Two Bits

I've been writing bits and pieces of things over the last couple months but rarely finish anything to a blog-worthy publishing extent. Lots of ideas to flesh out, I hope to publish more frequently. Getting onto the blog has been made a little difficult by the need to scale the firewall of China, VPNs slow things down a lot as well. Two bits: first a quick jotted poem written yesterday on the subway home after spending a day trying to extend my visa stay and navigating Chinese bureaucracy.

Talking to my father
he said he's stopped
worrying about the small things
or the turns of a fate
he can wait for.
At 20, 30, 60, forever
life is the same
set of everyday processes:
I put my pants on, my glasses,
make coffee.
Change one part-
left leg first,
don't grind the grounds-
and nothing changes.

What you're doing,
he said,
with you youth
with your enthusiasm
will become a memory
what you're doing now
is not very normal;
as if any life
might be counted normal
when consciousness is nothing
if not extraordinary,
the world
the universal root

When you get older,
he said,
you'll know--
the stupid painted nails
and fashion
you complain about,
breathing the bad air,
this is the good stuff!

Today
I ran across Beijing
wasting time
to buy time,
asking much of friends
and hassling officials
for their red stamps
which they at length
surrendered
the light of an entire day
spent navigating tunnels
the final light
a a tiny three wheel
rickshaw cabin.
 Crammed next to my boss
both tired and sore
amidst polluted traffic fumes
and honking screams
breathing the bad air;
sitting here
I know:
This is the good stuff.


Started listening to Townes Van Zandt only recently, having failed to heed Quentin's prior pointing in his direction. Wasn't ready yet, I don't think. The sweetness of his country style adds something charming and beautiful and deeply sad to the music that's really powerful-- something more human than the philosophical style of Leonard Cohen, warmer than Ol' Bobby D. Post-Townes wrote:

Blood Go Waste Come (tentative title)

A boy sits bored in his blank walled room
mind like a loom but the cloth ain't warm
blood's been heating for 20 long years
the storm is here and he needs to move

Gets a bicycle, his mind's been cycling
through destinations never seen
says "I'm movin now, finally I'll get free
stop wastin time an' get somewhere"
just need some time and some space to be
somewhere where the blood flows gently

The blood presses forward in your veins
dragging you toward imagined distant plains
it's plain to see
your hand's empty
Boy, you do not hold the reins, no,
just treading endless cycles in your brain

You're wishin for Elysium
the rainclouds whisper here he comes
two wheels on the road and there you go
it's all downhill from here now

you think you're done now, you need no more
the rainclouds sing it's time to pour
and the wet comes pouring down on
the shivering black road
cold rain slithers in slick black lines
as the cold boy slinks on alone

The blood presses forward in your veins
dragging you toward imagined distant plains
it's plain to see
your hand's empty
Boy, you do not hold the reins, no,
just treading endless cycles in your brain


Well, you circled round a desert shore
wishing always for something more
your two wheels leave no track behind
your mind finds no conclusion

In the revolutions of thoughts and pedals
you find no end or return
the blood pushes backward through your soul
and your foot-soles are a'burning
two months time wasted highway-bound
no Elysium or endpoint found
no difference between home and the distant shore
guess I'll go back and just waste some more

The blood presses forward in your veins
dragging you toward imagined distant plains
it's plain to see
your hand's empty
Boy, you do not hold the reins, no,
just treading endless cycles in your brain.