He sat every day inside his Los Angeles apartment, baking in front of the large HDTV that he used for a computer screen in the living room. Sometimes he imagined that his retinal nerves would become LCD screens out of habit. Sometimes he would temporarily halt the radiation of his eyes. He might rise to cook something, though he didn’t know much about the craft. He had just learned that oil was a good conductor of heat to food, and it enabled him to stop burning things. Extra Virgin Olive Oil.
And then one day he was hot. Actually, he was often hot, but he couldn’t come up with any recourse. But this day was different. He remembered his high school physics class, where he learned that wind occurs because of the difference in air temperature between two areas. And he also remembered that he had sat through many a summer in his South Central house, sweating like a dog, and had opened the front and back doors in order to generate circulation. So he tried to do the same in his new apartment in Silver Lake, sandwiched between on the one side Latinos blasting Jesus music and waking him up nightly at 4am with a truck that beeped while it reversed into the driveway next to his bed, and on the other side Latinos that might have been in a motorcycle gang and liked to host parties. Fuck them. So he opened the door to his apartment, exposing himself to full view of the entrance of the apartment building, as he was immediately to the right upon entering the structure. But fuck them.
When the door was fully open, he went back to sitting in the center of the living room, eating a poor college man’s diet of mixed mayonnaise and canned tuna. Poor man, he scoffed. Whoever told him that was a poor man’s diet doesn’t know what it means to be poor. But he didn’t know either what it meant to be poor. And so he sat, retinas ablaze, fixated upon the HDTV that served as his lifeblood, his primary means of interaction with the outside world. Indeed, he could have simply walked outside his apartment, but the fear was in him. The fear. The fear. So he just opened the door, and thought fuck it, I’m hot, and he baked, enslaved.
Not too long after, the most odd of circumstances was to occur, one that he could never have imagined in all his hours sitting in that lonely apartment: humans walked by his door, not quite flung open but rather jammed open. But when a human walked by, suddenly the door slammed shut. What? It was wind. Pressure differences. The same thing that generated the wind, closed the door. So he dared to rise again. He got up and placed his roommate’s shoe between the door and the door pane, as surely wind could not overcome a shoe. And it didn’t. At least not in the first few minutes. And the apartment was open. In a sense, he was open. The potential of human interaction was afoot, thanks to the shoe. It was something he did not quite fear but lived as though he did. It was easy to get into the habit of being alone, of not speaking with other humans. And he did think of them as humans, not people. Like similar members of a biological species, specimens that have similar conscious experiences and brains that make them move and dance and talk, but simply specimens of a kind of biological order. Not relatable, not like, not approachable. Unapproached, he sat, with the door ajar and humans walking by. He was on display, an exhibit in his own apartment: man who sat enslaved with baking retinas.
The humans walked by. They noticed an environmental shift. Something dark and ominous and counter to the social order of things had insinuated itself into their lives. An inconvenience on the level of distaste. Who the fuck would dare to disturb their universes by leaving his door ajar so that awkwardness could boil in the sun like a carrot. Fuck that guy sitting in the room, is what he thought they thought. But maybe it was just in his head. The humans would walk by, variable in their demeanors, appearances, and energies. Tall ones, loud ones, British ones. Fuck the British ones. Fuck them all. They hated him, he thought, because he made their lives inconvenient. Why couldn’t they simply pass by like they had always done, unconcerned with minor human interaction with a slave inside of an apartment who made their lives so inconvenient. The smallest of inconveniences metastasized into the biggest of inconveniences. The very portal to their domiciles was now sullied by the ruination of this petty slave just to the right when they walked in. And he listened to the most wretched of music. And his hair was disgustingly long. And he would cook and reveal his bare, pasty thigh. Fuck that guy. Who does he think he is, living in this city where looks are everything, to contribute a negative-sum game to their lives? A stain on the bubble of superficiality.
And then, around 3am one morning, as the slave wasted away in front of his HDTV in his awkward apartment with his terrible door ajar, a female human transcended the threshold to the apartment building. Her momentum carried her, but she counteracted it. And she stopped and gazed. He remarked that she was of a particular disposition of appearance that may be somewhat of interest to him, though she was slightly chunky or had least had some chunks or could run around a little bit. Either way, she gazed. For the first time, he was not just passed by by passersby. She attended. He attended. And he turned his head. The fear was in him. What if she spoke? What was she thinking? Did she want to have sex? He hoped so, but then it would be all of that shit he didn’t want to confront. Fuck sex.
“What are you doing up so late?” He subverted his desire for sex into a mere response, the first words uttered by him in centuries: “I’m working.” “What are you working on?” she fucked him with her eyes. Maybe she didn’t, but he imagined it. He fucked her. He hadn’t touched a human in millennia. Fuck her. Yes. She kept gazing. He whispered, “Work.” And she stood and gazed, guffawing. A dumb smile divided her face in two. She wasn’t going anwhere. And the fear in him settled, he got up. He rose. He stood up. He walked slowly toward the door.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
7-30-2011
There was a thought. But it passed. An anxious bit of information, flitting across the surface of the mind. Like a pristine lake, briefly disturbed, and settling. The thought was not “taken captive” but rather dismissed. Because it wasn’t his thought. It was a piece of trivia, or a product suggestion, or a vague idea -- strategically implanted in such a way as to make it emerge as if it were original material. Ford cars are more dependable than Chevy cars, and more American. Then he looked back at the screen. What was the purpose of this exercise? He had come to this terminal specifically to retrieve something, but was it? A piece of valuable information? Certainly it would have been something crucial. Something key to his survival.
Or was it just a feeling (or lack there of) that he sought? Noise loud enough to suppress any lonely longing, any original palpitation. He could hear the machine’s fan, a steady breathing hum. His head beat gently with the pulse of the base from the neighbors’ stereo. Paralysis set in. And the white screen stared back at him, impersonal. But there had to be something to do! Something to learn or see or make or experience! Some reason Alex had turned on his computer on this day, the 17th of July 2009. But his mind was blank, and he resented and hated the noise invading his room. The neighbor’s Bass, the electronic hum, the sound of the freeway, dogs barking, the television.
But even in silence there was no original thought to be found in his mind. Nothing that wasn’t planted there by a clever jingle or a well meaning friend. Nothing that was purely him. And then he wondered aloud, “who am I”?
The question lingered there for a moment. Alex felt like he was watching his body from a camera lens, slowly zooming out and panning away. The doorbell rang, and he twitched abruptly. Alex pulled on some athletic shorts and walked downstairs to the door. Outside, lying on his welcome mat was an infant, covered in blood. He jumped over the child’s body and looked quickly right and left, trying to find out who was responsible for this act of pure insanity. But there was no one running. No tires squealing. Just the smoldering twilight staring him in the face; his neighbors, sitting on their porches and balconies watching, and some kids playing soccer in the street.
Alex walked back to his door. His face lit up. The child was alive! He could see its chest slowly rising and falling. So Alex asked his mind to act quickly - He was trying to stay calm. What would a doctor do in this situation? By the time an ambulance arrives, the baby will most likely be dead. I have no medical training. I have no equipment, and nothing sterile. He decided that doing nothing would guarantee failure. Alex ran up the stairs and quickly found a towel, tweezers, vodka and glue. Crouching down, he examined the body. Blood was still pouring out of the infant’s body, through multiple bullet wounds. Alex used the towel to clean the area of the first hole enough that he could see the bullet buried in the baby’s upper thigh. Into the wound Alex slowly maneuvered the tweezers. There were still a few stray pubes on the arms of the tweezers from previous uses. He clasped the first bullet and slowly withdrew it, dropping it on the porch. Immediately Alex splashed the bullet hole with Vodka, wiped it dry with a clean corner of the towel, and filled it with glue. Now the hard part. The second bullet was lodged between the Baby’s left eye and the bone of the eye socket. Alex took a deep breath. With his right index finger and thumb, Alex gauged out the baby’s left eye and flicked it aside. Grasping the tweezers, Alex extracted the second bullet, splashed some vodka, and filled the eye socket with glue.
Amazing! The baby was still breathing, and with two fingers Alex could feel a faint heartbeat. The whole porch was covered in blood. Alex wrapped the child in the towel, then, tucking his Smith & Wesson SD9 into his belt, hi zipped the baby’s body in a backpack and mounted his Honda Elite.
Zipping through the night, his right hand gripping the throttle at full bore, his left hand quivering slightly, Alex began to absorb the gravity of what had taken place over the past 15 minutes. Diet Dr Pepper tastes more like regular Dr Pepper. Blink Blink. The lyrics to a song he heard earlier. The screech of tires....
Two black Escalades slid to a stop on either side of Alex’s scooter. Alex flung himself from the Honda Elite, rolling lightly as he hit the ground, trying to prevent the baby from connecting with the pavement. In an instant his hand found the action of his handgun and his finger found the trigger. He fired five rounds over his shoulder as he lunged for a long hedgerow hugging the sidewalk. Alex slid through the hedge, and ran through yards of dying grass and flowers, climbing fences, and running past barking dogs and blaring TV sets. Behind him there was a steady barrage of gunfire, heavy caliber weapons. These were professionals. The baby began to cry inside Alex’s backpack, which was good. The kid was still alive.
St. James hospital was less than a half mile away -- Alex only chance of saving this infant’s life. But the men from the black SUV were gaining ground fast. These were trained killers, probably Ex Marines, probably well paid. Luck! There was a municipal bus stopping directly in Alex’s path. Alex ran onto the bus. He shot the driver twice in the right temple, and threw the driver’s body down the bus stairs. Door close; accelerator; screaming passengers. Gun. Alex drove the bus into the St James emergency entrance. Sparks flew as the roof of the bus scraped the hospital overhang. Sweating, panting, Alex ran through the entryway doors and placed the baby’s bloody body on the desk of the admittance nurse. An alarm sounded. A team of Doctors and nurses lifted the child onto a stretcher and rushed it into the ICU. Alex placed the barrel of his SD9 into the soft part of his neck below his chin and pulled trigger
Or was it just a feeling (or lack there of) that he sought? Noise loud enough to suppress any lonely longing, any original palpitation. He could hear the machine’s fan, a steady breathing hum. His head beat gently with the pulse of the base from the neighbors’ stereo. Paralysis set in. And the white screen stared back at him, impersonal. But there had to be something to do! Something to learn or see or make or experience! Some reason Alex had turned on his computer on this day, the 17th of July 2009. But his mind was blank, and he resented and hated the noise invading his room. The neighbor’s Bass, the electronic hum, the sound of the freeway, dogs barking, the television.
But even in silence there was no original thought to be found in his mind. Nothing that wasn’t planted there by a clever jingle or a well meaning friend. Nothing that was purely him. And then he wondered aloud, “who am I”?
The question lingered there for a moment. Alex felt like he was watching his body from a camera lens, slowly zooming out and panning away. The doorbell rang, and he twitched abruptly. Alex pulled on some athletic shorts and walked downstairs to the door. Outside, lying on his welcome mat was an infant, covered in blood. He jumped over the child’s body and looked quickly right and left, trying to find out who was responsible for this act of pure insanity. But there was no one running. No tires squealing. Just the smoldering twilight staring him in the face; his neighbors, sitting on their porches and balconies watching, and some kids playing soccer in the street.
Alex walked back to his door. His face lit up. The child was alive! He could see its chest slowly rising and falling. So Alex asked his mind to act quickly - He was trying to stay calm. What would a doctor do in this situation? By the time an ambulance arrives, the baby will most likely be dead. I have no medical training. I have no equipment, and nothing sterile. He decided that doing nothing would guarantee failure. Alex ran up the stairs and quickly found a towel, tweezers, vodka and glue. Crouching down, he examined the body. Blood was still pouring out of the infant’s body, through multiple bullet wounds. Alex used the towel to clean the area of the first hole enough that he could see the bullet buried in the baby’s upper thigh. Into the wound Alex slowly maneuvered the tweezers. There were still a few stray pubes on the arms of the tweezers from previous uses. He clasped the first bullet and slowly withdrew it, dropping it on the porch. Immediately Alex splashed the bullet hole with Vodka, wiped it dry with a clean corner of the towel, and filled it with glue. Now the hard part. The second bullet was lodged between the Baby’s left eye and the bone of the eye socket. Alex took a deep breath. With his right index finger and thumb, Alex gauged out the baby’s left eye and flicked it aside. Grasping the tweezers, Alex extracted the second bullet, splashed some vodka, and filled the eye socket with glue.
Amazing! The baby was still breathing, and with two fingers Alex could feel a faint heartbeat. The whole porch was covered in blood. Alex wrapped the child in the towel, then, tucking his Smith & Wesson SD9 into his belt, hi zipped the baby’s body in a backpack and mounted his Honda Elite.
Zipping through the night, his right hand gripping the throttle at full bore, his left hand quivering slightly, Alex began to absorb the gravity of what had taken place over the past 15 minutes. Diet Dr Pepper tastes more like regular Dr Pepper. Blink Blink. The lyrics to a song he heard earlier. The screech of tires....
Two black Escalades slid to a stop on either side of Alex’s scooter. Alex flung himself from the Honda Elite, rolling lightly as he hit the ground, trying to prevent the baby from connecting with the pavement. In an instant his hand found the action of his handgun and his finger found the trigger. He fired five rounds over his shoulder as he lunged for a long hedgerow hugging the sidewalk. Alex slid through the hedge, and ran through yards of dying grass and flowers, climbing fences, and running past barking dogs and blaring TV sets. Behind him there was a steady barrage of gunfire, heavy caliber weapons. These were professionals. The baby began to cry inside Alex’s backpack, which was good. The kid was still alive.
St. James hospital was less than a half mile away -- Alex only chance of saving this infant’s life. But the men from the black SUV were gaining ground fast. These were trained killers, probably Ex Marines, probably well paid. Luck! There was a municipal bus stopping directly in Alex’s path. Alex ran onto the bus. He shot the driver twice in the right temple, and threw the driver’s body down the bus stairs. Door close; accelerator; screaming passengers. Gun. Alex drove the bus into the St James emergency entrance. Sparks flew as the roof of the bus scraped the hospital overhang. Sweating, panting, Alex ran through the entryway doors and placed the baby’s bloody body on the desk of the admittance nurse. An alarm sounded. A team of Doctors and nurses lifted the child onto a stretcher and rushed it into the ICU. Alex placed the barrel of his SD9 into the soft part of his neck below his chin and pulled trigger
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
its like this
A stomach ache, an altitude sickness
The energy evaporates, the dreams fade
The zest for living is plucked, and the great fire cinders to smoke
Im not coughing. Not laughing. Not anxious. Not afraid.
I am under the submission of my human apparatus, and it owns me.
A banana for breakfast, potato chips for lunch, potato chips for dinner, 11 hours of sleep.
My health is all I have.
The energy evaporates, the dreams fade
The zest for living is plucked, and the great fire cinders to smoke
Im not coughing. Not laughing. Not anxious. Not afraid.
I am under the submission of my human apparatus, and it owns me.
A banana for breakfast, potato chips for lunch, potato chips for dinner, 11 hours of sleep.
My health is all I have.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Rock Bottom
I hit rock bottom last week
While everyone thought I was at my peak.
I sat in the lobby of a Santa Monica apartment building
With my parents who were picking up on my feeling.
And as I stared straight ahead,
With my frustration come to a head,
"What's on your mind? Is something bothering you, Jared?"
I continued to gaze into the distance. A wall. An emptiness. A desert lacking meaning, arid.
And we sat in the silence, and the despair built up.
I felt alone, purposeless, a fraud, wayward, amok, overwhelmed, helpless. I wanted to give up.
"What is it that's bothering you?"
And I cried, and I cried.
I couldn't look at them, my parents, the ones if no one else I should trust.
I realized someone cared, I wasn't alone.
And after years of sacrificing myself, my integrity, for the throne,
I felt the depression of eternity. Despair. No hope.
My parents love me. My mom cried, "What can be done?"
And I resolved to commit to life, to live, their son.
Their pride and joy, the one they brag about.
The one that makes them feel like a success in life, collapsed before them in rout.
This was the end, I felt. I truly felt it was the end.
But with two who love me to back me up, it was hours but finally I felt I could mend.
They kissed me, they hugged me, they loved me.
Tomorrow's a new day, a new life, and I have a new lease to be free.
I will treat myself right, I will set myself up for meaning.
And all of the balance I've sought, and fulfillment, I'll no longer be dreaming.
To hope. To love. To life. L'chaim.
(written 2011.06.30)
While everyone thought I was at my peak.
I sat in the lobby of a Santa Monica apartment building
With my parents who were picking up on my feeling.
And as I stared straight ahead,
With my frustration come to a head,
"What's on your mind? Is something bothering you, Jared?"
I continued to gaze into the distance. A wall. An emptiness. A desert lacking meaning, arid.
And we sat in the silence, and the despair built up.
I felt alone, purposeless, a fraud, wayward, amok, overwhelmed, helpless. I wanted to give up.
"What is it that's bothering you?"
And I cried, and I cried.
I couldn't look at them, my parents, the ones if no one else I should trust.
I realized someone cared, I wasn't alone.
And after years of sacrificing myself, my integrity, for the throne,
I felt the depression of eternity. Despair. No hope.
My parents love me. My mom cried, "What can be done?"
And I resolved to commit to life, to live, their son.
Their pride and joy, the one they brag about.
The one that makes them feel like a success in life, collapsed before them in rout.
This was the end, I felt. I truly felt it was the end.
But with two who love me to back me up, it was hours but finally I felt I could mend.
They kissed me, they hugged me, they loved me.
Tomorrow's a new day, a new life, and I have a new lease to be free.
I will treat myself right, I will set myself up for meaning.
And all of the balance I've sought, and fulfillment, I'll no longer be dreaming.
To hope. To love. To life. L'chaim.
(written 2011.06.30)
Monday, July 18, 2011
egoism
its just me...and my ego
if i think i am going far, right or wrong, then i am happier
if i think i am bound by my appearence, hindered by my brain...then i am sadder
we can lose our ego...and enjoy pure, unadulterated experiences
we can feed our ego...and confront immense suffering
we can play the ego game, as most of us do...and enjoy moments of exctasy, valleys of death, hours of anger, streaks of glory, and inevtiable dissatisfaction
How to play the ego game...i am not easily persuaded
I want to win the ego game, and I think I will
Friday, July 8, 2011
nature
Amongst the glaciers, quiet and shivering
Endless views, mountainous and rivery
Valleys and forests, bears and deer
Foreboding winds drawing clouds near
Insects and smells of dark, damp places
Vanishing lights, and grimacing faces
Until, just by luck, the sun breaks through the cracks
To a worshiping audience, bearing water and snacks
We've come from quite far, leaving society behind
To the top of the world, continental divide
These national parks, and their natural features
Reawaken a thirst to climb down from the bleachers
Friday, July 1, 2011
mine
I am focused on my health
Can you blame me?
The reality of ME is that I know that I have to spend my entire life with myself and I most want to (a) not go insane, (b) not die of MY colon cancer and (c) not listen to boring lectures from boring teachers who've taken the life out of physics
This is Michael Herold's universe, and it is just as unplanned as Greece's economy, Justin's evening, and Jared's future.
The day that Michael is happy should be today, tomorrow and every day after if I don't go insane, but instead realize how perfectly lucky I am to be alive, human, pain-free, and so forth
And so forth, Michael Herold
This homo sapien experience has literally just begun in the existential sense of it
And existentially I am sitting in my head, just behind my eyes, my limbs are directly under my control but my heartbeat isn't
My future is of no interest to anyone but me and I couldn't be more confused and excited about the journey that it holds.
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