True Nostalgia

Discovering screenshots of an old computer game, "Crystal Caves" brought back old memories.

Opening a box of corsages from high school dances flooded my mind with thoughts of my first slow dance to  Ray J's "One Wish", with my first real girlfriend. After that song was my first kiss. Of all the worst songs, it was a sad we-broke-up-I-want-you-back rap song. Shitty. I remember not caring at the time; I was busy going through an entire pack of Altoids (very sneakily of course: ninja status).

Inside a Captain Black tobacco can, I have memoirs of Papa. Coins he collected, a parachute cutter from his piloting days in the Air Force during Vietnam. His old military ID badge mugshot, with peeling plastic laminate stares at me with a soldier's hard face. Among a few other items, there's a photo I took with a disposable camera my uncle gave me at Christmas. His body, once large, plump, and healthy, is withered and ancient with cancer. He is not smiling. He is not happy that his grandson is framing a memory of a dying man with little hope to live. His eyes beg me not to take the picture; this is not how I should remember him. I should always recall him as the kind, heartily laughing grandpa that sang in the truck, and gave love to his family. But I being eight years old, did not understand. I regret torturing him with the camera flash and light-capturing lens.

But true nostalgia, I had not felt until last night.

After watching the last Harry Potter movie again, I wanted to re-read the entire series with the full understanding of all the events unfolding. Knowing the great secret of Harry Potter's destiny, the hidden love story behind Severus Snape and Lilly Potter (which is the most beautiful love story I've yet to encounter), the dark past of Albus Dumbledore's quest for power, and all the other facts of the series might lead me to a stronger understanding of the entangled stories. I wanted to dissect the books for symbols, foreshadowing, themes, and motifs. Was I not at some point THE great expert of the series? My knowledge was not so vast after the fifth book, for I had begun to outgrow listening to the audio CD's all day long and reading nothing but what I had already memorized (and I had memorized the first five books). 

So I pulled "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" from my shelf, blew the dust from the top, and engulfed myself in the words I had read and listened to a hundred times (quite literally). By chapter four, I found a book mark. A lightning bolt drawn with blue, metallic gel pen above my adolescent handwriting of "Harry Potter". I stopped reading and after a moment of staring at the small slip of paper, fitted it into wedge of the open books pages. 

Pulse...pulse...pulse...I felt the light throb of my heartbeat against the cream-white paper. A younger me had held this book and craved every detail of the hidden, magical world. I knew every name and as much of their history as JK Rowling would offer. From the main characters to those that were only slightly alluded too, I at one point had known all there was to know. Each spell, each potion, any location mentioned, I was muggle master of the magical world.

Why did I dedicate myself to it all so wholly? Why did my entire life at one point revolve around this fantastical world? A boy escaped the daily monotony of "normal life" into something unbelievably magnificent. By surrounding myself with the "Harry Potter" universe, I too could escape. I hoped, at one point, for nothing more than a letter by owl to take me to Hogwarts, or ANY wizarding school. 

When my eleventh September 1st came and went, I was wholly disappointed at the truth: I was a muggle and would never be accepted into the world of magic. But maybe the American schools had a different age requirement! Yes, that's surely the case..my letter will come.

But no letter ever came. And slowly, I stepped from Harry Potter's world into boring, cold reality. Muggle life. My entire past seems but a dream.

Holding the first book of a series I once poured my entire being into, I yearn to return simpler times. When all I had to worry about was getting a letter by owl, inviting me from the muggle world and into the hidden life of wizards and witches. Who knows, maybe American schools don't accept you until you're 21?

An indecisive wind

Has it been so long since I have opened my heart and searched it for truth, that I now forget how to open my mind? Silence, I have missed thee and thy vast, deafening roar; for all around me there is sound. Be it the hum of my computer's electronics while in my room, or the call from canine to canine beneath night's star speckled heavens.

The air drifts lazily about me, indecisive how to turn the smoke that rises from a cigarette. The lights of the city pollute the south-western sky while the eyes of thousands of buildings in the valley below wink in acknowledgement of those that live in this aging desert town.

A calm peace leaves me as indecisive as the wind, ever varying the degree of flight. It seems, when I try to move my fingers to write, they rebel against me. Only when I stop and let them command the carving of phrases on the paper do I truly write. I must stop and let my mind catch up with my thoughts.

Losev

Losev in Alrizan means Love. However, its connotation is much more advanced than the disreputed meaning of English. What what is Love?

Love is not just a word, nor is it the feeling of infatuation towards an individual. It is sacrifice. To say, "I love you" is to say "I will sacrifice for you." Indeed it does hold the concept of infatuation, for without this, there is no means nor need to give up something you hold dear to you. For what is sacrifice if it is not of something valuable? Time and peace of mind are two common sacrifices for Love, as well as the lesser gifts of materialistic possessions.  The greatest gift you will ever give is NOT Love. The greatest gift you will ever give shall be given to Love.

Indeed, how great your Love is, is both demonstrated and forged by the amount of your sacrifice.

For also, Love is a person. But what does it mean to call one, "Love"? Beyond the statement of offered sacrifice, it is a vow of honesty, saying "You are my only," and of undeterred dedication, saying "I will always fight for, and to never lose, you." The prior suggests ignoring other potential mates and the latter, giving everything and enforcing every effort to keep Love. While "everything" and "every effort" involves personal safety, time, and energy, there are no bounds to what must be surrendered.

If Love is lost, and you are haunted without end for far too long a time by whispers of the past, ghosts in the shape of memories...it is likely you sacrificed a great deal for Love. As it is written by Kahlil Gibran, "When you are sorrowful, look [into your heart]...and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." And indeed, the sacrifices you make are a delight.

Losev is a name, a vow, a statement. Losev is not just a word.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary...

It is a haunting, unforgiving, intangible demon. It creeps into your mind and lays eggs in the synapses of your brain, for random electrical impulses to find. At a spark of what may have led to joy, the transmission is intercepted by the waiting, stalking thoughts. They reveal themselves at expected and unexpected times. As soon as the oceans of despair begin to swell, as soon as the eggs of the demon hatch, there is no stemming the flow of misery to come.

I have tried. I always try.

The demon Depression, will creep, haunt the shadows of one's mind. It strikes without mercy. It strikes with intent to ruin. And indeed it does destroy the brightest thoughts. It clouds out all logic, dulling the silver linings, and abolishes even desire to be content, let alone happy. An overpowering sadness overflows and invades every waking, sleeping thought. It will not go away if you ask it nicely. It will not leave when you demand. The demon Depression obeys its own desires, wills. And it wills misery on the unfortunate.

Eyan zu'e Losev, Losev al~eyan

"When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." -Kahlil Gibran

Have you ever noticed the shuddered sobs of sorrow are so similar to broken breaths of laughter?

It is as though one is imprinted with the other.

Self Portrait

They say you can tell a lot about someone by their self portrait. It shows how they view themselves. My view is biased...I wonder what mine says about me.

(Sorry for the poor quality, I need a better scanner)

Stream of Conciousness

*Note from the author: This blog post attempts to incorporate the theme of this blog. Please do not judge or over-interpret what I write: I'm writing the honest thoughts that drift through my head unabashedly. If you find it too offensive, detailed, confusing, or inappropriate, then don't read it. If you call the writing immature, or the style I've chosen amateur, go read James Joyce' "Ulysses".

I fear God. Is there God? Modes of power. Politics. Religion is control. Cigarette. Addiction to internet, facebook, myspace, blogging are social cigarettes. Need job, bad handshake at end of interview. Ruger 10/22. Money solves problems? Her arms around me, moist lips, sweet smelling, shaking cry. Whispers, music Coldplay, Calexico, Little Lion Man. Empty head. Write. Cigarette. Bad handshake...thanked for time, bad handshake. Addiction, snowglobe with friends. Ecstasy, not in the desert, Santa Barbara. Windy, cold. Cold is Santa Barbara mornings. Wait for bus. Girls from class: Why didn't I say something? Friends...One good friend here. Hike! Need work...bad handshake. Meditate, there is no seaweed at the beach. Johnny's, rock on. Fender, new guitar. Old strings. Need new strings. Want money, will it solve--she invades me thoughts. I know you are awake, chills down spine. Stomach pain, need to eat. Eggs. Mustard, she's in my arms. Early morning, wet, sick, water. Kiss in water, lake, wake up, Love. Cigarettes caused the fights. Fights...why didn't I fight? Why didn't I fight...God, why didn't I fight? Edgepride, arrogant son of a bitch. Thanks, Mom. Have another drink, is a bottle enough for--her hand...am I inside? Could this be--polish shoes. Bad handshake. Engulf with passionate, sweet smelling lip gloss, lost my necklace. Why didn't you let me, why didn't you truly love me?  Cigarette. Coffee, she'll die soon. Better that way, Grandpa--found the ashtray, saw the pipe. Smashed pipe. Angry, angry...not me, angry. Better than--nothing. Mount doom, Dunadan. Level up, why does she haunt my dreams? I've never met her, why does she bake cookies. Cigarette. Don't smoke, quit. Quit. Why didn't I fight? I should have kept her. Too high in the clouds to care while camping, drink, blackout, dentist. Wisdom teeth need to be damn phone. Write a song, rock on Johnnys. Conceited bassist, arrogant...but So am I. Alrizan, is it truly language? What defines--to be. We be by means we dare, dream. So be it. Welcome, O life, I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience. Stole books, broken heart. Lies...so many lies, and people are hurt. She'll die soon. Cigarette. Resist, don't buy more. Cold, windy. Cold is Santa-Coldplay. She's in my arms. Why does she haunt my resting nights and sleeping no more nightmares. No more...write, draw. Distract. Write a poem that's not iambic or free-flowing water surrounds the rock. Passing IVC, Where's Waldo? Question everything--why? Tag, Ruger 10/22. I was nine. He died. She'll die soon. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Joe Ceremony was very short. Child. Can't be teacher, no patience. Life? Where am I going? draw. write. write.
Sometimes, my pen needed simply to touch paper. I have little else to say.