Ker-plunk

Always expect a shot in the dark regarding philosophical statements after you find me at the end of some kind of lengthy drive that provides me as much access to music as the miles I plug into my car's engine. And though it usually provides for a moody experience that varies as much as the landscape I travel in (always remember, please, that Soledad apparently IS where it's at), driving at night makes everything seem the same. So I guess I was on a one-track mind, which always seems comforting for a mind that jumps between anything at any time.

Getting on to the point, however, I had a lot of time to think about a conversation I had with one of my best friends in Santa Barbara. I should have guessed that at least one of he nights would have ended up in a philosophical debating of sorts.  

We came to the conclusion that we, as lame as it is to admit, admire the tortured artist motif. This idea that we pursue some idealized notion of not necessarily pain, but melancholy. That being uncomfortable leads to something deeper.  And the scary thing is, sometimes it happens to be more comforting than the happiness we experience. And I've never had any clue as to why until now.

Happiness is finite. It's what we pursue. It can't evolve into anything else. It is the closest thing to a taste of perfection we'll get.  It's in the moment. It's there. I can't tear it apart and analyze it and sculpt it into something better. And so, because of that, I'm forced to realize that there is no dwelling, there is nothing more than that happiness.

Whereas with the melancholy, it's infinite. I can see an array of possibilities from it. Because, well, there has to be something more. It has to evolve into something good, it has to be torn apart and rebuilt into something healthy, beneficial, salubrious. Ultimately, though, in all of its infinite possibilities, we only want it to mold into that intrinsic happiness we were so uncomfortable with in the first place.

I'm not saying I'm a masochist, but I think I bred my concept of the idea of "searching for more" to an unhealthy extent.

So now, I'm rooted. I'm going to check out from that melancholy for awhile. I'm going to be comfortable with that notion that I don't have to keep thinking, that I don't have to keep working at things, that I can just admire the beauty of things and not look over its shoulder to see what ought be, to see its potential.  Because, as I'm learning, there doesn't always have to be another side to the coin, there doesn't always have to be something more. There can just be it. And with just that, I can take a deep breath. That first breath after the coma. Just that moment.

That's all.

That.

Nothing else.

And with that, I am content. 

Adieu,

grant

post-scrip: I assure you, I am perfectly sane. I just like to think. Ponder with me sometime.

Motion Picture Soundtrack

I find music to be very similar to the hammer the doctor slams against my kneecap to prove my reflexes are still active. I prescribe to my daily routine, and then every now and then I find myself at an appointment I didn't make myself. And then the tool comes, knocks me to the ground, and I get up.  I'm alive.

An exaggerated example, I guess, but I live between hypotheticals and dressed up four penny words. I'm on a first-name-basis with thinking, anyways. You can pull up a chair and join the conversation if you want. I didn't really have anything interesting to pour in anyways. But I'll continue with my false witticisms.

I was listening to Kid A today, I hadn't in a while, and "Motion Picture Soundtrack" came on. I've listened to it before, but I think it always caught me when my mind had no vacant spots for appreciation. Apparently, today I did, and the hammer came down. I got the chills, the absent-minded stare, and all those other cliches you can think of when a song catches you completely off guard. But for some reason the hammer came down even harder, and I kicked back with some vigor I had forgotten about. It was that feeling of that first gasp of air after being submerged for too long. I was alive, and not like the anatomical stuff. I don't like biology anyways. It put me in my place, but after I caught my breath, it pushed me away and kept an interested glimpse as to what my next step would be.

What?

Yeah, I know. I get wordy. Sorry. I feel like some horrible narrator to my day. Maybe this is all because I watched Kiss Kiss Bang Bang last week. 

It's refreshing. Those little moments that prove you're alive. That you're completely capable of getting lost in this labyrinth of a life, but even more capable of chasing that exit, wherever the hell it is, with a smile on your face.

Good Day.

+Grant (g-are-en-tuh)

I am in my room and my head is planted on the edge of my desk. Plato has a bookmark in him, and I left his spine open (my apologies, I'll deal with the Republic later). The remnant of my sound system is full volume, and the computer is making designs on its screensaver. It seems as though I'm writing a prescription for a headache, especially with this Counting Crows song blaring in the background. But I'm fine. I'm happy. This is just sticking with me. I'm a sucker for a good acoustic song, anyways. I've always admired Adam Duritz's ability to be so eloquent with his songwriting and singing (his performances alone show how physically he gets into each and every word he writes), but I feel he hit it especially strong with this one. 

what might i ask is the scientific purpose of this?

Wit is eluding me and the chemistry between my fingers and the keyboard seems to be lacking tonight. I haven't really explored it, but I don't like to butt in on other people's problems, so I'll keep it short and allow them their space to sort it out.

I think I had a conversation with the retiring Steve Zissou today, and as I sat beside him on the red carpet of his final premiere, he muttered to me and a little german boy (with shorts remarkably similar to his uncle's) that "this, this is an adventure." No blank stare or thin veil of apathy could shroud the power of his statement. He was a washed-up man living in his own crumbling shadow, and I, some burnt out college kid seeking some sense of relief after a night of finals, finally saw the eyes with which I've been watching, observing, pursuing, with. 

They were blank yet passionate. They sighed but laughed joyously. They recouped but saw the world as it was. 

And that's what I've been. That's where I've been. I've been afraid of "stagnancy" tagging itself along with me, but I've realized it's only been a shadow at most.  I've grown tired of it, and I've convinced myself that that shadow was more than some veil of a presence, but rather a defining description of my life thus far. But I lied to myself. I'm hungry. Fuck that. I'm starving. I'm starving for change. I get giddy at the thought that I'm experiencing it right now, that I need it, that some God is mindfully deducting any childish sense of ego and maturity within me. I was starting to become sane! I was beginning to see uninhibited joy as naive, and I began to see myself as decent as most.

But I'm not. I'm far from it. And I say that with a grateful smile.

I am a wretch. I am a phony. I am some rusted shard of whatever I try to represent or pursue. And though my intentions are well, I am human. A tragic one. A tragically beautiful one. My failures hold wisdom, and my accomplishments hold no weight.

I am sitting aside Mr. Zissou. And I look at the crowd with the same eyes. And I know how he feels. 

That this is an adventure. That no matter the routine and monotony, no matter the sea of superficiality, no matter the incessantly pounding frustration, there's still some nook I need to explore. And though I've misplaced my map and my compass is probably where ever I last put it, you can catch me walking out that door. 

Because my eyes are tired. And every ounce of human blood in me tells me I'm tired. That I'm a broken record. That I've been dreaming this all up. And maybe I am. And maybe I really am lonely. I mean I think I've finally convinced myself of that. But just like that washed-up explorer, the very source of his anguish brought solace upon him.

So maybe this frustration, this loneliness, this unfed beast within me that ignores any meal I give to it, will be the source of this solace. Maybe it will teach me that I've been dancing around the concept of God with a sense of cynicism that brought me a sense of power and maturity. Maybe it will teach me that I have a lot to learn.

That this is an adventure. And I have a lot more exploring to do.

Thank you Mr. Zissou. Or I guess Bill Murray.

-Grant

Stagnant

Treading water in an empty room,

And picking apart

The dust from the tiny collisions

Between this week and last.

Each investment tightly knit

With intentions to

Host formal conventions

Introducing me to myself

 

Because all night I’ve been fighting

The first things that come to mind

Pulses and bruises,

Whatever she chooses

Writes another song for a peeling wall.

And all day I’ve been trying

The first things I come to find

Footsteps and missteps

Modestly forget

What the hell has been going on.

 

Making familiarities with the melancholy

And prize-fighting thoughts

Assure nothing but a billboard

Aside a mingled highway.

So pull me out

And dust me off

Introduce me to myself.

 

Ripping pages from an old book

And finding that

Each page bleeds into the next

Cataloguing anything but movement

And anything but change

So open my eyes

And shake my hand

Introduce me to change.

 

Because all month I’ve been waiting

For the first light to catch my eye,

Insulin insulates,

But memory forsakes

Whatever high this ghost train might bring

And most of this year I’ve been thinking

Of used words to sell and find

A middleman to make sense

Of parables

And spiritual fills

Have You Seen Me Lately?

I always feel obligated to write on nights such as these, namely nights where I haven't much to do. This, of course, inevitably leads to thinking or at least the pursuit of.

And here's to falling short of that.

2008. I guess there's a certain ring to it, but I've yet to hear anything mind-altering or at least refreshing. It's nice to be back in SLo, but I feel like I'm living in a memory. I'm excited to reconnect with old friends (well, recently old friends) and meet new ones, but I guess I can join the chorus of Death Cab for Cutie and other countless bands ranting about the monotony of new years and the facade of it all. 

I'll stop now.

I don't quite know where I'm heading with this. In fact I don't know why I'm writing at all. Maybe I'm hoping that this brief blog will reveal some inner yearning for this year, or more especially, some thing that I should be pursuing this quarter.

But I'm kind of excited against all of the monotony, because I feel like I really finally am heading back into the lifestyle used to love so much. Maybe not as much a lifestyle as it is a mindset, but the point is, maybe the cliche "new years bring new beginnings" could actually be true for me this time. This break, as dull and lame and work heavy at an occupation I was getting extremely tired of, could, quite likely, have held everything I needed to get "back on track" so to speak. I feel like my desire to serve has been reignited, and for the first time in four years, I really have no mental baggage to hold onto. I feel like I can finally rest and confront the more pressuring and uncomfortable philosophies both in the world and within myself without feeling I'm putting on some persona, or even worse, I'm being compared to the very Grant stereotype I established in high school. I'm clean, for the first time, and I have never been happier because of it. My spiritual life is coming full circle, and though I still hold very close to my heart the "black sheep Christian" tag and I listen to the angsty mewithoutYou and still get scared when I'm walking in Rite-Aid and creepy Greg from Intervarsity calls and reminds me why for the past few years I've been so uncomfortable sharing my faith, for some reason, I feel like I'm starting to own it again. 

I don't know. It's a new year, and I know its going to bring new challenges, new people, and new philosophies in my life, and I am so incredibly excited for it. 

Whatever the young-ins are using these days to say goodbye,

Grant.

(and if you wanted to know, apparently the "new" hip word in the works is biddy... as in biznitch or bitch, but I'll always prefer hello) 

Stability

Feeling accomplished, I've decided to enter the world of blogspot. Most likely because I am the absolute conformist of John Knight. Or maybe for some reason I believe switching venues and shunning myspace will make me feel all mature, because, after all, I can almost grow sideburns and I drink coffee now. That's right. Now give me a beret, call me sophisticated, and listen to me with tired eyes in this cyber cafe of a venue; I'll feel a lot better about myself when I wake up.

But all hipness aside, I'm still Grant, and I'm still trying to answer those inevitable (and to somewhat degree, deep) questions with answers we all play around with and mask as substantial. So as a budding New Year's promise to myself (I'm figuring if I start early I'll accept the fact that I'll never follow it. It's like beating the guilt-trip line on Black Friday), I'll only write what I define as substantial (or at least not oh-jeez-sally-that-was-SOOO-high-school-drama shit). And I'm feeling like that gives me a lot of latitude.

With that said, I'm emtpy on big words and my mind is mostly vacant of any mind-blowing philosophical thoughts of how I'm going to buy discounted pumpkin pie once I'm back in San Luis Obispo or why I always tend to wake up with the cow-lick from hell, or where exactly my flash drive full of architecture final projects has found itself (well, you get the idea, nothing deep). So I go. I promise writings, poetry, and convoluted thoughts in the near future.

Exit stage right. Errr. Left? Damn. I always fuck this up.

-Grant