The Subpoolular Siren's Song...

These people make me nervous (THESE people?!  Who the fuck are THESE people?  Am I THOSE people??!).  Living in fear, they are; no, I live in fear.  Nervousness is my reaction to their selves.  And who's fault is that? Well, not fault, but who's intention is that? (Mine, Yours? OURS?) 
My own?  No --> Nervousness is an involuntary response to a perceived threatening situation.  Developed as a survival mechanism to sense any possible danger (a threat is a threat)!
So what am I running from (afraid of)?  All of this is a piece of my life because it is a piece of this world.  I cannot reject it.  Nor do I have to fully accept it.  Who am I to judge it, reject it, or embrace it?  Am I an EYE?  Certainly not.  We're all the EYE.  We see, witness, and react --we have no other choice beyond the present.

If I choose to reject any experience because it is superficial or simply "not my scene" then I am just as judgmental as I perceive them to be (we ALL have perceptions of judgment, survival skill and natural means of categorization in the brain, whatever the hell that is). 

I can rebel rebel rebel rebel rebel "REBEL REBEL BITCH BITCH REBEL REBEL PARTY PARTY SEX SEX SEX AND DON'T FORGET THE VIOLENCE" (MM).  Or I can sit at the bottom of the pool and laugh.  Why should I not?  Laps of luxury will be what they are.  And I love to swim.


 - I thought about this at the bottom of the pool at the Beverly Hills hotel.  I was so upset.  Pissed to be there around these/those/(our) people, circling my body with their ojos.  The center of objectification is at the Beverly Hills hotel pool.  But Hot damn, it is interesting to witness.  Older housewives with cocktails whispering to each other with that heavy SSSsssssssss sounds coming from them that is a dead giveaway they're gossiping.  "Ssssssssshee sssssaid thaaatSSSSSHSHS?!"  Foxy foxy bad actresses dicking around with their fame and power, while they donate money to "some random children's charity" from an iPhone app.  Old men putting on their goggles underwater to watch the jaildickbaters "swim off" those fries while dented paper-towel roll women stared at my beer and veggie burger with bloody savage eyes.

(picture: Underwater Fantasy by Elena Kalis)

Ken-doll cabana boys moving shade onto rich rich oil wrinkled bodies.  But the most peculiar thing of all is that all the monkeys were faced inward, towards the center spactacle of the cage (the pool) and all of them were constantly looking around cocked heads, paranoid, at the possibility that there may be "SOMEONE" there.  WHO?!  Are THEY there?  How can they be there when they're off looking for SOMEONE else to get there?

The point is, just because someone lives a different lifestyle, whether it's luxurious, shitty, fucked up, dangerous, gaudy, cheesy, utterly insane, or just peaceful--we never know what they may be whispering to themselves when they sit at the bottom of pools.

And the place had underwater music.  No music above water.  Just under it, where it kinda stings to open your eyes.  But hot damn, is it lovely.

Today I say fuck it.

I got rid of my TV.  Got rid of my internet.  Got rid of fucking everything that I was holding onto for some masochistic self-deprecating reasons.  Some that now I can't even think of justifying.  Life is too short to be so invaded every fucking day by shit that tells you you aren't good enough.  God forbid you're not some dumb dancing monkey who puts on a good show of being "put together" and a "good AmrRRican" or any sort of valued object.  Human beings are not objects...don't know if that's news but it seems to me that people treat themselves like objects more often than they'd like to think.

No one has their shit together.  It's just a nice little show.  Some people actually have balance, but it's a fragile, delicate awareness.  Others are just really good at "being" something--chasing  an identity like it's a fucking religion.

The idea of an institution of thought or belief keeps people safe.  It's comforting to think you know shit.  Then you think you're really something, huh.  Smartass. 

I have a french punk song called "Je ne se pas" (I don't know).  It's fun.  Because it's the most down to fucking earth song ever.  I think everyone should scream something they don't know every single day and be glad they don't know anything so living remains a little line of surprises (a box of fucking chocolate, or confetti snakes, pickles, whatever you dig...).

(photo credit Olivia Locher, FILE MAGAZINE 2009, http://www.filemagazine.com/thecollection/archives/2009/07/road_kill_human.html)

I saw a dog get hit by a car today.  Just clipped it.  Saw a white fluff fly up from the tire and plop back down, spitting blood.  It was almost as if the dog had to die to survive.  He had to surrender his body, all of his being, to the moment.  The moment of puking up blood.  The moment of twitching with shock.  Blood loss--light headedness.  Being carried in a bloody jacket to a patch of grass next to a gas station in Beverly Hills only to shake and spit up more blood.  Complete surrender to the heinous.  The grotesque truth of the very moment that any of us could be returned to the elements just as fast as the car whipped and spat out the cotton ball dog.  Surrender to the moment.  Taste the blood while it still pumps through you.  It's a gift.

Boobs schmoobs, penis shmenis.

Most memorable piece of information from my junior year anthropology class: Female bonobos are down for gg-rubbing (genital-genital rubbing between two or more females). 
Around Angelenos I see more women grinding up against each other than horny 12 year olds in a schoolyard.  A bit reminiscent of those videos from my anthropology class...

And they aren't all lesbians, dykes, farmschmallers, ech0-teeny-pops, whathaveyou...

Sexual fluidity is a cool phenomenon--but is there some sort of social/psychological priming behind it?    Women are so highly sexualized and objectified in our society, how can you not find them smoking hot, beautiful, or just do-able?   

We've been hit with beauty propaganda straight from birth--pink shit, Barbies, makeup, etc… The funny thing is that gender is so subjective.  Parents immediately force an identity upon their kids of who they want them to be based on their own preferences, often times very narcissistic and sprinkled with neuroses. 

It's sad how many kids grow up acting being little live-mirrors of their parents.  They never questioned what was given to them but simply took it as the reality and the easiest option.  If someone gives you an identity, it takes away that burden that America feeds on--the drive to BECOME--to BE this or that (gay/straight/a lawyer/an alcoholic, etc).  It is definitely easier for a child who's trying to acclimate and be accepted.  But it's just a local peak of growth--spiritual, intellectual, emotional.  Unfortunately, akin to Kohlberg's stages of moral development, the majority of people (in America, if my experiences hold merit) tend to fall short on the spectrum.

But back to sexual identity and gender:
Why are we to assume that just because a little boy has a penis that he also has to like trucks, sports, and of course, the sport of womanizing.  There's no difference between that and any sort of racial or ethnical judgment.  Why uphold these arbitrary rules of categorization?  We have to KNOW, we have to PLACE people in order to brace ourselves for who we think they are or should be.  It's a rejection of their true self and how can we be fully present if we're just projecting what we'd like to see in people? 

Do you like carrots or celery?  How we value, express, and see ourselves and others is simply a preference, so chill the fuck out. 

Coffeeshop man likes to bitch...bitch...bitch....

Just got the artwork done.  BAM.  Put it on Amazon and Imma be (immabeimmaimmaimmabee - the black eyed peas) a rich man. 

 - Quoth a crazy ass midwestern dude at a coffeeshop in LA.  Sofuckingposh.  I don't know what's worse: this annoying guy's fucking ego or the fact that every time I say Imma be I think about that damn song and Fergie's legs)

I love/hate how peep come to LA--or really any big enough city with a mild, drug-induced art scene--to be delusional as if its acceptable because he/she/it is an artYst.

Ego. Ego.    
Do we really need to tell ourselves hopeful fantasies about the future in order to enjoy ourselves now?  What are we reaching for here?

I say "we" because I, too am guilty of clinging to the stupid lifting labels I sometimes identify with.  It's hard not to jump on the bandwagon under social pressure (and I transform into actor, musician, weirdo, Gir from Invader Zim.  So we're all in the same pants here…metaphorically, virtually, web-o-centrically, whatever.

This kind of future-focused thinking is not conscious.  Who or what are we trying to be and why?  What more do we have to be than ourselves?! 

And if you have to "become" something, who says?  The voice of your mother or father  who would gave up when they had kids and now place pressure on your shoulders to make the family name a franchise?

Do you really need to become something to be happy?  Fuck no.  I'm pretty sure I'm already a human being with a bigass brain capacity and the ability to do something rad for the world or help at least one person in the very least.   

This may be an argument for lethargy or abusing the welfare system (if you're a lazy, ignorant bastard), BUT how such mindfulness is carried out is not my point here.  The point is: we can easily be awake, physically; we are not awake mentally and mostly, AUTHENTICALLY.

I say authentic as a conglomeration of intellect and physicality.  A combo of your inner essence and artistic or intellectual gifts.  Recognize them.  Realize that you are fucking perfect just as you are.   There's is no where to go and nothing to be.  The essence is not disturbed (<--totally not my line, Kerouac's Buddha Poems).

So back to this dude at the coffee shop that struck such a nerve in me: be appreciative, you dick.  Seriously, Look the fuck around, we're sitting in an air-conditioned room with franchise-cups that came all the way from China--this fucking piece of plastic has witnessed more of the world than you have--hell, at least it knows it's purpose and performs it well.  And you're sitting in your comfy chair with your latte complaining that your life isn't ____ enough.  What _____ enough??!!!  What more do you want? 

We live in a very very fortunate world (kiss the sun thank you), and being appreciative is everything.  But it has to be authentic.  So breathe and relax--embrace the air around you.  Let the eyes share the warmth.


Thich Nhat Hanh.  A lot of this is inspired by his writings.