking, Pal. You think that it is considerably far into the future. Far enough that technology has granted Me the ability to send our foolish, younger self a warning through some sort of time traveling fax machine. You're probably surprised we're still alive. You are also likely thinking I am now a pathetic and toothless old man who got lent the stereotypical idea while enduring his 314th trip to rehab to write his not so bright younger self an urgent message reporting the tragic news on just how devastating a toll that first shot of whiskey has taken on his poor brittle bones... or something.
Actually, no, it's only next year, not much farther into the future than tomorrow and to admit that I understand how You, Myself, is actually reading this non-existent note is way beyond my own faith in the potential greatness of future technology. When this note is finished I plan on slipping it into a state-issued envelope addressed to our wonderful mother still living in Los Angeles. I'll then hope it is somehow sucked into a portal that is kind and understanding enough to teleport its contents somewhere near a city sidewalk, last year, soon to be crossed by an ignorant and reckless young man on his way to spend his last greasy one hundred dollar bill on a peculiar brown, toffee-like substance barely the size of a gumball. You know who and what I'm talking about, Me. And you are probably expecting at this point for me to direct you to turn around, go home and ask our fiscally responsible father to invest that stained one hundred dollar bill in gold, identity theft protection or something - you know - with "promise."
Alright then brother - go home now, turn around, the destination you've chosen happens to be an empty and forsaken place. When was the last time you told that wonderful mother or fiscally responsible father that you love them? When I venture to be realistic I realize that these words are no use. You will continue your quest to buy the sticky heroin and when your itch has been relieved you will then go home and tell mom and dad how much you love them. Sounds good. Unfortunately the next time you will get a chance to tell your mother how wonderful she is, you two will be separated by a piece of bullet proof glass. Your eyes will sweat briefly in harmony with hers, but your tears will not drain on her behalf. Your pain will be selfish but justified for such torment suppressed is likely to leak every now and then.
As I continue to write you, my friend, I playfully expect to suddenly disappear and be where I would have been if we would have listened to that adversarial voice, the unconditionally loving, forever sabotaging, Myself. But as I sink back to reality once again you whisper, "It's no use." Even if science fiction were to play a part in these affairs, a miraculous letter appearing at your feet wouldn't hold more than an initial shock. These words are no different than the nagging spirit that chimes in every time you begin to do something I deem extremely foolish and vice versa. What an ambivalent conscience we have! And what an irony it is, the lack of respect it's been provided. And you are with me now. I don't need a time machine to tell you anything. Sometimes I want to hate you and sometimes I exhaust myself doing so, but like a small child scored for an unconscious mistake, the contempt is never any match for the power that is wrought through patience, love and understanding.
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