holding a dry rose head

This blog is all about me

Manual labor, tired and hungry, a new kind of humility, lies in sharp contrast to the humility of sitting slumped at a desk, tired and sickly, overly full from snacking.

I wish people would take my picture more often, so I could look at myself, and wonder who the hell that guy is.

Shoveling snow, sweaty and cold, taking off and putting on jackets, wondering if my tiny muscles look strong, panting and resting with every few shovel-fulls, is a new kind of humility, stands sharply in contrast to the humility of showing up to work and sitting, drinking acrid acidic coffee-like black water, eating stale snacks, and trying to muster the focus to work at work. 

I read what I have written several times to verify that I am just as cool as I thought I was before I forgot what I wrote. 

Driving to work sometimes, I sing along with a pulsing, energetic song, and remind myself that I do not have a voice for performing, no matter what anybody may say, thus reminding myself that I am surrounded by liars. 

I listen to the songs that I write thousands of times, and still leave them up for the public to hear. 

I find myself utterly hilarious, in the moments that I have forgotten how utterly pathetic I am, and especially in the moments that I must appear utterly, hilariously pathetic.

Like right now.

Winter Hellscape

Went on a nice hike lately. Got some pretty pics. Cold as hell, but looked nice, and quiet... which is nice. Thus, nice hike. More pics at:  http://picasaweb.google.com/daniel.hulter/100106#

Slow, Futile Constructions

Due to the temperature outside, sometimes water will attempt great feats of collaboration, building upside down ladders to the ground, perhaps tired of merely throwing itself violently, hoping for an easier, softer and more pleasant route.
I sat and watched the icicles form for a little while. Beadlets of water, attempting to cling and freeze to the end would stretch, screaming, groping, then shuddering would fall, and break into little pieces of water on the concrete below. Then the next would try. Then the next, and on, bravely sacrificing themselves to build this city, or perhaps merely victims of a determined future who were hopeful that they would be one of the lucky ones, the ones who sit comfortably back, scaffolding and roadway for the great many who they watch plunge to their screaming, horrible deaths.

I must say, I am not entirely convinced that we are not all mere beads of water, running down the most logical path, success being merely a matter of luck and circumstance. I like to think that we are not, but I cannot say for sure.
I, for one, don't see anything wrong with this. Droplets of water forming into icicles is a perfectly beautiful thing.

Update

A few new items up including a song, slapped together, emotion barf called "Something"



Also some pictures. One of them is here. This picture was taken from my front steps. My neighborhood does not actually look this nice. When I was showing this to a friend, I explained to him that one thing I loved about photography is the hunt for something beautiful. One must frame what is already there in such a way that the image is not merely a reflection of the blurry mess we live in. Most often it is distinct, whether distinct in it's beauty or distinct in it's hideousness, or distinct in it's contrast of the two. When I was explaining this brand new philosophy to him, in the way that I explain things when I've just stumbled upon a new way of framing an idea only seconds ago, we were walking through a parking lot, and I said "Somewhere in this parking lot there is a beautiful photograph. I have only to crop out what is not in the photograph to find it." I  am reminded of Michaelangelo and his stone-work being only a removal of what is not the sculpture inside. To the right of this photograph is one of the most hideous houses I have ever been forced to look at. This picture is given the opportunity to say something, not drowned out by it's hideousness.

And this picture makes me happy. It is rain crawling down my car window after a day of class. The world and it's colors are being washed away, and I have a sense of closeness. It is a similar sensation to the rush of adrenaline I used to get when we would build a fort, dig a ditch and put plywood over the top, arrange pillows and blankets in the living room and make a maze, hack away blackberry bushes and create a series of tunnels inside that led to little rooms. This buzzing sensation, it comes back when it rains. It comes back when the clouds cover the sky low down, and it is just us in this tiny space. This is the type of space that things would always happen in, that secrets would be told in. What is it about this space, and why am I programmed to respond so childishly?

Self Portrait

The first few words of a song I may never finish...

I think the title or chorus of this song is:

That which doesn't kill you just might break you down

Verse:

let's just assume that pregnancy and birth are perfect,
That condom-less pill-less sex was worth it,
Nobody has ever been born evil,
And all babies are created equal.

The primary question of the song is: If babies can be born with, oh I don't know, Rett Syndrome, or be born Sociopaths, we all stand a chance of being randomly screwed by chance. But let's pretend this is not the case. It gives us the opportunity to blame people, rather than nature (or God, that stupid bastard): blame the parents. Blame the schools. Blame the priests. Blame video games. Blame voodoo, or whatever happens to have been there for the fourteen years before the parents noticed their sweet boy catching animals on fire. It's a terrifying thought to think that my son (I have one) might just grow up to be what people like to call evil. How dare you judge my two year old, when he has just killed, when he has just raped, when he has just led hundreds of thousands to kill and rape for him; but not for him. No. For God and country of course.

I am vulnerable. I am weak. I am a mere person in the face of this torrential, massive wave of influence. My son is more so. He is fine, dry sand in a hurricane. I am desperately trying to hold on, clutching dry sand to my chest, with the aid of my many fingered wife, but the gaps in my fingers are so big. I can watch specks of him fly away, no longer in my control, no longer in his.

What do you tell a parent who's teenager is in Juvenile hall? When you are not facing them, you say: "Shame on you, you should have beaten them more", or "You should have beaten them less". When you are facing them, you say: "Do not fret, I know another boy who..." or "But he's such a sweet kid..." or "He'll grow out of it". I grew up with absolute surety that parents were responsible, and parents were to blame. Why do absolutist talking heads get to tell us how this is? Why did I grow up thinking that parents were responsible, and yet feel sorry for them that I did not turn out a certain way? Why do I feel like I controlled my own destiny when I was but a wee lad? Just because I'm driving the car does not mean that whatever comes flying through the windshield, killing the passengers, or killing me, or sending us all straight to hell, is my fault. Just because you are older does not mean you can tame this beast: This Chaos.


The funny thing: if my son grows up to be a mass murderer, or a huge prick, I expect to blame nobody but myself, and it will be devastating.