downward spirals projecting at the speed of life.

I want to tell him that she’s not the answer. He was rejected again, passed the letter on to all of us to read, the “disgruntled 20 something engineers” group of six who ridicule and joke and bitch and complain all day in an attempt to create drama, something interesting and alive. And he’s sad, again, and letting us know. He placed all his eggs of love unparalleled in her basket of friendship, and they broke, once again. And he’ll probably take out his aggression tonight at a strip club, dropping 3 hundao on some daft whore who’ll pretend to be interested, who’ll find his weakness and feed off of it like a vampire. And it won’t be the first or even second time. He’s addicted to strip clubs and they know it. They smell him as a hound hot on the tail of a fox. And he’ll be weak, downtrodden and forlorn. After ingesting 4 or 5 vodka tonics, making 4 or 5 trips to the ATM, and offering to give four different strippers a ride home, he’ll attempt the hour and a half commute back North. In a drunken haze, he’ll reach in desperation for his cell phone, drunk dialing the one who used to love him: the one who cheated on him with two dudes, one of which was the pizza delivery man, in the same weekend. She’ll tell him off, hurtful words will be exchanged, tempers will boil, and nothing will have been accomplished. Provided he makes it home, he’ll be late to work, piss off his boss, and will have learned nothing from the events of the day prior. He will have spent the money originally allocated for a missionary trip to Mexico, thus preventing him a spirit building weekend away from the distractions and temptations of everyday American life. Creditors will call and he’ll continue to fall deeper down the rabbit hole until the light is but a pinhole in a sphere of darkness. Time will progress and he’ll continue travel down the up escalator, passing his friends and co-workers, attempting to grab the sweater of any nubile young thang who happens to share a glance. His heart will grow colder, his body older, and his follies bolder, until luck runs its course and shit hits the fan.

He’ll wake up, give up, or fall asleep. “She’s not the answer, wake your broke ass up,” I want to say. But I’ve done it time and time again and nothing’s registered.

Projecting happiness, hoping to be redeemed through someone other than oneself is a lesson which takes helpless romantics years to understand.

Such is life.

Such is strife.

Such is a state of spiritual blindness.

solace? or lyrical vomit?

solace? or lyrical vomit?
Current mood: exanimate
Category: Life

My boss walks away, shaking his head in displeasure as he's "caught" me, yet again, daydreaming, dragging my heels and coming up short on production. I'm anxious, heart racing, breath shortening, fight or flight responses kicking in. I resist the urge to ingest another xanax, close my eyes, breath deep and imagine myself walking away. Standing up, tall and proud albeit completely unaware of how foolish the act I’m about to commit may be, and walking away. Disappearing for awhile. To India or Tibet. Showing up on the doorstep of a guru and throwing my life to the wind, to the breath of the gods in a complete surrender of control, disappearing completely into myself, my studies: therapeutic spiritual cleansing.

I don’t see this as a road aligned with cash, diamonds, gold, notoriety, success, sense, or logic. I see it as nothing more than an acceptance that I’m a leaf floating aimlessly through a torrent of information and decisions, consumed by consumption and driven to inevitable destruction. I believed, when younger, that life was as wide open as the pacific ocean spread before a hanglider. I didn’t see my journey as a series of ladders that needed climbing, asses that needed kissing, and feet that needed washing. I didn't see my devotion to education as a futile attempt to end up exactly where everyone always wanted me to be; ,"Calm: Healthier and More Productive: Fitter: Healthier: A Pig in a Cage on Antibiotics." (credit Radiohead)

But god damn it the truth took a shit on my plate and asked me to eat and enjoy it. My other personality reminded me that, "the answers aren’t out there", "they’re inside you". Nothing more consoling than to realize long sought answers are inside the flawed, perpetually depressed and distracted me, the me that always turns to others for help and guidance when others are at times more in need of a map and a compass than they allow anyone to perceive.

Why is evil so ubiquitous? Why do so many people suffer in this world while others thrive off of the fat of the land? Why can’t we accept our differences and get along? Why can’t we chase outrageous dreams for the simple act of chasing and growing through them? Why do we sit in these cubes, surrounded by memories of times attained through submission, acceptance that someone will always be richer and more talented, better looking or better connected, ready to cast judgements of our faults and our accomplishments; pseudo-gods getting their kicks trying to control destiny?

I do not know the answer to all of these rhetorical and meaningless questions. I do know that it can’t be found by running away. I do know that for now, it’s important to face up to life and accept monotony until I’ve unlocked the secrets to harnessing delusions which drive me to share this lyrical vomit with the masses on a semi-daily basis. Get rich or die trying? Live life and die trying? One way or another, the end is inevitable. One absolute truth. One reason to push slowly away from this desk, place both feet on the ground, stand up, and walk away.

weightless, restless, and smitten.

weightless, restless, and smitten.
Current mood: bouncy
Category: Life

“There is no floor…..there is no floor…there is no floor……,” he repeated to himself fifteen times in a mental whisper, an attempt to center his focus from the myriad shooting stars soaring in the expanse of an otherwise unstable mind. Of course the trick was to focus on nothing, to be nothing and yet everything at once, to completely dissolve into the floor in a pool of serenity. But this, this was too difficult, ADD raged hard for 20 something years and a few days of yoga was not going to prevent the locomotive from progressing full steam ahead.

“Imagine each thought is a goldfish,” stated the yogi with the bodacious ass a few weeks prior, “and that as many times as you try and grab hold of that goldfish, it swims away into the great abyss.” Her simplistic statement was beginning to make sense….by thinking over and over again that there was no floor, he was attempting to catch the fish, afraid to let go, afraid to return completely to self. Yoga was beginning to reveal itself as a dynamic exercise aligning the path towards enlightenment in this life. His physical desires were reawakening, long dormant for reasons too difficult to explain.

The 12 hour Ritalin was beginning to wear off, it was around 9 at night on a frigid Chicago evening and he was lying on a wooden floor, eyes closed, mind open, finishing an hour and a half of intense yoga. It was no coincidence that he found himself in this particular studio, on this particular evening, with this particular teacher. He was here with a purpose, or two, both of which were perfectly healthy pursuits for a virile twenty something man. She had taught a community class the day prior, all five foot seven of her. It wasn’t his usual practice to sit front and center what with the social anxiety which always steered him “safe harbor” in the back of the room. But the director insisted, such a wise man his friend the director. And of course they were both high as a kite on Ben Franklin’s fateful night, not to mention the fact that he was in desperate need of a haircut.

When class began that Sunday afternoon he was nearly convinced by Ritalin and weed, that mere seconds separated him from absolute embarassment. His heart was racing and was most likely going to explode in an attack of anxiety. He was going to need an ambulance, everyone’s class would be ruined, and the event would forever ban him from returning. But the moment she called the classes attention and assumed downward facing dog, all was calm and clear. He smirked, ready to sweat for an hour and a half with this fine specimen of god’s perfection. He wasn’t sure if it was the confidence with which she led a class of 50 enthusiasts, the taught physique and ass of perfection, or the sincerity she expressed when he inquired what other days she taught for Liberation Yoga, he was smitten. The how made no difference why blood was rushing through his body, causing butterflies to dance in his stomach as day dreams of passionate physical expression of love and romance kept misleading his focus. He was in first grade chasing curly haired, rambunctious Suzy around the playground, playing doctor in the confines of a jungle gym. When she responded that she taught Monday evenings, he cleared his calendar.

A stressful day at work passed and he found himself lying on a hardwood floor for what seemed like ages. A draft from an old window began to subjugate the once temperate room, awakening his body. Fifty different goldfish had swum away. Shivasana was no longer restful. Phone calls and emails began to nag, nag, nag at the consciousness when he noticed a step, followed by another. What little light was let in through his eyelids was overshadowed by a figure. The silence was maintained as she pushed firmly down on his shoulders. He took a deep breath and sighed with relief. She reached to the back of his head and massaged his neck, hands brushing past the sweat pouring from his hair. He imagined cradling her in his arms as she applied slight pressure to his face. All worry dissipated and with the final touch on his forehead, a smile was born, as he finally dissolved into a pool of serenity devoid of goldfish. Warmth filled his veins and for a moment he felt as if he was floating in his mother’s womb, completely content with simply being. To her it might have been nothing more than a kind gesture of a dedicated teacher, but to him, to him meaning was uncovered. He wished he could pause time, hold the moment in the palm of his hands and fill his heart with its purity from now until the end of time.

the truth hurts less than little white lies behind which lovers hide.

Current mood: working
Category: Life

The song rises to an operatic climax as Andre Bocelli's voice reaches loud emotionally stimulating proportions. The song ends with the camera remaining high above and to the southwest of the golden gate bridge as the car joins other cars in a frame of the magnificently beautiful structure. The car is lost from view as the audience can no longer tell theirs from the next, this story from a myriad of others no less worthy of being told. Hopefully the audience feels some type of longing for the story to twist towards good fortune, the young lovers eventually mending the tattered quilt of adolescent love the product of which is a marriage and a child born of love.

The scene switches to a cheesy St. Petersburg apartment complex parking lot as a sea gull chews the remnants of a late night burrito purchased right up the street. A car drives by and scares the bird as
we're led into the room where the two lovers are arguing about this, that, or the other. It appears that he is enduring yet another Welbutirn induced bout of hysteria. Somehow an abundance of dopamine has misled the foolish youth into believing the best way to bring an end to an enjoyable summer away from the BS awaiting eagerly 17 hours northwest in an Indiana town , was to act in an hysteric fashion in which all rational thought was thrown out the window. His coca mime scheme was to drive her so far away that she left him, alone, lost in a Floridian studio apartment, never to rise above the muck of self loathing and perpetual fear.

Voices are raised to levels near deserving of a domestic disturbance call as the audience begins to realize that the fight is petty, she was frustrated with the stubborn manner in which he latched onto and fed a horribly demented mood. Somehow he has her pinned on the ground and has opened a Corona beer bottle to pour on her head.

"Joshie, what are you doing, no please, leave me alone, please joshie,
no...."

He is immune to her pleads for the fires of disbelief have been fed by little white lies that had long since descended far along the slippery slope. The cold beer leaves the end of the bottle and falls upon her head, washing away any hope that he would release her from his grip.

"You need to be degraded," he boldly stated, " you need to be degraded for being nothing but a lying bitch this entire summer."

Not an ounce of concern is visible on his face as his girlfriend lay there in a puddle of corona on a dirty carpet in a small studio on the pristine St. Petersburg beach. He leaps to his feet and heads out the door to enact a scene in which his "other" personality feels remorse for
having done such a horrible act to any living creature on this planet. Simultaneously the voice of selfish interest stokes the fires which amounted in this evening's unfortunate events. He has accomplished
something by releasing his contempt for his girlfriend in a show of "control." At that moment he was more powerful than she, at that moment he might have been the smallest living creature on the face of the planet, or at least in the contiguous 48 states.

She rises to her feet, washes off her face, throws on a small blue Billabong lid cap, and grabs her cigarettes, lighting up while chasing after him. She's confused, she felt and feels the ultimate connection with this boy and yet he continues to push her away and treat her as if she is worthless. "Well, not worthless but close," was suggested to have been muttered from his mouth to her ear one late night after an all night whiskey and kind bud session of disappearing from life's problems.

The lump which "grew" in her throat the night those words were uttered choked the fountains hope, drying up all glands within and around her mouth and esophagus. She could barely breathe; she could barely believe that this was happening. Not her Joshie, he wouldn't want to hurt his BINK.

The camera fades out and into the local Gourmet Pizza joint to the steaming chicken parmesan pizza upon a red checkered table cloth. Smoke surrounds and envelopes the young couple in a fog as real as that which their minds and the state of their relationship is clouded by.

"You know I love you, it's just that I can't control myself
sometimes, I have a feeling it might be the medicine.“ He always used this as an excuse for his juvenile tirades.

"I know, I just don't understand Joshie, I love you so much it hurts and you treat me as if I'm worthless."

Inside she's screaming, hateful of the way she's treated. She wants to cry the tears of a thousand fears.
She wants to disappear and rematerialize in a world much like this one, only one where sex solidified their bond, where every moment he was inside of her if paused and looped on repeat till the end of time would be her definition of paradise.

stuck in the mud

I’ve checked my email about 15 times today. I wonder if this means I’m lonely, bored, in desperate need of communication and another distraction, frustrated with the security blanket of nine 2 five, suffering from some sever attention deficit disorder, lazy, hungover, or crazy. Maybe I’m a bit of all of the above? Ritalin makes me too wacky and angry. Calm is the state in which solace and certainty are supposed to be found. But how the hell does one decide, once calm, on where to go? For some it must be easier than others. Some might have more discipline, or some might whine less. Some are completely satisfied with monotony, others are so lost in their own mind that boredom is never a state in which they lose themselves. What are you? I know I have no fcuking idea where I fit in the realm, the spectrum of careers that every little boy and girl is encouraged to chase. Be an engineer, they make 50 plus a year coming out of school, they’re respected, they are PROFESSIONALS, they don’t have to worry about finding jobs usually for usually the demand is far greater than the supply. And THEN, once you’ve achieved that, THEN you can chase your dreams. But I have too many dreams, so many that I don’t know which to chase. My mind never stops racing with ideas, each of which are equally amusing, none of which pay bills, although all of which are usually satisfying the moment they snap, crackle and pop across synapses in an explosion of enlightened inspiration. And yours? What drives you? Love? Thirst? Lust? Photography, nursing, architecture, pumping gas, throbbing thighs wrapped around your lover? This shit ain’t easy, this game called life. Entertaining? At times. I’m certainly entertaining moi-meme by expounding upon nothing for the sake of not checking over my drawings for the fiftieth time, or checking my email yet again, wondering why 10,000 people haven’t left messages, insights into meaning in life, into what it means to suffer from delusions of grandeur or difficulty paying attention, into what it means to chase one string to one golden balloon, ignoring fifteen thousand red, yellow, orange, green and blue ones floating in a haze of happiness and certainty. Five minutes have passed and we’ve traveled no-where. We’re stuck in a blood boiling traffic jam on I-290 and the coffee has just spilled on our lap, necks tired from twisting to catch twenty accidents aligning the side of the road, the stereo is stuck on the Moody Bible Station, satan has polluted the earth, the heater’s broken, and we’re nearly out of gas….three more hours until yoga, thank the lord.

Jobe.is.nutz.

www.mutualexchange.org

So two weeks ago, Saturday, found me wandering aimlessly the streets of Chicago, alone, desperately in search of something random and exciting to cross my path, something out of Hollywood, a serendipitous bolt of lightning to strike, or a delicious art-babe to suddenly be in peril and need assistance from a strapping young pseudo-artist once intellectual (ante-weed) mang like myself. And I nearly tripped over a sign leading all who happened to be strolling along Michigan Ave. to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago’s sale of student’s work. As fate would have it, I wandered the aisles, bombarded by brilliant work and dazzling smiles of the cool-hip sexy art kittens pawning their brilliance at rather reasonable prices. I attempted to flirt with a few of the artistes while repeating the newly learned phrase “I’ll be happier when debt free (I.B.H.W.D.F),” to myself. My therapist hopes to change years of destructive thinking through acronyms and inner dialogue. But I digress. The art was amazing. I was inspired to see so many thirsty individuals ready to set the world on fire with the manifestations of their perceptions, their dreams and visions.

One particular scheme which ended up breaking my inner dialogue and causing me to cough up one whole dollar was a non-for profit group by the name of The United Front for the Mutual Exchange of Wishes. The premise is simple…..donate a dollar, receive someone’s wish, create a wish of your own and return that wish to the organization in the self addressed stamped envelope. And yet the scope of this project is ginormous, considering that nearly every rational being on this planet wishes for one thing or another. A quick glance at their website: www.mutualexchange.org, informs eager beavers that the organization is devoted to the understanding of ethics and the cooperative exchange of a mutual favor.

I ended up opening my wish later that evening, postponing piquing my curiosity with the hopes that a revelation of fate was at hand.

And I opened the card to reveal:

I wish I knew where my room key was.

Well I wished that I could have received a wish of more profound significance in the grand scheme of things, but that isn’t the point after all, is it? The next morning I woke up and jotted down the following wishes. I’ve yet to decide on which I’ll send on in an attempt to engage in the cooperative exchange of a mutual favor

…..wishing you a happy friday.

jobe's wish list: 2005

I wish I could hold this moment in the palms of my hands and fill my heart with its purity from now until infinity…..and beyond.

I wish I could hold her close enough that our bodies became one, souls merging into an indistinguishable union of eternal bliss, in the name of the lord, amen.

I wish corruption did not prevent third world nations from rising out the ashes of failed governments, shady contracts, oil for food, and the fattening wallets of greedy pigs.

I wish everyone was able to find meaning in their lives without enduring pain and fear, confusion and tear filled bouts with hopelessness.

I wish the truth were revealed and all men and women were enlightened.

I wish we could contaminate the waters of the middle east with prozac, in an attempt to ease the pain and the delusions, and open their minds to positive change

I wish every child could receive at least one Christmas present this year and feel the gift of grace rush over them as they rip the paper open in anticipation of……..

I wish religious diversity was cherished, that it didn’t provoke century long wars and hatred, in the name of a God who would spank the bottoms of each and everyone who chose war over love, death over companionship, fear over enlightenment, corruption and pollution of society’s lands and minds in the name of their own agenda.

I wish for a thousand pure wishes for each and every human being on the planet.

I wish animals were treated better.

I wish I knew my real father for one day.

I wish for the day I can experience love unparalleled.

Whoisjobe.

shit's on fire.

Traffic was a fcuking bitch today…..fifteen extra minutes of waiting, being bombarded by that incessant beep emanating from the dash, instructing me that the A4 has a broken tail light that can't be fixed by the layman and a trip to Pep-Boys.

And my blood was literally boiling out of my body, evaporating through the skin and heating the confines of the comfortably expensive car……and for what, two stalled cars? Two piece of shit Chevy Bonneville rust-buckets and an IDOT Ambulance flashing yellow lights. You'd think ET had landed, that the aliens were coming to get us and their port of entry was the Cumberland on-ramp for one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city of Chicago. Chicago, people, not Timbuktu Arkansas…..cars stall, people need jumper cables, this type of shit happens everyday….it's the highway, it's rush hour, and you rubbernecks think Pamela Anderson is passing out blow-jobs in the 35 degree weather…Hesus H. Christa!

But I diverge…it's been a good day. A poor girl up in Canada passed on tragically from a peanut allergy earlier this week….and why? Because she kissed her boyfriend in an innocent act of teenage lust, love….god bless her soul...And I'm still alive, able to complain about how much my life sucks while staring out a wall of 13 foot windows at an un-obstructed, million dollar view of the skyline from John Hancock to Sears Roebuck. Woe is me seems to fade easily while calming the dogs in a whirlpool bath-tub situated in 300SF of marble clad sanctuary bliss. My twin decks are killing me softly with subtle bass drops, sexy diva vocals, and jazzy hip-funk deliciousness. Eight thousand quarter finish projects align the shelves and crates scattered amongst the pine wood floor. Ritalin, Wellbutrin, Adderal, Concerta, Focalin…none of modern medicine's legal great speed-balls of decaffeinated fire can calm and redirect my mind…..hence the dot dot dots…and the spaces and abrupt jumps, playing hopscotch through myriad topics which race neck and neck through an overwhelmed consciousness. Troops are dying in IRAQ, yet another travesty of modern times in the year of our lord 2005. President Bush gave a lecture today to the American people: Plan for Victory as opposed to his speech on May 1st, 2003: Mission Accomplished. My brethren are being torn apart by IED's. Limbs hacked off by delusional jihadists, dogs long deprived of the food of hope and good will. Mothers are crying as their sons and daughters are passing on in the name of patriotism and false ideals? I can't understand why, but I have no voice or choice in the matter. All I can do is thank God I didn't join the army and pray for the troops. Luckily only two more years separate American from wizard being booted from office in this multi-billion dollar production of the Wizard of Oz. Except this time the witch doesn't die…this time Dorothy is really fucked…we've crossed over the rainbow and shit's on fire, burning in the hell-fire fundamentalist Christians long spouted as the fate of secularists. We're being left behind while the evangelicals are preparing for Armageddon.

I can hardly make sense of these times…I thought I knew the world when I was younger, had it all figured out. People didn't die, disease didn't destroy lives, families didn't go hungry for days, warm water was always a knobs twist away. But then came media with it's vampires fangs, burying it's teeth deep into my jugular and hypnotizing me with breasts and sex, quick fixes, convenience, wealth, Happiness. And I bought in hard and my mistress revealed herself as the corporate whore she always was…she dropped seven veils in the dance of jezebel, scorching my heart with the sad truth that all is fleeting except self…that the only constants are time and change and the only absolute truth is death.

But why? But why wallow in those shadows, so sure of the reality in which we reside? Why believe the terrorists are out to get us? Why buy into every "As Seen on TV" "Lose 10lbs in 10 Minutes" "Britney Spears cheated on Kevin" throw away, cotton candy rot your soul this is why they hate US magazine? Break the addiction…..break from the ties that bind you…..think outside the box and gain control of your life….Tony Robbins can do it, why can't you?

Because life is hard. Because life isn't one giant grotto full of naked lesbians at Hef's Mansion. The party can't always rage on. People starve. Militants murder. Nations struggle. Fat men eat. And time and history repeats itself. And tomorrow morning, a snow storm’s coming and traffic will halt, as people pause in awe and wonder as they see snowflakes for the first time, and Pamela Anderson will once again be standing naked on the side of the road…..or at least three stories up on a Clear Channel billboard.

Whoisthisjobekid?