Whenever I need to have a good think, I lie down backwards on my bed, with my feet propped up against the wall, and I let the blood pour down into my brain, and close my eyes, and just wander around for a while inside my head.
(more) It's tough slogging, I find, navigating my neuron clusters with all that blood flowing, but it's far more interesting than going in when it's dry, when my brain's like a desert, with just a couple of lonely cactus-like ideas growing here and there. When my feet are up, and the rivers are flowing, the vegetation gets much more lively.
The first few exploring sessions I embarked on while the blood was in my head, I went in barefoot and was forced to stick to the shoreline, wondering what those big ideas were that I could see off in the distance. Lately, though, I've been bringing a good pair of boots along, so I'm able to go inland, where a lot of the grey matter is. Ideas grow like weeds in the grey matter, if they're being watered well.
One time I tried building a raft and floating down one of my arterial channels. I thought it might bring me somewhere important, where I was storing a really great, unique idea, but I must've gotten caught in a current of some sort, because I eventually found myself floating around near the tip of my tongue. It took me hours to find my way back out.
One day I'm going to find that big idea, and then I'll cultivate it, fertilizing and pruning and taking cuttings so I can plant more big ideas just like it in my back garden.
Until then, I'll lie here with my feet up, and off I'll go, exploring.(less)
lay yourself down
here by my side
let go and let me
perhaps you've forgotten how it feels
to hand over the reins
at least momentarily
(more) relinquish control for awhile
put your feet up and i'll let you leave your hat on
if that makes you feel safer
but in the end it won't matter
it can keep you on your toes
all this cloak and dagger
just for these infrequencies
but oh, the spark burns
and it's unavoidable, this crashing,
but not completely uncharted
it's all that flotsam floating through the wasteland
that keeps it going(less)
Last night, I had the American Dream, and I woke up this morning to chase it. There was no happiness, no friendship, no good times or personal goals to greet me. Just the emptiness of my own mind and the subconscious urge to drive forward, endlessly wanting more and more and(more) more.
They say that Homo Habilis (Latin for "Handy Man") crafted what are referred to as hand axes to court a mate. An adult male would work tirelessly to precisely chisel a piece of quartz into a lovely tear drop shaped slicing tool. If the female was impressed with the craftsmanship, she would deem him dexterous enough to be an able provider, and a union would be made.
I didn't actually carve and make the diamond necklace myself, but I had the means to provide my girlfriend with it. And so it seems that evolution has hardwired this scheme into our brains from our ancient ancestors up to today. As a man I must provide, I must show you all the good and luxurious things I can provide my offspring with so that I can have those offspring.
Yet, these are the ideas of our ancient ancestors, animals not quite human. I say that to be human is to be more than a complicated ape. I wish to provide my offspring with a strong backbone, a soft heart and an open mind so that they may look on the world for themselves, and not be weighed down by millenia of customs. There is so much more to our mind than the blind pursuit of reproducing ourselves.
And so I look upon the American Dream as an illusion, a sick charade made up to keep us shackled to the past because thats all we know.
That was it. They were done. All three-hundred and ninety-six of them.
It had taken Clark most of the day to process all of the files that were in his in-box; but he had gotten them done with about fifteen minutes to spare. I ought to relax, he(more) thought, at least for the last couple ticks of the ol' clock. Then at five, I'll bust it downstairs and grab a cold one with the boys.
Clark worked for Jones & Company, Portland’s largest fiber products distributor. He'd been there going on nine years now and had gradually worked his way up the ladder. Even in today’s economy he felt pretty safe job-wise. There were a few people under him and he had seniority in his department for sure.
Ahhh. The old feet on the desk. What a classic. Hands locked behind my head, lean back, and close the weary eyes for just..a...moment...
A familiar voice floated through his consciousness.
“Mr. McNichols. Sorry to disturb you.”
Clark snapped back to reality, his feet flopping to the floor as he regained his senses.
“Mr. McNichols. Sorry... But, I need to take your files down to the mailroom for processing. Are they ready?” asked Julie, Clark's secretary.
Clark scooched his chair forward to his desk. “Yes. Yes Julie. I didn't hear you come in. They're right here,” Clark said, as he shuffled the masses of triplicate forms into a neat pile.
With her usual warm smile, Julie took the thick stack from Clark. She stood for a moment, staring at the pile of paperwork in her hand. Her smile faded.
“Wow. What a shame to see all these decent, hard-working people go. I'm sure glad I don't have your job Mr. McNichols.”(less)