Where have all the Rock Stars gone?

All images scanned by me, from Taking Aim, by Graham Nash

But you'll never know

I followed you with my eyes

I followed you with my eyes. It didn’t seem to matter. Everything we had talked about, it was all irrelevant now. I seemed to be talking outside of myself, as if someone had taken control of my body. I couldn’t seem to control my limbs, especially my tongue. You looked back at me, finally, but in a different way. You looked as if it wasn’t me you were looking at, but someone else. That’s when my heart started racing, when I realized it was not my imagination. There was another part of me that existed independently, that whispered sinister words out through my ears for all to hear.

This time I caught you looking at me, and it was really me. I had to remember these rare moments, or it would all be lost. The moments were unpredictable. Sometimes I was for days at a time. At other times, I interchanged moment by moment between the other and myself. It could not be controlled, no matter how hard I fought.

The days urged on, pushed by the hands of time. I was loosing myself at a greater rate than before. You came to see me fewer nights, and on more and more nights I watched you from behind a wall, trapped beneath my own skin. I heard myself say that you needed to be there, that terrible things would happen if you ever went away. My bones ached within, how was I pushing you away? You lingered less, and eventually I could not even feel your fingertips brush against mine. All sensations faded away, I faded away. And even if you had stayed, I would not have seen you, heard you, or felt you.

(via style rookie)

An Old Fakir

He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow.

FEAR OF NOT MAKING IT HOME

The action of mercy covered his pride like a flame and consumed it...

The Passenger

See the passenger
Easily distinguished
Who thinks of lips all day
He takes directions from no one
Because he, himself, doesn’t even need to ask
He already knows the given
Always looking out the window
Riding and riding
Changing shadows with speed
Oversized and exaggerated creatures
The images around him gross and large
Within our place, see us
Images of muted dark- no blacked out color
Lips and directions
Nondirectional messages and assumptions
Give nonverbal signals and agreements
The passenger sees all, but cannot speak
Thinks lips all day
Miles are measured in songs-fog lifting off
The crops too slowly to see
Creating halos of light, too young to capture
Colorless shadows
Shadows with nothing to latch onto-
That are yet to be born, that only the passenger can see

Promised God-Man or Cult of the Mind

Like a drug store in late October stocking the shelves for Christmas, the followers of Ruchira Avatoar Adi Da Samraj had already begun lining the streets with flyers months in advance of his coming. The black and white papers looked unremarkable in and of themselves, but covered from top to bottom on every telephone pole far into the distance gave the impression of a white-washed city. Purged in bright white, a stark contrast from the newly paved black cement, the flyers flickered in the constant wind.

Upon closer impression I could see the dark photograph in the corner and bold print scattered about, which I read every morning on my way to work for literally months. At first I chuckled, as any sane person would. Then one day I dreamt about the end of my life, one of those dreams where you wake up right before it happens. There were dark, empty passages in my house where I wandered, freezing cold closets where I struggled to find my clothes. I was destined to look for them forever, as I could not go out naked. But the longer I looked the weaker I became, until I fell and woke up before I hit some sort of ground. After that the days were not normal; I shook when startled, sweated in cold rooms, and kept my eyes averted from everyone except the baggy, wisdom filled eyes of Ruchira Avatoar Adi Da Samrai, whom I passed hundreds of times daily.

The weeks that led up to his visit to my city began to cause me stress. Most ignored the flyers, or tore them down in mocking jest, causing a liter of white snowy paper all over the ground most days. Every morning, somehow, the streets were empty of flyers and crisp new papers replaced those that had been torn down. Those that attempted to pin advertisements and such on top of the white fliers had no success. All were vigorously removed by an invisible hand.

The words were no longer funny, and his obstinate followers began to convince me that this date, November 14, 2000, was something to think about. The Man-God would come to my city this day. While others mocked his cane, his fabricated name no white man could ever have been given at birth, I fell under his spell, even experiencing unconscious outbreaks in his defense at my co-workers.

“Avatar Adi Da Samraj is the Love-Blissful Divine Person, Appearing in the world in the form of a human being. He is the Promised God-Man, the Divine Liberator Who has been expected and prayed for throughout the ages. Avatar Adi Da Offers to everyone the Grace of a direct Spiritual relationship with Him-through the practice of the Way of Adidam.”

Every day on the way to work, and on weekends when I made excuses to wander the streets, I read one word from the flier on each telephone pole or other such fixture I passed, such as:
Avatar…

Adi…

Da…

Samrai…

is…

the…

Love-….

Blissful…

Etc.

So that as the weeks went by these words imprinted themselves on my mind, and reality began to slip from the crevasses, beginning with work and following me to my dreams. The clothes in the closet were finally found, but they were slippery and too large; as I tried to place my feet into the legs I continually missed and fell to the floor. Signs came to me as well, numbers up to seven that flew around my head in circles. I was impressed by the use of capitals too- it must be a sign of great importance, I thought.

As the date approached I became more nervous, but knew what I had to do. The cost to meet the God-Man was 25 dollars, a sum I did not hesitate to withdraw from my account and place in a glass jar, which the night of the event I smashed with a hammer in a display of dramatic anticipation. I would not need any physical possessions once I had been saved by the Religion of the Way of the Heart at the local YMCA.

I arrived at 6:45 (15 minutes early) in order to get a seat in the front row, but was surprised to see no line in front of the Zonta Room. Very well, I thought, I will not have to vie for the Divine Person’s attention. The man at the door absently took my cash, and in return provided me with an brilliantly white folded pamphlet and a stamp of a blue star on the inside of my right wrist. I rushed into the smallish room and took a seat in the front row, failing to notice the lack of people in the room, and settled into my seat with my pamphlet open. There, hunched over, I scoured the words, which were quite similar to the flier I had read multiple times a day. This time there were two pictures of Adi da Samraj; the one with the cane that I was very familiar with, and one of him with downcast eyes. The images struck me with such fear that I felt my familiar shudders returning.

My watch struck 7 pm sooner than expected. An average looking man approached the stage, thanked us for coming, walked to the sidelines and began fiddling with a computer. I stretched up in my seat to examine the other followers, but there were few, perhaps 5 or 6 in the whole room, most hunched over their pamphlets as I had been. Still I thought, no matter, I will have him to myself, as I eagerly awaited his presence. A descending white screen creaked, breaking the silence, and soon an image could be seen when the lights were turned off.

“A Multimedia Presentation About the Spiritual Work of Avatar Adi Da Samraj and the Religion of the Way of the Heart”

Again with the capitals. What did they mean? More importantly, what was this?

I picked up my pamphlet, which in my surprise I had dropped to the floor, open at my feet. I examined it closely, the quotes, the photographs, until in the right hand corner, in small print I found the title of the multimedia presentation that shone before me in tall lettering. It now became clear: the Man-God would not be appearing in person.

But why the effort? Why the hundreds, the thousands of fliers probing the public to attend his Appearance? I did not understand. Surely it was not the money. That I could not believe. But most importantly, how had I not seen this information as I read each word carefully from the flier for 90 days in a row? Later, as I walked home, I looked for the passage, and found it clear as day in the right hand corner. Many papers littered the ground, but I knew that tomorrow the fallen ones would not be replaced.

If I live til tomorrow it'll be a long time...

Dali, Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past -they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power -
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not -what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? -What are they?
Creations of the mind? -The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep -for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

George Gordon, Lord Byron, "The Dream."

My Former Life

Things I Like, Lately

Kim's Mart: I love this place. Cheap noodles. Cheap cabbage. Cheap delicious Pocky delights. I've been going here about once a week, spending 15 bucks, and eating lunch with my finds for 5 days in a row.


Zinfandel Wine: I felt pretty sophisticated when I finally figured out my wine of choice. Now I know what to get when I go to the grocery store or wherever.


"You Don't Love Me Yet" by Jonathan Lethem: Relatable and real. This is my first Lethem read but I've only heard good things. The only turnoff is very detailed sexual descriptions of a very sloppy fat man.


Alela Diane: I've been listening to To Be Still like crazy.


True Blood: Four episodes in and I've already been embarrassed by a lot of SEX SEX SEX scenes. It's intense. But also a really good show (I know I'm late on the band wagon though).


A Clockwork Orange Soundtrack, on Vinyl: So creepy. I like to listen to it when I'm closing the store, in the dark.


Frye Erin Lace Boot: I must have these for Fall. Only $228! Ha.



Dansaren (The Dancer) (1994): Ballet documentary focusing on Katje Bjorner of the Royal Swedish Ballet. Incredible footage. Sometimes I miss ballet so much, so if I can't take class regularly, the next best thing is watching movies. Well, I suppose going to the ballet would be better, but that's not very convenient now either.

Untitled Story du Jour

(via They Don't Call Them Lovers In High School, Leeland)


They had never been to this part of town before.

Sometimes they each felt trapped in a different decade, but it never seemed to match up between the three of them. The surroundings built up around them screamed 1956 to one boy, the luminous signs of shut down diners advertizing oversized milkshakes and old-fashioned trans fat. Another saw 1977 in the scraggly beards and beaded bracelets of the kids crossing over the train tracks, just as they had decided to do that day. And one simply saw the present, in all its ambiguous glory.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” The youngest, Philip, asked the twins. The twins had been his best friends for only a short time; a boy that never held on to what he wanted for long, Philip desperately sought their approval and good graces, in order to remain in this little cohort as long as possible. The twins hardly took notice of him, however.

The eldest twin (by two minutes) hopped over the deeply inlet tracks easily, his perfectly spaced bangs wisped across his face, inhibiting his vision slightly. Philip followed, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes as well, but tripped over the first metal rail and was sent flying to his face, catching himself at the last minute on his weak arms. The younger twin leaped over Philip’s prostrate figure, ignoring his attempt to laugh it off. The two continued hopping over the ten feet of criss-crossing tracks, not looking down at the pattern of rails, but over towards the horizon. One caught his eyes on the oversized abandoned buildings erected in the 70’s, while one was attracted to the novelty 50’s Ford advertizing a dry cleaning service in dull white paint on its side. When they arrived on the other side of town, they at last turned around to face their younger friend, who was just rising to his knees.

“You guys just go ahead. I’ll catch up later,” Philip shouted across at them, his legs separated by the tracks, placing him in a wide, awkward stance.

“Ok, Phil!” they shouted in unison back, giving each other looks, like "I told you so" or a slight raising of the eyebrows that had that "I'm better than you connotation" as they quickly turned and trotted away, glad to not have the younger boy holding them back any longer.

Philip stood at a crossroads. He could trick himself into gaining the courage to cross over and join the twins, but he could already taste the embarrassment in his mouth. And, more prominently, he could hear his mother’s words burning his ears off….”If I ever hear of you going over to the East side, and you get shot in the leg, I’m not going to help you.” That was one of the more dramatic warnings. Usually it was a passive aggressive attack, like newspaper clippings of stories of kids going over the tracks to buy marijuana and never coming back.

He couldn’t go back the way he came though. Still hovering in his wide-legged stance, he twisted his body around to glance behind him; just beyond a patchy field of grass lay the outskirts of the West side of town, with its unwelcoming new architecture springing up in between older, decrepit buildings from another time. He saw clean windows, and modestly built, tasteful offices, unlike the monstrous square brick buildings that towered over the wide empty streets of the East side. Bustling car and foot traffic wafted toward him from the West side, calling him back to his after school program he had opted out of that day, with the help of the twins’ conniving plan.

Finally he brought his legs back together and stood squarely facing the East side of town. He looked left, then right and in both directions there grew dry, patchy bushes and dead, wild grass as far as the eye could see. He arbitrarily chose a side, one not being better or worse than the other, and put one foot in front of the other. He walked steadily, just inside the train tracks.

I love making fliers

Sleeping on a empty stomach in a neurotic head

(Astronomy Picture of the Day)

I dreamed I was in an airplane in space. The inside looked like a house and for a while I sat on a closed toilet seat reading a fashion magazine while my young Asian mother gave birth to a baby boy. She already had twin baby girls but I was not allowed to see them. I would not be allowed to hold the boy either, and this made me angry. A friend and I were supposed to take a road trip but the convertible would not start.

Back in the plane. After the boy was born there was word that we were in danger and could not land. Something mechanical had gone awry. Technicians and engineers worked around the clock to fix the problem, bent over wiring in a wind tunnel near the cockpit. Meanwhile food and utensils were running short. All the bowls and spoons were perforated so it was impossible to drink liquids. The crew and I took the last giant metal bowl and poured the last box of cereal in it (Chex) with the last of the milk, which had to be watered down because there was not enough to drown all the cereal. We scrambled to consume the last bits of sustenance on the airplane, crowded around the bowl. Draco Malfoy was there, sulking because nobody liked him. I thought that because we were all going to die, that I would show him some kindness so I offered him a bit of my cereal, which he eagerly accepted.

Suddenly I bit on a chunk of glass. It cut my mouth all over but I managed to spit most of it out. There was still a bit stuck in my right back molar, crushing it’s way into the indent of a cavity hole. It sounded like chewing on sand, the sound reverberating in my eardrums. The pain was indescribable and I screamed and screamed. I shoved toilet paper into the back of my mouth and bit down, blood flowed out in a dark, dark heavy mass. Someone called a doctor, but when he arrived he said that I had insulted him, and he would not help me. He led me to a dark metal room littered with inflatable exercise balls. The pain went on. I sat upon the balls, which deflated under my weight into oblong shapes. One turned into an inflatable slug, leaving a trail of sludge that later turned into tiny multi-colored beads. No one came to help me. I walked to the window and raised the blinds and outside was a breathtaking scene. I saw the moon gliding across space leaving a sparkling trail like a shooting star. The giant globe of earth was spinning and dancing amongst a backdrop of bright stars and space dust. I ignored the pain and focused on dying in the dark room with the beautiful view.

Oh Brave New World! That Hath Such People In't!

"Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley (1932)

I will start off by admitting that I did not actually finish this book. I tried to read it with an open mind, but about three quarters of the way through, I couldn’t take it anymore. While I recognize its influence and revolutionary ideas of the time, it went too far for me. The book sets out to describe a dystopia of the future (a response to H.G. Well’s utopian novel “Men Like Gods”) where the ‘flaws’ of the developed world work against society, devaluing real love and beauty and honesty. For example, people do not reproduce sexually anymore, the process is done in a sanitary laboratory with no human contact necessary. Young people are encouraged to take as many partners as possible, as “Everyone belongs to everyone else” a mockery of the budding 20th century idea that held that one should not simply mate with the fist eligible partner that comes along, but spend time finding one’s soul mate. Henry Ford is their God, because people are now in such awe of mass production and lucrative capabilities that they worship “homogeneity, predictability, and consumption,” rather than an ancient Christian God. Modern pharmaceuticals are attacked, with Huxley painting a picture of a world where doctors hypnotize children from an early age to indoctrinate them with the values of society. Anti-depressants are consumed like candy. I remember a Vonnegut story where something like this happened, but for some reason Huxley describes it in such an unrealistic way that I can only roll my eyes, whereas Vonnegut really makes me think about how much we, as humans, really should control things.

To me, the novel seemed to hastily attack the things that have made society, for the most part, work better in the last century, generalizing the ‘evil effects’ of birth control, capitalism, individualism, and optimism. I really have no idea of Huxley’s religious beliefs, but I can’t help thinking it was his outrage over non-Christian values that were the driving force behind this novel. Or, more likely, it is a critic of the post-industrial revolutionary ideals that are heavily laden in individualism and democratic rights. And although I have never gotten around to reading the Ayn Rand collecting dust on my bookshelf, I have a feeling a non-Christian reading Brave New World experiences the same kind of frustration a socialist would reading Ayn Rand. It just kind of leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

Maybe one day when I’m a little more mature and able to swallow his ridiculous, over the top doom vision of the future, or “warning,” I’ll get around to finishing the book.

Or maybe we are turning into unconscious machines and this future isn’t so far off? Oh man, now I'm not so sure :/

I love all these covers

Diggin' Around

I have a folder on my desktop titled "Delightful Images." Here are some that I felt compelled to share. Most are taken from the blogs I read on a regular basis.


Beautiful Peacock






mmmm summer


I'm a sucker for this kind of stuff


When I studied in London I lived two blocks away from the British Museum. I spent a lot of time alone in there and I love this map.


Cottingly Fairies- Remember what it's like to believe ridiculous things? I used to TRULY believe that if I rubbed a Troll's jeweled bellybutton my wish would come true.


I miss ballet like crazy.


Kirsten Dunst is my style icon, and in my opinion a very underrated actress.

"I think I can safely say that nobody understands quantum mechanics." -Richard Feynman

Over the past seven months I have had a lot of free time, and I have passed much of that time reading. Since I’ll be starting school up again in a month, I’ve decided to exercise my fuzzy brain by writing some casual reviews of some of my favorite books of the recent past. And because I have nothing else to blog about these days.

Surely You’re Joking Mr. Feynman! Adventures of a Curious Character” By Richard Feynman



While I am the first to admit I am completely incompetent and lost when it comes to science, and more so math, I am absolutely fascinated by it. Especially when it is presented in layman’s terms. This interest is probably heightened because the subject matter is such a mystery to me…it’s almost magical!

This book is an autobiography by Richard Feynman, a Nobel prize-winning physicist who was involved in the Manhattan Project (development of the atomic bomb during WWII). At some point during the project, Feynman and many of his fellow scientist began to realize the implications of their research, and his moral struggles are fascinating to read about. And because there’s no way I’m going to thumb through the book in order to recall his achievements in physics, Wikipedia told me this about him:

“…known for the path integral formulation of quantum mechanics, the theory of quantum electrodynamics and the physics of the superfluidity of supercooled liquid helium, as well as work in particle physics (he proposed the parton model). For his contributions to the development of quantum electrodynamics, Feynman received the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1965…”

Anyone who can explain physics in a way that makes sense and even blows my mind is a genius. This guy is a genius. He’s even an amazing writer…what CAN’T he do?!

But, the best parts of the book are not the scientific descriptions, but the touching, humorous anecdotes of his life that literally made me l.o.l. I l.o.led in cafes, I l.o.l.ed late at night in bed when I literally couldn’t put the book down. It was just wonderful.

He had a passion for safecracking and drumming, likes topless bars and playing practical jokes on his friends and fellow scientists, which made him a well-rounded person indeed. Unfortunately, his romantic life was never as successful as his career; one might argue his over stimulated mind and hectic life left no room for keeping a consistent relationship. Poor Richard.

But, at the end of the day, his life was the perfect combination of inspiring, serious dedication to science, and vitality for carefree, enjoyable living with a quest for adventure, knowledge and new hobbies to explore. What a man. Oh, and if I had been around in his time, I would have called him a babe.


Feynman and his Bongos




It doesn't seem to me that this fantastically marvelous universe, this tremendous range of time and space and different kinds of animals, and all the different planets, and all these atoms with all their motions, and so on, all this complicated thing can merely be a stage so that God can watch human beings struggle for good and evil — which is the view that religion has. The stage is too big for the drama.
(1959), quoted by James Gleick in Genius: The Life and Science of Richard Feynman (1992)