Journal created:
on 26 September 2002 (#718990)
Updated:
on 18 November 2007
Name:
Neptune's Knickerbockers
Location:
Cape Cod, Massachusetts, United States
Website:
WAR IS PEACE.
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY.
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.
BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING.
(Don't get it? You haven't read 1984, have you? You really ought to... 'course, I guess you could just pick up a newpaper.)
I am not a writer. I am a poet. My poetry is incoherent and shamelessly self serving, and thus, I write prose; not because I enjoy the act, not because it gives me any great pleasure to do so, but because I am, like the sincerest of writers, compelled by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, perhaps even obligation, to record what I, an ultimately insignificant poet, call reality on this God forsaken planet.
On March 9, 1984 a great Nor' Easter assailed the small costal town of Falmouth, Massachusetts. The earth, the sky, and everything in between were shrouded in a pure and silent white. Snowstorms are surreal to me. So is the town of Falmouth. Like a dream that refuses to yeild up the secrets you're certain it possesses, but leads you through summer scented fields and down dark allies aching for some abstraction to make it all tangible. Nothing tangible ever came out of Falmouth. I would know. I was born on that snowy morning just shy of spring, with all the fury of that storm to welcome me home.
But it has been said that "if you want to understand any woman, you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully." These words ring truer than ever. I have often contemplated the twists and turns of my own life, which, when compared with the lives of the mundane median of humanity, may even be considered remarkable. I have often wondered if I shouldn't record the events of said life in a definitive manner, more concise than the scribbled blathering that appears in my journals. I have sat, innumerable times, before a blank page, pen in hand, attempting to chronicle a life that, until this very day, I could not see in its entirety. I could not see that the story of my life began long before my own birth- before my mother's even. For unlike most of my generation, I recognize that I do not exist independent of ancestors. I am endlessly grateful for this context, as far back as I can trace it. And so I challenge the above quotation, for if it is true, this will serve as the most accurate narrative of who and what I am. It may even lend some insight to the matter of who and what I shall become. And even if none but myself has interest in either of those subjects, I write for all of the others I have been. For even aside from who I was and who I shall become, I have been many things.
On matters of consequence, I fear my ideals differ greatly from those of your average mortal. For, like Antioine de Saint Exupreys Neptune guided little prince, I too come from a far off planet, where there exists the most beautiful rose in all creation, which I have seen, and loved with my whole being. I remember it with tenderness and miss it painfully- it is that to which I long to return- or to whom.... for even as I sit here, longing for such a reunion, I am not quite certain of the pronoun. Is it a person? or merely a concept... a dream?
So here I am on some kind of selfless teaching trip. The hand that penned those painful words are barely 20 years old, but my dear, they do communicate the inner workings of a soul that is old to the point of exhaustion! Some part of me has journeyed beyond horizons of such unearthly beauty that they tear at my heart when I dare revisit them, even in dreams.
Now it has finally become difficult to bear reality as it appears on this plane of existence, knowing that the real "original sin" is in seeing, in recgonizing sadness and ugliness when our creators concived and manifested only harmony and beauty. Listen carefully now- somewhere deep in your subconcious- do you not hear the ancient cry of exhiled Tibetan monks, whose chants still echo across the vaulted ceilings of their abandoned monasteries-
this is the world of illusion
this is the world of illusion....
"The only people for me are the mad ones,
the ones who are mad to live,
mad to talk,
mad to be saved,
desirous of everything at the same time,
the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,
but burn,
burn,
burn,
like fabulous yellow roman candles..."
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road
"The author isn't altogether certain that there is any such thing as exaggeration. Our brains permit us to utilize such a wee portion of their resources that, in a sense, everything we experience is a reduction. We employ drugs, yogic techniques and poetics- and a thousand more clumsy methods- in an effort just to bring things back up to normal."
-Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
Save The World - One Click At A Time!
On each of these websites, you can click a button to support the cause -- each click creates funding, and costs you nothing! Bookmark these sites, and click once a day!
Click here to post this on your page or 'blog
I proudly maintain the
hauntedcapecod community as well as newengland_ue -'cause I'm just that weird.
Jeff Buckley is love.
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY.
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.
BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING.
(Don't get it? You haven't read 1984, have you? You really ought to... 'course, I guess you could just pick up a newpaper.)
I am not a writer. I am a poet. My poetry is incoherent and shamelessly self serving, and thus, I write prose; not because I enjoy the act, not because it gives me any great pleasure to do so, but because I am, like the sincerest of writers, compelled by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, perhaps even obligation, to record what I, an ultimately insignificant poet, call reality on this God forsaken planet.
On March 9, 1984 a great Nor' Easter assailed the small costal town of Falmouth, Massachusetts. The earth, the sky, and everything in between were shrouded in a pure and silent white. Snowstorms are surreal to me. So is the town of Falmouth. Like a dream that refuses to yeild up the secrets you're certain it possesses, but leads you through summer scented fields and down dark allies aching for some abstraction to make it all tangible. Nothing tangible ever came out of Falmouth. I would know. I was born on that snowy morning just shy of spring, with all the fury of that storm to welcome me home.
But it has been said that "if you want to understand any woman, you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully." These words ring truer than ever. I have often contemplated the twists and turns of my own life, which, when compared with the lives of the mundane median of humanity, may even be considered remarkable. I have often wondered if I shouldn't record the events of said life in a definitive manner, more concise than the scribbled blathering that appears in my journals. I have sat, innumerable times, before a blank page, pen in hand, attempting to chronicle a life that, until this very day, I could not see in its entirety. I could not see that the story of my life began long before my own birth- before my mother's even. For unlike most of my generation, I recognize that I do not exist independent of ancestors. I am endlessly grateful for this context, as far back as I can trace it. And so I challenge the above quotation, for if it is true, this will serve as the most accurate narrative of who and what I am. It may even lend some insight to the matter of who and what I shall become. And even if none but myself has interest in either of those subjects, I write for all of the others I have been. For even aside from who I was and who I shall become, I have been many things.
On matters of consequence, I fear my ideals differ greatly from those of your average mortal. For, like Antioine de Saint Exupreys Neptune guided little prince, I too come from a far off planet, where there exists the most beautiful rose in all creation, which I have seen, and loved with my whole being. I remember it with tenderness and miss it painfully- it is that to which I long to return- or to whom.... for even as I sit here, longing for such a reunion, I am not quite certain of the pronoun. Is it a person? or merely a concept... a dream?
So here I am on some kind of selfless teaching trip. The hand that penned those painful words are barely 20 years old, but my dear, they do communicate the inner workings of a soul that is old to the point of exhaustion! Some part of me has journeyed beyond horizons of such unearthly beauty that they tear at my heart when I dare revisit them, even in dreams.
Now it has finally become difficult to bear reality as it appears on this plane of existence, knowing that the real "original sin" is in seeing, in recgonizing sadness and ugliness when our creators concived and manifested only harmony and beauty. Listen carefully now- somewhere deep in your subconcious- do you not hear the ancient cry of exhiled Tibetan monks, whose chants still echo across the vaulted ceilings of their abandoned monasteries-
this is the world of illusion
this is the world of illusion....
"The only people for me are the mad ones,
the ones who are mad to live,
mad to talk,
mad to be saved,
desirous of everything at the same time,
the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,
but burn,
burn,
burn,
like fabulous yellow roman candles..."
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road
"The author isn't altogether certain that there is any such thing as exaggeration. Our brains permit us to utilize such a wee portion of their resources that, in a sense, everything we experience is a reduction. We employ drugs, yogic techniques and poetics- and a thousand more clumsy methods- in an effort just to bring things back up to normal."
-Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
On each of these websites, you can click a button to support the cause -- each click creates funding, and costs you nothing! Bookmark these sites, and click once a day!
Click here to post this on your page or 'blog
I proudly maintain the
hauntedcapecod community as well as newengland_ue -'cause I'm just that weird.Jeff Buckley is love.
(almost) attaining enlightenment, 23, abandoned places, absinthe, accidental discordianism, adventures, art with integrity, artichokes, attics, august and everything after, bare feet, beatles, being a starfish, bloody god damned insomnia, blowing bubbles the city, bodhisattvas, bohemia, bonfires, celebrating the universe, cherry cloves, civil disobedience, cloudy antique mirrors, compassion, compelling photography, cultural creatives, culture jamming, dancing with reckless abandon, defining "god", dharma bums, dimly lit coffee shops, dirt roads, driving too damn fast, embracing eccentricity, exploring, feeling perpetually lost, feminism, festivals, fields, finding neil fucking cassidy, fireflies, fluffernutter, freeing tibet, frida kahlo, ghosts, gin, giving a damn, glamourbombing, good books, googly eye-ing ad posters, guerilla theatre, gypsies, harold and maude, heart to hearts, hopeless romantics, hr puffinstuff, independent films, jeff buckley, justice, knowledge, la chupacabra, lace, lady slippers, laughter, lawn gnomes, le petit prince, legends, lilacs, live music, living deliberately, lost shoes, lurking about in graveyards, mad men, magic, mead, meaning-to-do-more-yoga, merry pranksters, midgetville, midsummer, mist, moons, moss, mountains, mushrooms, my exempt card, neptune, nostalgia, nudity, old souls, operation mindfuck, organic food, ostriches being hilarious, overthrowing that shit, passion, perfumed love letters, personal mythologies, phosphorescent jellyfish, piercing the veil, pillows, pisces people, poetic terrorism, poking things with sticks, political activism, progressive minds, prophets, psychology, railroad tracks, revolution, road trippin', rooftop euphoria, saving the world, sepia ink-stained fingers, seven weeping sisters, sexually deviant penguins, skinnydipping in the ocean, social change, socialism that works, solstices, space ghost c2c, spiral staircases, stained glass, starry eyes, subverting the dominant paradigm, surfing, swingset stargazing, synchronicity, taking myself less seriously, tea, the last unicorn, theology, things other people miss, thunder storms, tree peepers, troubadours, truth, twilight, uncle jerry’s slide guitar, understanding, underwood typewriters, uneasy idealism, urban exploration, vegetarianism, velvet, vintage clothes, watching yellow submarine stoned, water, weeping willows, wisdom, wit, writing inane prose, zenarchy
