Some Times

Some times are strange—note the intentional gap. Yes, I believe that there is power in some times.
I just realized that my hands are reflected upside down in the shiny part of the middle of my computer speakers, and visual oddities always make me do a double take. It’s absolutely stunning the power that seeing something can have.
Recently, I started edited a work that I wrote last year, and it’s funny to see it again. It’s very much a snap shot of a very strange time in a fellow’s life.
The thoughts fly so rapidly at times that it is simply absurd to try to lock them down. Answer this question for me: what do you do with all of your down time? When you have nothing to do, what do you do?
Would it be possible for somebody to convince you that if you simply focused on constantly being productive in the here and now that you would manage to get one helluva lot accomplished?
Would it take the example of an entire life?
Sobeit.
Maybe that’s my goal. What is possible in a life? The other day I read a story about Nikola Tesla that said he averaged two hours of sleep a day and lived until he was eighty-something years old. Granted, he was a bit of a freak, but do some math:
22 hours every day * 365 days a year * 65 years (for example) = 521950 hours
16 hours every day * 365 days a year * 65 years = 379600
Tesla essentially lived twice as much as other people. Who needs sleep? Oh, well, I suppose that if you’re okay with murmuring to yourself and not being able to control the physical self when the mental self takes over, then you’ll be fine.
There has to be some kind of balance, right? Maybe that’s what all that eight hours a night business is all about. I have found that six hours is more than enough for me on just about any given night. Eight hours sometimes makes me groggy. I know a lot of people that manage to sleep for ten or twelve hours, and I can only EVER manage that with aid of some kind.
Is it some kind of subliminal training we put ourselves through?
For the last couple of days, I have walked to work and found myself on the verge of tears. Usually there is a song playing on the iPod that I connect with something I can’t connect to at the moment, and all that disconnection brings tears. It means a time so profound some little while ago, and yet I think…

Creating meaning. People can’t take away the things that mean to you. Did you know that? You, yes you. The reason most academic papers say to shy away from the pronoun “you” when writing is that it becomes to personal almost immediately. The consciousness, the psyche, is so absolutely terrified of being addressed directly (and believe me when I say this happens much less frequently than you probably realize) and seen for what it is (nothingness), that it is jarring to find that word in print. It is even more jarring when the you is connected to something that makes you feel. Have you ever been hurt? Have you ever been loved and left? Do you remember the one you loved? Today, I had one of the moments where I ran into a thing you wouldn’t believe. You are simply reading along, and all of a sudden, you stumble across yourself in between the lines on page. You were an asshole at that time and you know it. There is no going back to change it, but every time you go there it brings the tears to your eyes. Can you believe the things you did? Can you believe the things you said? It brings tears to your eyes now as you think about it. You have to believe that you made all the right decisions, because, essentially, you did. Who’s to say you didn’t? You did what you had to do. There is a certainty you know who you are. Or are you the one who felt the searing pain of dislocation? Were you the one who felt like your arms were being ripped out of your sides and your legs were being ripped off of your body? Were you the one whose time was suddenly wasted? You still loved. You still felt. The carpet was pulled out from under you and you were left naked and alone in the depths of psychological despair. You re-live the pain of every smile you thought was so genuine, but now feels so genuinely false. You re-live the hurt of every joyous moment in their arms when you go back into your memory. You tell yourself that wasn’t what you want. You put a gigantic psychological band-aid on and move into the world a new person. You were to many scars as it is. Why can’t you ever pull yourself out of the past? Why can’t you stop the perpetual onslaught of the bleakness of the future? There is weariness in your gait. There comes a time when you probably ought to stop asking questions and start answering them, but that time is difficult to assess. Do you know what’s going on right now? I, which is to say, the author, am subjecting my sub-conscious to an evacuation. I don’t even actually know what this is about, but the fingers are furious at something and they fly more quickly than I can keep up with. Yet, I still know when I end sentences in prepositions. …-the Fuck? We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the dessert, when you came to mind, and I played your song. Who are you? Do you even know? And we’re back to questions again. Sometimes I have intense delusions about people coming back to my work after years and years and years and having to collate and bind all of these words into some kind of manageable whole. Blogging is very much like masturbation. But what if it actually winds up meaning something. I know for a damned sight that if I were to go back through these bastards I would probably have some kind of mental shock that would ruin my system for at least a week. The overload would be palpable. I have hereby written almost one thousand one hundred words in almost exactly twenty-five minutes. I’m officially too lazy to do the math on that. But it comes down the fact that some times are meant for disposal, and what better way to dispose of oneself than to create meaning, because that is something I have done here. Whether or not it’s a decent meaning or an important meaning or a loving meaning or a worthless meaning is secondary to the fact that it is meaning. Does it mean to you? Perhaps, perhaps not. Some times are not for you. Some times are reserved for me and me alone. You know, I only started these words because I needed some time to charge up the iPod for the journey I plan to take to Home Plus so I can return a sheet that is the incorrect size and buy: water, gin, and olives—I have grown beyond the need for vermouth. Just chill the goddamned gin and serve it to me in a cocktail glass please. In another random note, I’ve been learning some Korean lately—which is important when you understand that Korea is my current residence—and I can officially say, “Hello. My name is Eli” in Korean. Oh, it’s the small battles that are sometimes the biggest. Oh, to be there and alive in that corner of time in the world. Could you ask for anything more? Welcome to the world of my in-sink-er-ator. This time it’s for you to make meaning from.