19 February, 2009
18 February, 2009
17 February, 2009
14 February, 2009
"Every form of addiction is bad." - Carl Jung (Part 4)
I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.
Self-Portrait
Pointing my heavy black camera around, I aimlessly search for some sort of inspiration to capture and develop. The film is my cage, and I am in desperation, searching for my butterfly. Cars are blaring, and the city lights glimmer but I want something more... Something breath-taking, you know? Yeah, sure. I mean, who can really say they have no photography subjects in this city? It’s San Fransisco, for God’s sake. You’ve got the gigantic buildings, the colorful blur of constant movement surrounding you while the cool air whips at your reddening cheeks and watering eyes all the while.
"Stop complaining and shoot some damn pictures, moron," right? (Directly quoted from my professor, by the way.) But... I can never seem to bring myself to shoot a photograph that I’m uncertain about, in any way. Like, it has to be one of those flawless moments of certainty, where nothing--- not your own thoughts, the sound of your own breathing or the consciousness of your own being can come between you and your subject. That is the beauty of photography. It’s why I do what I do, and it’s the only thing I could ever be completely certain about.
But lately, those solid moments I lived for has reached a sudden stand-still. However, I am by no means being lazy about this sudden stagnation of inspiration. I haven’t slept for fifty three hours and counting, nor have I eaten for the past six days. I must make myself suffer until I once again taste the triumph I once savored, and appreciated as a delicacy with every click of the shutter of my camera lense. I would rather eat my own shit then surrender my passion. I take a seat next to a frilly little baby carriage, wondering where in the hell the kid’s obviously inadequate mother is as I sit and contemplate my torturous predicament.
If you’ve ever experienced the sensation of losing something, or thinking that you have lost something dear to you, you get that little twinge in your chest... a slight drop in your stomach.
But have you ever felt like you were losing the one thing that you live your whole goddamned life for? Well, that’s how I feel, and I can almost hear the seams of my heart bursting open. As for my stomach, it’s probably about two seconds away from bursting out of my mouth. I pinch a cigarette with the corners of my lips and light it. Maybe that’ll keep it down.
I lay my camera down on the table, and begin to think of how humiliated I had been last week when I came to class empty-handed. I exhale a great deal of smoke, and grip the side of my face in agony as I think of that wretched moment. It was then, that the tip of the cigarette that rests between my pointer and middle finger burns the very top of my cheek and I jump up, yelling out a long string of profanities. I bite my lip, and look down at the ugly little wrinkled thing that’s being suffocated by gaudy pink lace. It simply blinks at me."Sorry," I murmur, nervously flattening my tie against my chest. I must be crazy, talking to a damn baby, "I’m having a bad day. That’s for fucking sure." I flick my cigarette into the gutter, and pick my camera up to leave.
"Click."
Self-Portrait
Pointing my heavy black camera around, I aimlessly search for some sort of inspiration to capture and develop. The film is my cage, and I am in desperation, searching for my butterfly. Cars are blaring, and the city lights glimmer but I want something more... Something breath-taking, you know? Yeah, sure. I mean, who can really say they have no photography subjects in this city? It’s San Fransisco, for God’s sake. You’ve got the gigantic buildings, the colorful blur of constant movement surrounding you while the cool air whips at your reddening cheeks and watering eyes all the while.
"Stop complaining and shoot some damn pictures, moron," right? (Directly quoted from my professor, by the way.) But... I can never seem to bring myself to shoot a photograph that I’m uncertain about, in any way. Like, it has to be one of those flawless moments of certainty, where nothing--- not your own thoughts, the sound of your own breathing or the consciousness of your own being can come between you and your subject. That is the beauty of photography. It’s why I do what I do, and it’s the only thing I could ever be completely certain about.
But lately, those solid moments I lived for has reached a sudden stand-still. However, I am by no means being lazy about this sudden stagnation of inspiration. I haven’t slept for fifty three hours and counting, nor have I eaten for the past six days. I must make myself suffer until I once again taste the triumph I once savored, and appreciated as a delicacy with every click of the shutter of my camera lense. I would rather eat my own shit then surrender my passion. I take a seat next to a frilly little baby carriage, wondering where in the hell the kid’s obviously inadequate mother is as I sit and contemplate my torturous predicament.
If you’ve ever experienced the sensation of losing something, or thinking that you have lost something dear to you, you get that little twinge in your chest... a slight drop in your stomach.
But have you ever felt like you were losing the one thing that you live your whole goddamned life for? Well, that’s how I feel, and I can almost hear the seams of my heart bursting open. As for my stomach, it’s probably about two seconds away from bursting out of my mouth. I pinch a cigarette with the corners of my lips and light it. Maybe that’ll keep it down.
I lay my camera down on the table, and begin to think of how humiliated I had been last week when I came to class empty-handed. I exhale a great deal of smoke, and grip the side of my face in agony as I think of that wretched moment. It was then, that the tip of the cigarette that rests between my pointer and middle finger burns the very top of my cheek and I jump up, yelling out a long string of profanities. I bite my lip, and look down at the ugly little wrinkled thing that’s being suffocated by gaudy pink lace. It simply blinks at me."Sorry," I murmur, nervously flattening my tie against my chest. I must be crazy, talking to a damn baby, "I’m having a bad day. That’s for fucking sure." I flick my cigarette into the gutter, and pick my camera up to leave.
"Click."
"Every form of addiction is bad." - Carl Jung (Part 3)
I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.
Hi Dad,
I’ve been having trouble sleeping again, but I don’t quite know if it could be classified as insomnia. You see, I’m afraid to sleep because I’ve been having trouble dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Seldomly do I have nightmares. God, it would be so much easier that way. But, no. I dream. I dream of how different things would be if you had never left. Dreaming of being able to cry on your shoulder when I bleed. It only makes the "blade of reality" (as ridiculous as that sounds) cut me so much deeper, because reality has seen the way my tears slide down my face, only to be caught by my own trembling fingertips.
I’ve been having trouble with love again, because I have kept choosing men just like you. Maybe if I can fix them, things will change. Pathetic, right? How much more of a textbook case could I be, right? Obviously, I always come out with a fresh new wound. If only you could see the scars. There are so many scars.
I have always been having trouble with the truth, because I know she will always mean more, and I know that you have a different woman’s legs wrapped around your waist every night in those inebriated frenzies of lust you are addicted to--- a bottle of hard liquor dangling from your lips.
And what's the truth? The truth is that you didn’t even look behind your shoulder to see my face one last time as you walked away. The truth has me on my knees, bending over a toilet with my hand shoved wrist deep inside my throat. The truth is the pain that spreads through this ink every time it’s too much to contain.
This late at night, there is little else to do but sit on this bitter cold tile floor, staring at the blank stretch of whiteness that is the wall. The only sound at this hour is my own shallow breathing, and the sound of my tear drops beating a steady rhythm upon the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I think the hardest thing of all is struggling with, and trying to accept the fact that this is the only way I can tell you how much you’ve hurt me: a badly written letter that I will never send and that you will never have the chance to read. All each night represents to me is a tally, keeping count of how many times one heart can break.
Hi Dad,
I’ve been having trouble sleeping again, but I don’t quite know if it could be classified as insomnia. You see, I’m afraid to sleep because I’ve been having trouble dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Seldomly do I have nightmares. God, it would be so much easier that way. But, no. I dream. I dream of how different things would be if you had never left. Dreaming of being able to cry on your shoulder when I bleed. It only makes the "blade of reality" (as ridiculous as that sounds) cut me so much deeper, because reality has seen the way my tears slide down my face, only to be caught by my own trembling fingertips.
I’ve been having trouble with love again, because I have kept choosing men just like you. Maybe if I can fix them, things will change. Pathetic, right? How much more of a textbook case could I be, right? Obviously, I always come out with a fresh new wound. If only you could see the scars. There are so many scars.
I have always been having trouble with the truth, because I know she will always mean more, and I know that you have a different woman’s legs wrapped around your waist every night in those inebriated frenzies of lust you are addicted to--- a bottle of hard liquor dangling from your lips.
And what's the truth? The truth is that you didn’t even look behind your shoulder to see my face one last time as you walked away. The truth has me on my knees, bending over a toilet with my hand shoved wrist deep inside my throat. The truth is the pain that spreads through this ink every time it’s too much to contain.
This late at night, there is little else to do but sit on this bitter cold tile floor, staring at the blank stretch of whiteness that is the wall. The only sound at this hour is my own shallow breathing, and the sound of my tear drops beating a steady rhythm upon the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I think the hardest thing of all is struggling with, and trying to accept the fact that this is the only way I can tell you how much you’ve hurt me: a badly written letter that I will never send and that you will never have the chance to read. All each night represents to me is a tally, keeping count of how many times one heart can break.
"Every form of addiction is bad" - Carl Jung
I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.
I don't like change.
If you want me to be completely honest with you, yeah. I come down here a lot. It's kind of like some fucked up ritual. You could call it an unhealthy obsession, but this is a part of me. I search my memory, as far back as it allows, and here I am again. The first, ragged breaths of air I can remember swallowing into my fragile lungs. Despite all, I can't help but to acknowledge how commiserable this scene would undoubtedly appear to somebody outside of myself; watching me, or reading me like some sort of tragic novel. My desperation could appear comical to most. I am not bold enough yet to deny that.
And 18 years later, has anything really changed? My breathing is still shallow. I'm laying on my bedroom floor, my back pressed flat against the carpet. I'm surrounded by people. You know, friends. Well, I don't know. Friends? I don't exactly know what to call them, but now that I come to think about it, to assert these people as "friends" would be a gross over-exaggeration. But they're here, aren't they? Yes, for a solitary reason that doesn't have anything to do with my "good company," but you can't say they aren't here. I can barely open my eyes. I manage to squint, and I look to my left. I see a dark figure above me, on the couch with their hands covering their face. An image of a marionette doll, hands dangling limply, supported by bits of thread flashes through my mind for some reason that remains unknown. They're hopelessly endeavoring to suppress their laughter. I'm laughing too. I don't know why, but I am. I think I am, at least. I don't think it really matters though. In this moment, everything I believe is happening is. Whatever I imagine can be real. It can even be tangible. That must be why I'm reaching out to the ceiling now, grasping onto the air for nothing. Nothing, until I can visualize what I want the most. And I'm there again, gazing into the glowing, yellow lights of the windows of that house. My house. My memories. The past. Currently, the present. I am omnipotent. In this moment, I am omnipotent. And I'm back again, to my first memories. Everything else is no longer a part of me. Those lights. My ceiling. They're swimming above me in a haze. Fuck. Am I already tripping off of this shit? Everything's just a big, shimmering blur. I sat up, and immediately felt hot, wet tears running down my face and in that moment I knew that all these people surrounding me were in their perfect moment of life. And I knew that in that moment, it was real to them. They could feel it. Touch it. And it clicked: The aim isn't to stop the laughter. It is to try and hold that moment in, forever. Or as long as they can, at least. It's impossible now to stop yourself from marveling at how intense laughter and uncontrollable sobbing sound uncannily alike. The first usually leads to the latter, doesn't it? In these situations, they often do. Only now do I realize that they do need my company. They need to know that they aren't alone. But an hour and a half goes by, and it's gone. And they're gone. "Good shit, man." They're gone. And I'm still alone. But, I don't give a fuck. I won't remember this shit tomorrow. Fuck it.
I don't like change.
I fucking hate change.
I don't like change.
If you want me to be completely honest with you, yeah. I come down here a lot. It's kind of like some fucked up ritual. You could call it an unhealthy obsession, but this is a part of me. I search my memory, as far back as it allows, and here I am again. The first, ragged breaths of air I can remember swallowing into my fragile lungs. Despite all, I can't help but to acknowledge how commiserable this scene would undoubtedly appear to somebody outside of myself; watching me, or reading me like some sort of tragic novel. My desperation could appear comical to most. I am not bold enough yet to deny that.
And 18 years later, has anything really changed? My breathing is still shallow. I'm laying on my bedroom floor, my back pressed flat against the carpet. I'm surrounded by people. You know, friends. Well, I don't know. Friends? I don't exactly know what to call them, but now that I come to think about it, to assert these people as "friends" would be a gross over-exaggeration. But they're here, aren't they? Yes, for a solitary reason that doesn't have anything to do with my "good company," but you can't say they aren't here. I can barely open my eyes. I manage to squint, and I look to my left. I see a dark figure above me, on the couch with their hands covering their face. An image of a marionette doll, hands dangling limply, supported by bits of thread flashes through my mind for some reason that remains unknown. They're hopelessly endeavoring to suppress their laughter. I'm laughing too. I don't know why, but I am. I think I am, at least. I don't think it really matters though. In this moment, everything I believe is happening is. Whatever I imagine can be real. It can even be tangible. That must be why I'm reaching out to the ceiling now, grasping onto the air for nothing. Nothing, until I can visualize what I want the most. And I'm there again, gazing into the glowing, yellow lights of the windows of that house. My house. My memories. The past. Currently, the present. I am omnipotent. In this moment, I am omnipotent. And I'm back again, to my first memories. Everything else is no longer a part of me. Those lights. My ceiling. They're swimming above me in a haze. Fuck. Am I already tripping off of this shit? Everything's just a big, shimmering blur. I sat up, and immediately felt hot, wet tears running down my face and in that moment I knew that all these people surrounding me were in their perfect moment of life. And I knew that in that moment, it was real to them. They could feel it. Touch it. And it clicked: The aim isn't to stop the laughter. It is to try and hold that moment in, forever. Or as long as they can, at least. It's impossible now to stop yourself from marveling at how intense laughter and uncontrollable sobbing sound uncannily alike. The first usually leads to the latter, doesn't it? In these situations, they often do. Only now do I realize that they do need my company. They need to know that they aren't alone. But an hour and a half goes by, and it's gone. And they're gone. "Good shit, man." They're gone. And I'm still alone. But, I don't give a fuck. I won't remember this shit tomorrow. Fuck it.
I don't like change.
I fucking hate change.
13 February, 2009
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