AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: the end of.. DATE: 3/09/2005 11:22:00 AM ----- BODY:
this is the last post for spare change. i think a new home for my thoughts will help it bluster to some new regions unknown. pax dharma. ciao.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 2/17/2005 04:16:00 PM ----- BODY:
I saw two men on the subway yesterday night and they were funny. Tall and skinny fellow was sitting erect, eyes boggling and poring over the faded magazine, folded legs with shined boots caressing the grimy floor. Eyes sliding left to right in their slitted grooves, their rapid fire intensity accentuated the the burrowed eyebrows, creased into the deep crevasses of his broad forehead, glinting pale underneath the glowering subway lights. One empty seat away slouched Tall and Skinny'sTweedle-dum. His red sweatshirt folded over a rotund belly that gasped for air and a pair of jeans scruffed and muddied. Slackened jaw. His eyes that stared at nothing, at the millions of nobodies that stood in the empty possibilities of the swaying car, at the instant replay of his uneventful day and the tired night that was to come, at the walls of New York expectations come crumbling down and the thousand of voices from a fed up generation of rabble rousers, rising up against the dull mediocrity of a conventional life. Hair like wheat matted over and legs splayed out. Oh the delirousness of a hazed-induced New Yorked night.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Something to do DATE: 1/15/2005 03:04:07 PM ----- BODY:

If my friends are now bankers and doctors and lawyers – engineers and account executives and consultants and real estate developers and business owners, what can I be?

Dot-com researcher, without knowing anything. Litigation consultant, without trying anything. Banker, without living at all. But all that ca$h! Break. Jumpstart, jump jumplivinglibertyclimb-swim-dive-walk-release. Unemployed, without motivation at all. Advertising producer, without understanding at all. Banker again, greed-moneyconfusionpride---thrill, without truth at all. But the ca$h! Website developer, social networking evangelist, salesperson, project manager, hired worker, uninspired businessperson, temporary recruit, without regret at all, without glory at all, without money or creativity at all. With time. Time to think to decide to move.

A policy maker? A social entrepreneur? … A writer. Without guilt without motivation without assurances, at all. Just a need.

-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: one more day DATE: 1/14/2005 03:02:08 PM ----- BODY:

Williamsburg. Billsburg. Tip-toeing on the edge of Brooklyn, the motherfuckin’ cooler stepchild of Manhattan. I never thought I’d move out of Manahttan. But here I am, saddled with a less paying job of my own choosing, with roommates in a sort-of barrio, 5 minutes across the river and a thousand miles away from my previous year/life/thoughts/self. I’m living in hipster central, in the nexus of a Manhattan-derived inferiority complex, trying to show those braggarts how cooler life is here. Low rising tenements and shops and pubs and boutiques-cafes-grocerystores run by immigrants jostle for position among sad forlorn sidewalks splashed by bits of graffiti (gorgeous renditions, actually, from jumbled and disturbed geniuses). The streets are cracked and places to frequent are frequently spaced apart. But there’s a wine shop around the corner and a take-out Chinese place with $4 hot dinners.

I talk to people less now. Probably because my cell phone does not work – my place is located awesomely just underneath ground on the first floor so that it’s out of reach for Verizon (great service!) networks. But even so, I talk less to people now, divided by the invisible wall that is the Williamsburg Bridge. I enjoy this new freedom. Unencumbered by social obligations and the distractions of city lights and city life I can hear my thoughts again. It’s like my brain has been released from the vise of trying-things, of schedules crammed with eating out and drinking out and lazy nothings.

And the first thing I noticed was that my thoughts were starved for ways to express themselves. Words, for so long, have been escaping from my mind. In the city, talking had elbowed thinking out of the way. Talking with clients about work --- the meaningless chatter of sales, talking with friends about the same shit and concerns... my dialogue was a game of round-robin… round and round of repeated concerns and regurgitated plans and recycled dreams. Any newness, any creativity was suffocated by my lack of words. Talking simplified thoughts. It relies on habitual use of words/phrases/slang. Shortcuts are made because a steady stream of sounds is needed in good conversations. My want to recognize dharma in my life: to experience the lush thrill of joyous thanksgiving and wonder and excitement/expectations for things to come and the things that are here and now --- seeping into my pores at this very moment; to revel in the simplicity of my life, of waking each day and feeling samsara course through my body, to love and be loved and feel that it’s enough, that breathing is enough, that eating a bowl of cereal in my PJs is enough, that making music, making stories, and making art is enough… those thoughts were crushed underneath the weight of my talking too much. Those thoughts were marginalized and expressed as “I want something more.” Something more? Of course I wanted something more!

But now, across from the concrete jungle of the “greatest city in the world”, perspective comes back. My brain has time to reflect, to react, to question and to want again. The coffeehouses aren’t that far apart. And there are great cheap ethnic restaurants. And people here say “Hi” one another. They smile! And they’re working on movie scripts and digital art projects and new additions to photography galleries. It’s a poorer life for sure, but so far, it’s a truer life. It’s a meager life -- it’s a fuller life.

-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Marvelous... city? DATE: 1/13/2005 04:59:20 AM ----- BODY:

The trip to Rio is a big unknown. Since deciding to go 8 months ago, I’ve pushed it out of site/out of mind until now. Asked for time off last week and got it after some bull-shitting. “It’s a present from my GF, ya know, and well, she’s leaving NY in the summer and this is our last trip together --- I know, it’s 11 days, but I can check emails at night and.. and I won’t be completely gone.” And so it’s now in ink, etched into some future memories of mine (as well as the office calendar): Rio and Carnaval and the temptations of the southern Continent. Girls in fio dentals covering their asses and beaches surrounded by mountains, punctuated by opaled lakes and the freedoms of a people infused by a thousand different genealogies.

I bought a guide the other day and asked some people about this city Marvelosa. “Ever seen City of God? The movie?” – “Nope” – “Well, watch it.” Then the email from Vinicio, who’s planning the trip from his outpost in Chile. “Stay in the tourist areas when you get there and wait for me. Don’t bring a camera on the streets. They’ll kill ya for your sneakers. Don’t be adventurous and try to explore the favelas. Don’t wear jewelry or nice clothes. Take cabs! We’re gonna have a lot of fun!”

What the fuck.

Another person and another story. “Yeah, I was in a group of guys backpacking through the city and we were getting on a public bus. A group of guys came up to us and demanded all our stuff -- By the way, don’t carry anything valuable on ya. Keep your credit cards at home. Take, like $15 and divide it between your pockets and socks. Don’t take your IDs with ya. You have a nice SLR? Don’t pack that. Actually, don’t even wear your watch. If you have some crummy watch, that’s ok. So anyways, we all handed our stuff to this gang except for this Brit. And now, we were pretty big guys, so the Brit was acting tough for these young punks. And he had in his backpack a video camera. And all the people on the bus, the locals, were saying, ‘Give them the bag, give them the bag! Don’t mess with them! And the look in their eyes were wide open with… something. And this was on a public bus!”

“If you go swimming on the beaches --- and fuckin’ Jesus Christ, they’re amazing... and the girls!—if all of you go in the water, they’ll just rifle through your stuff man...Oh yeah, and down Impanema and Copacabana, ya know, the touristy spots during Carnaval, if you see hot college looking chicks, and they’re fuckin’ hot man, they’re all prostitutes. You’re going with your GF? Well, tell the guys you’re with... they’re all for sale -- but don’t do it cause it can get you in some nasty shit. But the beaches man… they’re real nice. Check out Barra – it’s pronounced ‘Baja’, double r’s are like the Spanish ‘j’. All the locals go there and it’s really great…”

So I’m reading the guide and thinking, “What the fuck.” I’ve traveled to a lot of places but have never heard the amount of caution reserved for Rio. Can’t be worse than Cambodia or Thailand, can it? I mean, these are just tourists talking. Every city has its shady spots. What about Carnaval? The Bacchanalian festival of Whatever the Fuck we Wanna Do we’ll Do It? The colors and the women and the food? The jungles rising from the mountains and the blue sweeping ocean stretching out from the curving beaches? The history plus architecture? I’ve heard so many good things about Rio before I hunkered down and looked at the logistics. There are those good qualities too, right?

Put on a backpack and grab my boots – everything will be fine and lovely and beyond stupendous, darling.

-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: the images of music DATE: 1/10/2005 10:25:20 PM ----- BODY:
it's a brisk new york january night. i walk past the pink and yellow and blue glowing stores - past the warm huddled masses of dreamers and wanters behind oak counters sipping their lattes, their venetian coffees and their earl grays. tonight i don't notice them as much cause i see myself, 7 or 8 years ago, in my red corolla winding my way around the empty streets with the boys of Texas. the Ipod is set on random and a tune washes to the shores of my forgetting. DJ Sammy - Summer "i'm driving by your house, tho I know you're not home and i can tell you my love for you can still be strong after the boys of summer have gone" [cue effervescent pop dance beats] the words don't mean much to me, they're vapid and meaningless. but the music, the music calls out and it's high school again. i'm struck at the oddness of it all. i'm listening to the most common of music compositions: regular drumbeats mimicking the heartbeat, regular lyrics copying the stupidities of youth, and regular melodies evoking nothing but the most basic of teenage thoughts. the singer's voice was impetuous and undeveloped. but yet somehow, i'm caught -- the song washes over years of growth and rips away the layers of college discoveries and adult dissappointments. and i'm back in 1996, dancing to euro technobeats that were so popular with the asian kids in school. i'm back to a time of indiscretions devoid of real consequeneces, of fun in its raw form, of silly high school romances and sillier declarations of forever and ever. and it's great. before the greendays and brubeck and weezerness. i'm walking past the blinking streetlights, far past the waning day and into the untouched years of remembering, where everything was possible because possibilities have yet to be fully grasped. i'm there - with mary and lionel and quyen and lisa - with college brimming full of grand goals and a life of romance and penthouses and promises of fulfillment. it's funny why i like techno: not for it's inherent value but for its ability to unlock my long forgotten treasured memories. i can tell you my love for you will still be strong after the boys of summer have go-ne.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: it's been a rainy week DATE: 1/07/2005 01:46:59 AM ----- BODY:
Wow. I read that last post and what a maroon. What a schmuck. What loads of crap was that? Am I that sniveling and cliched? I sound like a college advertisement. Actually, more like a community college ad, half torn and scratched up on a subway during rush hour, something no one takes seriously at but because it's such a sad state of hilarity and tripe, you can't help but notice. "I want to be inspired, excited, successful.." Pffft. "I'll go get a fuckin college degree and accounting and come out and be a corporate drone so I can succeed! And then maybe I'll get to don the uniform of the elite -- blue shirts and gray slacks and rise above the proletariat... have a corner cubicle and work on intellectually stimulating things.. like financial models and the Internet and policy!" Yeah. I came to work early Monday morning, before all the goobers got there when it's silent and I can feel samsara coming on, when the city is still drowsy from its work and revelry and crazed sex the night before --- I came cause I wanted to be alone, without roomates and co-workers and the nagging worries of an involved life. My office is constructed out of glass. Glass walls, glass windows, glass doors. But I had never looked through the glass before, never really looked outside. A slight drizzle was tapping against a window on the south side and a glimmer of light was shining through. It was just the right time of the day, where the haze of the morning can be seen elbowing through between the ashen clouds. The view is amazing. I'd never looked at the buildings outside before. Never looked up at the concrete trees before. Never really saw the utopian neoclassical friezes nor the sweeping curves of the baroque facades; never saw the gargoyles sleeping on the roofs and the praying steeples of the gothic cathedrals. I've worked here 8 months and have never really looked out the window. Ever since coming back from traveling around Oceania, I've never really looked. Didn't think to notice. The city waking up reminds me of the mountains waking up. The sun casts the same shimmer over both concrete walls and granite slopes. I saw the adjacent building turned gold then tangerine and then pink - cascading joybreathlessdharma(awe) into the canyons below -- where ants are slowly beginning to march, up from the tunnels of the N/R/Q/W. Oh, if I only had my backpack and no entanglements. I walked to lunch today. Didn't want to order in. It was sleeting outside, slightly, but wrap on my scarf and slide into my mittens and everything was ok with the world again. I walked to a pizzeria and ordered spaghetti. Everyone walks so fast in the city, head down, weaving between carts and traffic signals and manholes and a thousand lives crashing together but never meeting. I wanted to slow down and absorb everything. Slow down and see the city. I wanted to love the honking cabs and the glittering shops - the manic movements of delivery boys and the sashaying of girls in their designer coats. It was fucking cold. And my meeting was in five minutes. I walked back to the office -- head down and straight ahead. Through illimitable saints and countless fallen souls.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: the book of samsara DATE: 1/05/2005 11:26:36 PM ----- BODY:
Some people achieve illumination when they're young, fresh to the battered and wearied world. Others grow old and touch the glimmer on their deathbeds. And some, like me, search for it, tantalize by the promise of knowing, touched by it like the melting of the sun on your face. It so happens that I'm wriggling out of the cocoon at the age of 25. Quarter-life and I'm finally beginning to see, to have the courage to realize what's always there. I don't want to go against the tide. I want to be satisfied in what I have, because I have more than what a lot of people have. A great job. Enough money. A place to live. But yet, there's this dull pain. A frustration. A tumor of want spreading in my insides. I can't help but feel the movement towards something other than what's here and now. There's got to be more to living then making money, earning enough to live, to purchase. Self worth is not measured in things. I seemingly have everything a person can have in their twenties. Good friends, good potential, good health. But I want more. I see friends settling down and working their way to greater positions and salaries and living standards. And I don't see the meaning in it all. I'm happy for them, the ones that have started businesses and will have made their millions in the next few years --- but yet, I can't be happy for myself. I see myself in 10 years, with a place of my own, with a senior position at a company somewhere, with family and the comforts of the 21st century... and I find no meaning in it. And still I'm looking for the grace of satisfaction, of being proud and happy with what my life is. 2005 was a year of stalling. If I didn't think about what I'm doing, maybe the questions will go away. But they didn't, and a job change and the acceptance of my place in the City didn't fill the gaping hole inside. So 2006? It'll be a crazy year. A breakout year from 20 years of thinking a certain way and behaving a certain way. What people feel is important is not so important to me. It only took my 25 years to find that out. To accept. I want to feel the joy of creating, of teaching and helping others. I want the excitement of new faces and places and ideas. I want the fulfillment of growing and learning, of self-completion. I certainly don't know how things will turn out, but maybe it's time to turn inwards and see who I am --- and not see who I should be.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: dammit to hell DATE: 9/13/2004 03:48:22 PM ----- BODY:
so my friend, that punkass kid, just informed me that he is going to the SI Swimsuit shoot in Honduras for the next week. yeah. that punkass kid. sitting at home cause he found it convenient to quit his banking job (not that i blame him), playing ball and going to the gym everday, is gonna be in the same suite and on the same beaches and at the same lunch tables as scantily clad gorgeous supermodels.. the most beautiful women on earth. yeah. that scrawny ass no good punkass is gonna talk and oggle at these lovely creatures all week. and he's not paying for the trip cause SI is covering the tab. just cause his girlfriend is a journalist for Sports Illustrated.. and she's cool enough to take his fat ass along. Dammit. some people have all the luck. fuckin eh. at least he'll take lots of pictures for me and maybe introduce his buddy to some people when he gets back.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: all things considered DATE: 9/12/2004 09:16:13 PM ----- BODY:

There is impermanence to all things. I can live in this city and be happy. Running with my dog in the park. Beagle? First dog? No, a labrador. Big but not stupid. Strong but not overwhelming. Autumn in Central Park. An apartment with an elevator. Yes, I can settle in this city and go out from Thursday to Saturday, jog on Sunday mornings, and lounge in the afternoons. A big living room with a rug and the paintings that are framed. She is nowhere in sight. What of it? Job that pays in time -- sands floating in its own flesh. Evanescence be dammed. I can stay in this city and meet new people all the same. What’s the use of going anywhere when everywhere comes to you? Fall becomes winter becomes spring and summer returns. Can someone ever really change? Lucretious or Ovid --- does the wax really ever change with the seals when you still know that it’s wax---gooey and metamorphosing. Ovid. Nothing ever really changes despite the intransigence thrust upon us. Do soulmates happen or do they occur. One at a time once upon a time. There was her, but she was changing also, see?

When all things have run its course will I have changed? More importantly, will it have mattered, at all? Wine grows better with age but humans, we grow weaker with time. That is the ultimate joke.

There was a time, far back, where everything was the afternoon and the afternoon was only green and pale. Pale pale blue of the village sky stretching into the illimitable distance. Into the oblivion of being and forgetting. You’ll be safe here—don’t run off, okay? Yes mom, I promise.. can I just stand here and watch the cars in the road? Come as they may, one by one, sometimes in two, all disappearing into the unequivocal silent distance. Mattering wasn't spoken and importance hadn't been learned. It was all the same if you haven’t really thought about it. Clouds crashed into the land and the dark grass brushed the pale blue face. Wait here while I go get the fish ok? Catfish and trout. Buxom and thin and round and flat fish, flopping in their barrels, silvery scales brushing swish swash, eyes wide open -- while women in dark dresses called out their doom. No, no that’s too much. Lower, I’ll only pay that much. Fine, fine, I don’t need fish for tonight --- let’s go, son. Now, run along, you go play at the edge and don’t stray yes? And the road blurred into the everything of being. Gray, winding, and undulating, caressing the bosom of the still innocent earth. I can smell the ending of day, the musky odor of the afternoon wind hovering through the village stalls; meats and poultry and their bloody aroma, fish and their signatures from the sea, vegetables coming from the gripping hands of dirt and steaming stews of star anise, the musk of garlic and tang of lemon and slow cooked broth and pungent fish sauce. The wind gripped me and held me in that lost moment of my life, that cocoon where emptiness deleted emotion, where life ceased to tug and pull and ask you questions. Being four years old and having the world opened to you and you not knowing it was the most wonderful time of my life. It was the long tall stalks of the uncut grass that I remember. And the thatched roofs of the village market, set among the highway that ran to eternity. Oh that country, where innocence was lost to war but redeemed each day, each minute by the sheer determination and will of its people to continue. To live without remembering because remembering was too real. We all lived in a dream world. We were all four.

Can we all be young? Can we hold on to our youths as our bodies decay, one cell at a time, each second bringing us closer to the impermanence of death? I don’t know what propels me to continue, to travel on; perhaps it is the desire to resist, to rebel against the comic circumstances in which our frailty is always reminded. Tick tock. The seconds pass by and each moment, I am reminded that we are all sons and daughters of time. Fuck you God, prankster, trickster, beguiling us with the promise of better things that never come. To exist, only to know that we will not continue to exist is the cruelest joke. It is the greatest joke to be ever played in this insignificant universe, born by chance and willed on by nothing. Months blur into years and years disappear with the passing of days. So I travel on and mask my fears in the distraction of new scents and sounds and bodies. Continents are mere land masses crashing into each other, reflections of smaller bodies and their lives. If there is any magic in this world, it is the empty space, the non-physical and purely divine connection that exists between two bodies. The existential Look, the hedonistic touch, the energy that flows between souls of different temperaments and feelings…

Was that it? she sat up and looked at me. She pulled up her underwear. Crimson lace and dark nipples erect still. I looked down at the fuzz between her legs, matted and askew. I guide her hands towards mine and leave the silk cloth on the couch, cool from the brush of air conditioning. I kiss her on the mouth and tried to taste her desire, my desire to remember the instant moment when our souls left our bodies and crashed into each other. She had given herself to me. Salty and sweet and fumbling all the same. She fucking gave herself because you can’t get what you don’t give. Was that it? Fuck. My first time and she is still looking at me. She kissed me again, hoping to revive the already depleted energy. Grab the air, if you can, I wanted to say. Hold the air in you hand, cause that’s what you really want. Hurry, cause that thin strand of life is vanishing. I remember my first time. I remember her eyes more than the electric physical ecstasy --- cause her eyes were shooting out webs --- false webs that tried to imitate---imitate the thrill, the magic and wonder of sex in all its innocence.. where she was trying to make me live and I was living through her and inside of her. Fuck. Everything is impermanent. Transgience....


-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: separate similarities DATE: 7/15/2004 12:22:51 PM ----- BODY:
So the candidates are plunging into the Midwest to scour for votes. Presumably the Democrats are getting the coasts and Republicans are securing the South. That leaves the interior states. Bush is accusing Kerry of trying to be a conservative while Edwards, on his first solo trip, is homing in his shared values and humble roots with the very same people. Shouldn’t the politicians bring the country together? Instead of focusing on our differences (urban populations are forward thinking/immoral and suburbia-country populations are moral/backward thinking), shouldn’t we emphasize the common goals that we all have? Physical security, personal liberties, the ability to take care of our families? Why all the smokescreens? Politics is a joke.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Dollars and Sense DATE: 7/12/2004 03:16:40 PM ----- BODY:
By my calculation, if I paid rent this month, I will have roughly $200 in my bank account. In New York, that’s a cheap date. Two years of banking, and it comes down to this? While my friends are buying apartments and cars and boats and whatever else it is, I’m worried about the rent. Go figure. I am spending entirely way beyond my earning bracket. It’s something I’ve never been good at, this spending thing. I always spend on a deficit, always waiting for that trickle down. Unfortunately, I don’t really spend at all that much on the everyday stuff for myself. It’s usually for other people. Really. Birthday presents and drinks and lunches can add up. Not that I’m complaining (well yes a little bit) ex facto. I’m complaining because I know that I’ll have to curb my spending from now on if I want to take off in two years. I’ll have to go out less – and by going out I mean to the places that my peers go to for the sole purpose of blowing wads of cash – I’ll go to the free shows and whatnot. No more restaurants and those nice Sunday brunches. Movies? At $10 a pop, they’re not exactly the way I remembered them either. Clubs, bars, concerts, shows? Ha. I suppose that’s it. My conception of reality is really fucked up compared to what reality is. Especially in the realm of money. I’ve always been fortunate enough to have a job that masked my inability to be cost efficient. After all, with a $40-$65K year-end bonus, I can afford to spend beyond my means during the year. Now all those lessons from Dad are catching up to me. Gasp. I’ll actually have to watch what I buy, what I eat, where I go and whom I hang out with. It’s somewhat frightening, to see your buying/living power so close to zero. Zero. Like the masked executioner, the silent grim reaper, zero is grotesquely frightening – so permanent and resolute. I hit that zero and it’s like crashing into a wall. I reach that zero and it means I’ve failed. I can’t handle myself. I’m not mature enough to be independent, too naive to succeed in the real world, too emotional to constrain myself – too undisciplined to be responsible. It’s the ultimate male fear of inadequacy (besides the other one). I can’t provide for myself. If I can’t do that, how can I provide for anyone else? Oh fuck it. Ramen and rice ain’t that bad. It’s funny how three years out of college and I’m learning to live like a student all over again.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: 16 minutes DATE: 6/11/2004 04:37:50 PM ----- BODY:
Ok. Stop it already. Stop. Stop supporting, stop buying, stop paying attention. You. Yes, you, stop. It's done already -- stop adding stupidity to the world - stop contributing to our worsening gene pool, stop giving the spotlight to all this crap. Stop letting these losers continue on their rampage! Vin Diesel - ok, your voice makes you sound tough. We get it. You're a tough guy with big muscles. But do you think that putting out crap like this justifies your existence in hollywood? your movies are worse than that fucking car alarm that goes off below my window every morning at 6 am. It's like reading a manual on how to use the phone. worse than that. just stop. stop making dumb movies. stop letting people use your steroided muscles to serve up big piles of shitty movies to us any more. we get it. you're that fierce misunderstood outsider who's gonna save the day - and blow up half the set in the meantime. William Hung - Stop. Stop putting out albums You were funny cause you sucked at singing. But to get rewarded for your self-delusions.... What the fuck is wrong with all these people who buy your album? Are they retards? Seriously. You can't sing. You can't dance. You make a mockery of music... you're like the joker that doesn't know whne his time's up... yeah yeah, it's so funny that even though you're a loser you get all these records deals blah blah.. you're such an inspiration to other people... inspiration for what? for being losers? are we so insecure and lazy that we reward people who suck? who suck with a smile? who cares? you still suck Hung - stop putting your grins out there. smile, go do your engineering like you want... and stop all the publicity stunts... stop feeding the ignoramuses who will keep buying your god-awful music. And to all the others: Ashton, Ashlee, Paris, Bow-Wow, Dubya and Dick.. just stop. Stop sucking. Stop lowering all of our collective IQs. Please. For the love of God.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: quilted DATE: 6/09/2004 09:39:50 PM ----- BODY:
i've noticed that only small dogs bark for no apparent reason other than to show that they're there too.(well, yap is more like it). and they bark at both smaller dogs and big dogs -- the big dogs usually don't notice these little yapping dogs. is it just the kids with nothing to say that make a big racket of saying nothing? seems to me that people with actual things to say only say it when they need to, and that's saying something. i love new york. came home from having a photoshoot with jun on the 1/9 train and there was a pretty good band playing at the 42nd station. the girl had a warbly voice - beats creed and blink182 and whatever the hell is on the top40 any day. i love the gorgeous girls of new york in their tank tops and hip hugging pants. their oversized sunglasses and their bronzed complexions. the loungers on sidewalks, the cafe crowd, the skateboarders, the upper westside moms, the graffiti artists... what happens when you think the person that may be the right one is maybe the right one except not for now? do you do something? do you let go knowing that is a forever goodbye? or do you work it out and hope that you're a better person than you are now? am i too old to have crushes? yet to young to have innocent crushes that knowingly are just that...
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: more odds than ends DATE: 5/13/2004 12:32:12 PM ----- BODY:
Is anyone surprised anymore at the sheer stupidity of the Bush administration? I'm incredulous at the actions / inactions of Bush-Cheney-Rummy axis. Squandering away world goodwill, lack of plan for postwar Iraq, lack of plan for economy, lack of plan for the abuse pictures, lack of plan lack of plan lack of plan. They're like the bullies I knew from grade school - they don't have good answers for mistakes, making leaps of judgment by ignoring the issues, and repeating the same stupid mantra over and over again. We get it. Rid the world of terrorism. With you or against you. Americans. Rah rah. "So, what happened at Abu Graihb?" - Huh. We're Americans. What do you think war is? Let soldiers be soldiers civlian. "So, where's the evidence between Al Quaeida and Saddam again? - Huh. Evil terroooorists. "So, we're in a mess now, soldiers are being killed, the Iraqis hate us as occupiers and oil is sky high..." - Huh. We're making the world safer. "But.. the world isn't safer cause not only are our enemies hating us more, but our allies don't really want to be associated with us...." - Huh. We're making the world safer, daggumit. Are yooou with the terrorists? We're right. We're on the right track. Bringing democracy.. yeeeah. "So..." - I believe what I believe and what I believe... is that we're making the world safer from the eviiil terrorists. Eviiiil. Ok, this is over. I have to go play with my dog.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: morning commute DATE: 5/03/2004 10:30:24 PM ----- BODY:
mornings suck when you're stuck waiting for the express 2/3 train and when it comes, there's no space to get on after some old lady pushes out of the way with her cane and then you have to wait for the next train to come, and when it does it's so crammed with people but you push on anyways and squeeze in... and for the next five minutes you're face is in some guy's pits, or if you turn around, you're smack dab next to a moldy jacket or someone's morning breath. and then you change to the N/R and get on the wrong train cause they switch the express/local lines. not to mention that it's raining and humid outside... so it's cold enough for a light jacket but definitely hot enough so you're uncomfortable in the said light jacket.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: leap DATE: 5/03/2004 10:16:56 PM ----- BODY:
new job new place. faces and dreams, refigured examined dissected. life is too short too sweet, too melodious not to love. i wanted to live and not to dream, to act and not ponder. walk the talk and freely see. leaving banking (with all of its gory prestige and rewards) was a no-brainer, no looking back, no regrets. i was indecisive, yes... but for the years that i was in banking, i felt like i wasn't living in reality... that i was play acting a part, and that my future... those dreams of wealthy independence, of excess wealth and the love of things that money can give, they were all a part of me but not me. like i was living in a shadow world. and so leaving aside the guilt (brought on by a religous upbringing) and the raw ambition, i've making baby steps into my life. it's a reality infused by such optimism! that i can do anything! go anywhere because i've made this decision purely for myself. the kid inside. it's an ego a selfish a loving thing. cause whatever crumbles around me, whatever dies and fades away, at least this is my life. finally.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 3/11/2004 04:09:21 PM ----- BODY:
3/10/04. 911 days after 9/11 - Al Quaeda claims responsibility for the attack on Spanish trains which killed: civilians, the elderly, children, babies and commuters. Great job on changing policy there. Great way to get people to listen to you. Pitiful. What sad lives these terrorists must lead, with so much hatred in them everyday. I went on an interview today and the subject of Friendster came up with a partner. I didn't think about it much until I got back to the office and out of bordeom checked out Friendster and lo and behold, he was on there. Which is cause for concern cause what if he did the same thing? If he read some of the testimonials he must think I was a freak. Perhaps this will increase my job chances.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: politically speaking DATE: 3/10/2004 11:34:35 AM ----- BODY:
It’s the groove it’s the spiraling twisting ying-yang nuts and bolts of it all. Conservatives come crash crashing into liberals – traditions overwhelmed by indecent progress (in the eye of the beholder). It’s the joys of known comforts being uncomfortable with the rip roaring head-thrown-back ecstasy of the hazy heavy heady unexpected unpredictable newness. It’s politics – it’s 2004 where the apolitcal can't help but be politcal and the country is teetering on the edge between different oblivions, drunk with sorrow from a singular loss, stupid with anger, illogical with resentment, struggling to find the inner child with inner resolve to revive the inner reason – reason for it’s breathing living transcendental identity. Ho, it’s the majestic power of the individual pitted against the karma consciousness of the group. Singular liberty (my money, my earnings, my country, my beliefs) talking, blathering, pontificating, going back – way way back and inside – to its own pack while the multitude of multilateralism and groupspeak: economic class and racial class and political class speak to its own herd – of sharing (or is it redistribution) health care and taxes and education. And oh, irony is laughing, that bitch irony is cackling cause it’s all so silly and utterly illogical. The two sides are raising their voices and rising from their haunches. It’s our money and we’ll party if we want to, say the corporate Jesus followers – but no, it’s not your body and that’s not love. It’s our country (fight for freedom and our way of life!) but it’s not your country cause each life is precious (except yours if you want an abortion) and marriage is between two normal people, and we mean a penis and a vagina, and that’s what it is you sick bastards. So take your mumbo jumbo definitions of equality and liberty and shove it cause we’re all about equality and liberty (to keep our earnings and fuck taxes). We’re not paying for your laziness (don’t worry, it’ll trickle down cause once we have enough, it’ll all trickle down) - tough luck cause you weren’t born into a three bed&bath-two cars-working mom&dad-35% tax bracket household. Don’t make us feel sorry for living on treeless streets named after trees while you (need we say it again, get off your lazy ass) lounge around on numerical cement blocks. The American dream! There are no cracks to fall through – except if you happen to fall into the wrong minority group or economic group - excuses! Get your own health care, and if you worked harder your kids can get the same education as our kids. Don’t be resentful! Work harder! Work harder and you’ll be fine. What would Jesus do? Don’t be selfish! screams the misty bleary eyed idealists. Think of the children! Where’s the love at? Why can’t you share the wealth? Think of the infirmed aged, the uneducated children, the single moms, the abused - the NEEDY. What? Why did they get there? Understand? What’s there to understand? Family values? Family values have nothing to do with a child is starving (never mind his single mom household or his “classroom” on the streets or how he’s brought up) Think about this country’s workers – jobs jobs! We’re losing our jobs to more efficient cheaper more productive populations overseas! (never mind our heightened standards of living and our requirements for high wages that strangle corporate livability) Let’s care for the environment! Sign those treaties, cause we care about other countries (but let’s keep the jobs here, ok?) It’s not your fault that you were born rich, but it’s not fair that we weren’t. Subsidies! Where are the subsidies! Social security, health care, public schools – inner cities and fine arts, wildlife groups, wetlands and highlands and bushlands - what about GFU? (geeks for UFOs) and mom and pops and those farmers… there are so many deserving group that need money! Where’s the money at? Sharing is caring! Look at all the problems – oh won’t you help (but let’s watch out for that deficit ok?) Wars without killing. God without love. Everyone in the pot but hey.. we want our privacy! The best of both worlds. Down the rabbit hole in search of moderation has led to extremes. The nation is tilting and twisting, the right hand circled round the back while the left hand clutching at the front, faltering leaning, swaying, left to right, walking backwards while wanting to move forward. Guilt has gone bellyup. Cursing shadowy external forces has tired us so that we resort to flinging insults towards ourselves. We're mad with impatience mad with rage mad with impotence mad mad mad with confusion in a confused world. We have luminous ideals that don’t quite reveal the unpolished reality – our fences are painted and the garden tended while it’s a mess inside, of doors unhinged and faucets that leak. We’re in love with liberty but too much of it is fearsome – in love with patriotism but hate the jingoism, welcoming of diversity but more comfortable in conformity. It’s a ying yang thing, don’t you see? The black circling the white, circling so much and so fast and so strong that it’s twisted into a knot, a tangled web of half truths and distortions, of statistics and polls and empty debtates – of oxymorons as babies are being kissed and frothy ads invade the television... we’re unraveling, with tired messages and weary senses. And who cares?
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 3/02/2004 08:42:59 PM ----- BODY:
i miss my a normal day like a lover misses his beloved.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 2/10/2004 12:39:04 AM ----- BODY:
there are certain movies i still get choked up about. i painted my living room this weekend (wheat), but had a 3 hour interlude cause the lion king was on. damm that scar--and his hyenas too! i still get the sniffles when mustafa bites it and little simba pushes his furry head under his dad's great big paws. i've decided. i ain't doin anything for valentine's. i tried to make reservations for 3 different places today to no avail. everything was booked until sunday morning. bah. i'm too lazy to make plans.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: saturday afternoon DATE: 2/01/2004 12:02:29 AM ----- BODY:
two. "send this document to sherri. she's the fuckin' attorney. she should revise this. too bad she's an ugly chick. once in a while you see a decent law chick.. but there's not too many of them. they're like banker chicks. she doesn't mind me calling her a chick. she got through law school just so some guy like me will call her a chick. sometimes you'll meet a decent looking chicks. but then they hit thirty and they go to shit. just like us. they become men." three pm. 42nd floor board room, windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline with Central Park sprawled in its snowy splendor below. the sun crashed against the pink high rises and orange branches. a single associate, gulping his lunch down, alone. "just gimme two minutes, and'll i'll take a look at it. jesus, i haven't seen my wife in a week. i go home and she's sleeping and i'm here before she wakes up. just gimme a couple, will ya?" he stares at the sunset with the lights dimmed. the french fries hangs heavily for a second before receding with the hum of the air conditioning. exit right.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 1/28/2004 01:27:30 AM ----- BODY:
it's snowing like mad. like mad i tell you. i wish some could fall on me and cover everything white. She's going. She's going to Bulgaria for two years. She's fuckin leaving me to go grab her dreams - she's been talking about the Peace Corps all this time and yet, today it's real. She's going into something unknown and yet she wants to do it. Stupid stupid stupid! But who's the silly one here. Corporate boy who takes the safe known experience or artist girl risking a good chunk of her twenties doing something she believes in. sometimes people can still surprise me pleasantly. it's times like these that shakes my tired senses and awaken them to the full and depressing possibilities of my life. God, what have I done and what the hell am I doing? Perhaps selfishness is a good thing. godammit.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: reality break DATE: 1/27/2004 03:52:23 PM ----- BODY:
I sneaked out today and got some ice cream. and found a bookstore on the way. oh man. just reading the book jackets and titles makes me happy. "babies and their sinful lives" "sleepy dogs" "tired places" "interior decorating: choosing the right colors" "american chumps" "purple musings"... ... i could have spent hours in there while it started to snow outside.. books crammed together and people slightly shivering in their thick coats, bumping together politely, an unspoken contract between all of us, guilty glances at each other, knowing that we were here on personal pleasure while next door the corporate types typed away on their brand spanking machines using their broken brains...
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 1/26/2004 01:54:46 PM ----- BODY:
I’m listening to Underworld and I like it cause techno was the thing back in high school and now I’m back to where I began and I like techno again. I got the CD (1992 – 2002) as a present from my friend April when she first dating her boyfriend last month but today she told me she broke up with him because there wasn’t communication and she’s losing her self respect for him – and I find it cool that my CD has outlasted her relationship – maybe I should get more CDs. April also said that she wanted someone who’s at a similar stage in his life as she is in hers – by hers she means thinking longer-term and being fixed on a career and thinking about marriage and babies and such cause what else do 25 year old girls think about besides going on 26-7-8-9-woa! 30? Do the math she says and I say geez I’ve been doing the math and it’s some fuzzy math right there. But then April says she might just stay with him cause they like to f—k (yeah, I’m writing this at work and combined with their censors and Ashcroft eyes everywhere---) but no the other night she got mad at him and used teeth. Ouch I say why don’t you finish that burger. I wanna start a movement. God is OnlyGodisloveGodisjusticeGodisdeadThereisnoGod. What comes next? And Underworld is saying, “you got a velvet mouth youre so succulent and beautiful shimmering and dirty wonderful and hot times on your telephone line just god and everything on your telephone and in walked an angel…” Woa. A shimmering movement – I see kids walking and running, by plane and boats and boots, moving all over the world in droves, moving because ideas are coming out like mad, like rivers gushing from the silent mountains, grand ideas and it’s crazy ideas but that’s ok cause, oh what do I see but ideas come crashing together, like waves foaming and loud, ideas lapping against the dry sandy desert of human laziness. Woa. “let your feelings slip (boy) but never your mask (boy) random blonde bio high density random blonde (boy) blonde country blonde high density”
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 1/19/2004 01:01:27 AM ----- BODY:
"Do you ever feel that even though you get what you ask for, it's not all it's not what you wanted?" Thus spake one of my good friends today. Geez. Way to make a gray winter day even more cheerful. I always get CDs I think are good, but then I listen to them for a couple of days and then don't really bring them out again. I guess my attention span is slipping. I can't concentrate on just one band/one kind of sound anymore. And I'm too lazy to make my own mixes; so I just resort to launchcast and get my music fix. I did get some new CDx by Switchfoot - I just love their song Innocent Again it has that funky bassline that's really the heart of SoCal. Well, we'll see if the band has replay value after I put it through endless repetition for the workday tomorrow. The Superbowl's gonna suck this year, even if it's gonna be in my hometown. C'mon. I mean, Panthers and Patriots? I woulda love to see Manning and McNabb go at it. I can betcha that the boys in H-town are gonna party it up come game day. Man, I'd love to go out that night and see all the players and stuff. Talked to one of my buddies tonight and he said that he bought tickets to the club where Jay-Z and Halle Berry are gonna hang out. Speaking of Halle Berry... grrrrrrrr..ufffff gruff! Yum.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: lovelostfoundforgotten DATE: 1/14/2004 02:45:30 PM ----- BODY:
I hopped on the train down to Philadelphia to recruit summer analysts. Put on the plastic face and play the record: “Investment banking is… “ On the trip down, my associate and I passed the time by talking about anything but work. After twenty minutes of talking about our respective vacations and college mishaps, Karen got comfortable enough to bemoan her lack of dating options; more so, she wanted my opinion on her current situation of fling followed by hookup followed by a lull period where she’s trying to “get some ass”, all the while she’s following that “one guy”. She’s attractive I thought. She’s friendly and smart. I didn’t want to tell her that she works all day and night so maybe that’s why there’s no time left for a strong relationship. So I just said whatever was on my mind. Then she explained to me girl math: of being mid twenty and biological clocks and engagements and a timetable for getting pregnant. I didn’t know what to say so I said whatever was on my mind. But it’s a familiar story to me. Girls who, for all practical purposes are funny and witty and charming but somehow, in this tangled life, they draw empty on meaningful relationships. When it comes down to it, many of my friends, like Karen, work too damm much to have relationships. And the work, as I define work, don’t allow time or personalities for rewarding relationships. It demands your primary focus and it sucks you dry. Or maybe it’s because of the type of work that they’re in or the types of guys that they – there is a dearth of the Prince Charming/Cinderella relationships. What happen to the cool guys, they ask? They’re all around I said, but like you, they’ve hardened and have shelled up. Being a midtwentysomething apparently does not allow for fantasies any longer. It’s about work and careers and “building a life”. That’s what we surround ourselves with, isn’t it? We’ve replaced dreams of castles and feasts with windowed offices and bank accounts; we’ve traded our galloping stallions towards beastly dragons for morning subway rides to sanitized cubicles; we’ve stopped feeding our minds because we worry about feeding our 401Ks and IRAs and brokerage accounts. I see a generation of uninspired minds, dutifully obeying their common sense and rejecting their imaginations. And for me, common sense isn’t very interesting. Practicality doesn’t incite passion or irrationality or emotion; you can’t coax love out of its sleep with pragmatism – it doesn’t care (oxymoron) about the math of life – it only cares about the burn and the heat and the fire of exuberant illogical idon’tgiveadamm chemistry, that spark that ignites something inside of us - pushed back but never quite forgotten. The clincher is, we’ve twisted ourselves into this lifestyle, and while we all want the passionate indescribable love that we know exist, we’ve been beaten down by our common sense to settle for a workable commitment – from anyone. Tired eyes staring into tired eyes. Grouchy mornings returned by hungover nights. Cynical voices echoing pessimistic thoughts. We’ve convinced ourselves to become attractive to someone based on our own affordability (what we emotionally expend, what with all the other responsibilities in our lives) instead of falling into attraction (headfirst and anticipating that thrill) because of the call/because we can’t help it – we’ve constructed our own palatable relations and man the gates for love the intruder, cause we think it’ll never come and we’re afraid of waiting alone with the stable boy. We’ve settled for the stable boy. We’ve folded our hands and gotten out, settling for a pittance of what we could have attained because the risk (of growing old and alone, but financially stable!) was too great. We think that we can learn to love someone, if we can only stand them first. But love isn’t like that; sure you can learn to love someone, but love is a living thing, it grows and expands, collapsing and blows up and burrows deep. How much love will you miss if you spend all those years learning to love someone? But so we’re convinced, that tempered love can work, and our story will be one of love wasted. I had a couple of beers with my ex from Penn after the recruiting event. It was strange. We’ve both moved on but the first moment that I saw her again, the old attraction, sexual and raw, came galloping back. And I could see it in her too. Here we were, talking about our respective relationships, but all I concentrated on were the familiar lines of her face, how her lips moved, how her hands gestured; it was all very surreal and too awkward for me. At one point in the night she was talking about her indecision about career choice (studied finance, but now she’s veering for liberal arts) and I joked, “Why don’t you become a hand model?” Silence. We both laughed uncomfortably because her hands were one of the things I complimented her on the most and that electric reminder of how things have changed made our sense mute. In any case, she asked if I was to stay the night and I said, no, no, I’m taking the next train back to NY. I said “See ya” and she said “Nice to talk again, after these years” and I said, “Yeah” and we hugged and boy, am I glad to get out of there.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Monday morning blues DATE: 1/05/2004 09:45:43 PM ----- BODY:
Monday morning, first day of work after the holidays. I see bleary eyed people all around. Cramped in the subway like sardines squished together. Squish squish. My crotch is frighteningly close to a gentleman’s bald spot, my fingers desperately inched for the railings, my elbow is hitting someone’s stomach and my back is pressed against the door. Open. Close. Openclose. Open. For the love of God, please let this train move. A burly man rushed onto the train, a couple of cars ahead of mine. You can hear shoving. Then shouts. “Get the fuck off!” The doors won’t close. The big fellow is pushing his way in. “Listen prick, get the fuck off!” “Shut the fuck up!” he replied, but some people had pushed him out of the car. There was no room. I can smell the deodorant on the girl next to me. “What the fuck! Screw you guys!” he screamed, and a stream of profanities followed, like lava oozing from the mountains. Someone called for the police. The people around me groaned and glanced at their watches. To no avail. The car stood still. Then shrill whistles came from behind and the people further inside my car craned their necks to see. Two uniformed security guards jaunted slowly up towards the yelling, but when they got there, the interloper had already left. A couple of moments passed, then the subway slowly creaked and pushed its way into the gaping tunnel. Monday morning and I climbed up the slick stairs at the Columbus Circle stop. It was raining, and you can see the puddles on the ground, rainbowed by the oil and waste of the city. Four blocks. Four blocks and it starts again.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 1/04/2004 10:53:01 PM ----- BODY:
What’s there to do on a Sunday afternoon besides watch crappy TV, sex, or drink? I’m not quite sure but I’m hooked on Spaten. Good hops and it goes down so nice. Ha. Sunday afternoons always depresses me; it makes perfectly clear how boring my life is. It’s raining outside and there’s nothing to do except to settle down with a good book. Perhaps that’s what it is. Since I started work, everything has been so sedentary. I’m either sitting at work or sitting at a restaurant or sitting at home. Sit. But really. And now that it’s the middle of winter, daylight fades fast and at night who wants to be active outside? A run through Central Park at night isn’t exactly thrilling. I’m restless. Restless and not very good company since everyone is annoying. Bah. I guess sex is activity. But damm, I do miss hiking and oh, the feeling you get on a road trip, all tingly, opening car doors and running towards something you’ve never seen before. I want a basset hound. Oh man, I think I can just pick up one of those fat, wrinkly, droopy faced (slobber and all) dogs and love him silly. We’ll have walks – him on dumpy short waddly legs – and I’ll let him romp and chase squirrels (those varmints) and he’ll sniff and sniff and smell everything and it’ll be awesome. Of course, when I’m writing or reading he’ll be there, plopped on the bed sleeping, or when he’s really excited, pop his head up and give me a sad stare. Except his tail will be wagging (thwap thwap thwap) and I know he’s happy. Brown and white and I’ll make up a cool name for him. Like Nefarious or something cause one look at him and you’ll just laugh cause he’s the most lovable dog you’ll see. Oh, and of course he’s a stud cause he’ll attract all the chicks. Yeah. And I’ll say things like, “Dude, Nerf, your breath stinks” and thwap thwap he’ll lick my hands and go “Aahooooo…” and go pee on a tree. Or something. And on those lazy summer days when I’m not working, we’ll just have a nap in the park, but not after he has rolled around in the grass and bark at smaller dogs (just for fun). Then he’ll sit his fat butt next to mine and I’ll look up at the blue sky and he’ll look at the stupid pigeons, eyes between his paws, cause they’re silly little things. Oh you may think I’m just imagining things but you’ll see.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 1/03/2004 10:41:23 PM ----- BODY:
There it is. I’m home. Love. I remember my first crush. Well, my first exciting and thoroughly maddening crush. Freshman year of high school and I met her through Adam; two years older than me and I thought she was perfect. A small girl with slanted marbly eyes, like liquid pools of sunlight. An alto voice that rose shimmering during a talent contest and a body that held secrets I could only secretly dreamed about. When we held hands—it was thrilling and dangerous and non-contemplative. It was a love that made me mad because I wanted to know what to expect, what to do. I had no idea that those first pricks could be so fatal, so intoxicating that I would do anything for her. It was a stupid love, a love without fear, like driving too fast, reckless and unwitting. But I didn’t care. When the words came, I was devastated. I acted like foolish boys did and fumed and wrote her letters and quoted from Billy Joel and didn’t know how to deal with the hurt because I had never felt the hurt before. It was a stronger love in college; the culmination of high school crushes and disappointments, of boredom and thoughts of “how things ought to be”. She laughed infectiously and stared straight into my eyes unflinching. I used to brush her hair with my fingertips as we coyly dreamed of our futures and talked about the silly things that college kids expounded upon. We kept it secret because it was beautiful that way. I looked at the stars and got drunk when we hugged for the last time and went our separate ways. I got drunk again when I thought of our perfect arguments and her small hands and how she was the ultimate love of my life. It was a giddy love. Expected love. She loves me now and I’ve settled into the silent cocoon. We talk about our dreams but they seem more like dreams now. We hold hands and I think nothing of it. It’s a love strung together by tiny happenstances. A walk through the park with nothing on our minds, sitting through a movie that goes nowhere and yet we laugh because we don’t have to get anywhere—dinners where she orders for me because she already knows what I want. I wake up next to her and get dressed for work and she turns over and mumbles, “Have a good day” and I leave quietly lest she wakes up. As I get older and love matures, it becomes familiar. I’m not singed by it any more, I’m afraid, because the warmth is steady now. I’m less likely to jump into the abyss and more likely to wade in, left foot, then right, then let the familiar feelings soak in. I do miss the heady days of love abandoned, of those terrible feelings, ripping my insides apart, and can’t help but feel a bit sad to recognize the familiar face of love. Somewhere along the way, I’ve gone and become sensitized to it all. I’ve been hit with the disease for so long that I’m partly immune to the fever. It’s like a puzzlebox that’s infuriating to figure out, but once you’ve smashed it and put it back together, it’s not as fun to solve any longer. I think I must be a fool, and yet, love waits and doesn’t tire.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: attempts to fan the flames DATE: 12/13/2003 12:53:12 PM ----- BODY:
“josh, after you make enough $$ to pay of your school debt, will you be free? you are too beautiful to hold yourself captive in a game that is not sincere to your heart. choose a different game. sincerity in thought, word, and action ...” Back to this. It’s always back to this. What’s in loving hating living breathing learning. Kaput. [twenty minute splayed at work] I wanna do the right thing if the right thing means I won’t need ya – It’s only cause of this, of this only cause it hurts. Tear a bullet through it all, rip down my sky Cause all I’m waiting for is the word I wanna be what you want me to be but why does it come down to me. We’re all talk but talking is all I wanna do, I’m leaving tomorrow, leaving this place this time Flying on a plane, going insane, cause it’s just us two Cause messing up aint hard if all I can really see is me Losing my mind, going in circles it’s all cliched But I’m running to you anyways cause you’re a fake Cause they all don’t know what they don’t mean to say C: It’s all really loud in here And I can’t hear anything Cause you, you’re so clear [dear] Wanna be free and it’s crazy I’m all that’s left of me
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 12/13/2003 05:11:06 AM ----- BODY:
It's not about faith or luck or joy or hope or truth. Cause truth endures luck and luck receives meaning from faith and borrows the memory of joy and well, joy revels in luck and luck, well, what is truth if not lucky - if not?
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: letter on a whim DATE: 12/09/2003 04:08:33 PM ----- BODY:
i'm in new york and reveling in the urban winter of lights and dirty slush on the streets and people shopping with gifts and bags and toy stores ablazing with candles and smiling beaming kids. i'm in the cold east coast winter working in finance buying/selling analyzing companies - what makes them tick, what makes them go, what makes them? and it's ok, it's fun sometimes, exciting almost, but also it's a drear sometimes but then other times i'm thinking, woosh, soon soon i'll be decent enough and have a little bit of legroom - a bit of grease in my wallet to GO. go! yep, and yes dear stefani, whereever you are, let's think! what are you going to do? i want to start a little business somewhere. somewhere far off, like n-zed, something that makes me ponder and think and excited and then oh, i dunno. but yeah, before all that, i'm taking a world trip, boats and trains and aeroplanes and all that - soon, in year or maybe a lil' bit later.. but that's what i'm gearing for. when you have the time, you have to tell me about how the rest of new zealand. that girl. that place. all of it. but in the meanwhile, jump into it, miss, cause i know you are. i can see you laughing right now, head thrown back - a phenomenon! i'm thinking about kayaking in the vancouver islands this summer to chase some whales.. that might be a reprieve of some sorts. josh
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 12/03/2003 03:23:36 PM ----- BODY:
Oh I love women. Not girls. Women. I love their hourglass shape… how they walk like so, sashaying through the halls, floating on something sugary delectably sweet – how they flow from side to side in slim pants and smoothed cardigans; their swaying hair – I love their scents, perfumed intangibly sexual and sweet - makes me think of bubble baths and springtime orchards and sex. But aromatized, genie in a bottle pink-purple cotton candied poetic sex and not the squirming sweaty grunting biological sex. I love their femininity, those girlish ways of using exclamations, those pouty loaded questions and vague intent answers. I love their smoothness and the lotioned fingertips, the nape of the necks and the lean lines of their legs. Legs and thighs and wrists and ankles and shoulders. Fluttering eyelashes and peekaboo darling eyes and peach tinted lips, lush and lascivious. I love how women retain their “it thing”, their charm even under duress, when stressed they still glide like so… like swans. I love their whispers and their irrationality. Of course, I only love certain kinds of women. To quote my buddy M, “Fat chicks need loving too, just not from me.”
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 12/02/2003 11:31:58 PM ----- BODY:
So the plans for this weekend are somewhat complicated; if not complicated then at least it will take some planning. I’m planning to slowly move into my new apartment, which means, I have to get the necessary supplies for moving first. And then it’s the fun process of painting and all that jazz. But I don’t really know when I can move in because I don’t know when the girl living there right now will move out – I think her last day is Saturday, but she might be out by Friday. Friday there’s a Christmas party at the advertising place where I last work, and for some reason I’m invited. Free drinks. But then, if I go, it’ll be with this girl I worked with, but I haven’t spent time with the gf in two weeks. But if I start the moving/buying process, I won’t really spend time with her anyways. And also, besides that, I have to set aside time to find some furniture, if only so I have something to sleep on. Which means Saturday will be a bore. But then, I also need time to pick out gifts for people – although I doubt that will happen since work has already been pushed back to the weekend; which means I don’t really have time to move or spend time with anyone after all. That and an ex gf is coming into town and she wants to meet up. In actuality, it’s not that difficult. I suppose I just want to…. I hate it when I have nothing to do except to recount what I don’t have time to do.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: A lil' of spark won't ya please DATE: 11/19/2003 09:02:46 PM ----- BODY:
I’m not happy and I’m not sad; not hopeful nor cynical. I’m not desirous of anything really. Work isn’t hard and the relationship isn’t hard, although I know that there will be a lot of work to be done this weekend and that there’s still a lot of relationship that needs working. I’m not tired, not really excited, not inspired, not lonely, not bored, not passionate – I’m really not. I’m living dazed but not confused. I’ve been de-clawed a and de-veined and content in the retirement home of my youth. But I am in need of all these things; I need a wrench to be thrown in this automated schedule, a wall placed in front of my blindness, a virus in this code – water in my lungs. I need a jolt of something to get me going again. I’ve noticed that I’m so comfortable in the ordinary and the repetition of my life. It’s hard to change, cause I forget once the day begins, with it’s limitless process – it’s the minutiae of everyday life that kills memories. Each morning, I grab my socks first (black) and a clean pair of drawers from the armoire, then place them next to the bathroom sink. I brush my teeth for two minutes cause that’s when the sonicare stops spinning. Then take off the t-shirt and throw it in the hamper before everything else. Step in the shower. Shampoo. Lather, rinse. Softsoap. Squirt. Lather. Left arm, right arm, hands and fingers, left side, pecs and abdominals, right side, the shoulders, right leg, left leg, feet, the back of my neck, both ears and then the arms again. Dry myself, but not completely. That comes when I step out of the shower. Then it’s the boxers/briefs, grab a white tee, then a shirt (pick a blue or white, striped or solid) then pants (some derivation of gray) then always always, clean my ears before I shave – and always shave before brushing my hair, and then it’s to the kitchen where I then pick up my key, then wallet, then lighter and cigs, and then my phone. Black shoes. Door to door, home to the office, 17 minutes flat. Lunch at 11:45 to beat the rush. Sandwich. My favorite moments are when I get to leave work before the streets are empty; then I can walk home, left hand in pocket, a slow song playing on the headphones, right hand flicking a cigarette – I and my thoughts, alone together, without the jostle and demands of others. Often, I get to wallow, or I allow myself to step over the edge of normalcy and reason and fall into despondency. Not that I have a desire to be sad, but it’s that the streets of New York in November are so conducive to introspection and thoughts of gray. And it’s at these times that I feel glimmers of living again, because sadness is unbalanced – because with sadness it’s so easy to keep falling into the extreme darkness. It takes some degree of mental toughness to assume the Icarian flight towards genuine happiness. But either or, it’s the sincere deepening of feelings, the richness of experience-soaked thoughts, the poles of want and abandoned emotions, of vivid dreams and excited justifications that appeal to me. Only because they come so far and few between now. I can get excited about a transaction, but it’s not in the same league as scaling a mountain and reveling in the freedom of being 23. I’m not at all unhappy about my career or my current life. I am, however, conflicted when it comes to my sensibilities.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: string theory DATE: 11/13/2003 11:45:36 PM ----- BODY:
what? there might be multiple dimensions after all? i ran across a girl i had such a crush on in college through friendster. so now when it's late in the office i think about it. what we could have been.. the things we could do, trips to take and all that jazz. she's got to have the longest eyelashes of any asian girl i've known.. that and she's witty and smart and musical. too bad we went down the platonic route--that and the fact that i'm totally not her type. it's weird.. it happens to me a lot. i'm totally the "friends" type and not the boyfriend type for all the hot girls. inevitably, i'll meet a hot girl, become friends with her because i understand her so well and blah blah, causing her to say, "why can't more guys be like you?" (which is what this girl said multiple times) while i have this serious crush on her and finally get pissed and throw away the friendship while she gets dissed by a guy totally opposite of me... go figure. but hey, i'm not bitter.. ehh.. just a little, but i guess i just fit in that mold often. i still don't get it. girls say they want a certain guy but totally fall for someone different; i guess guys are the same way: i think i want a certain person but deep deep down inside--yep, a euroasian girl who's somewhat high maintenance with a killer fashion sense and musical ellubience. that's all i'm asking for! ehh.. i should be content. i AM, i am... bah. but man. goregous body, this girl. but all we ever talked about were philosophy and theology and art and literature and music. bah. should've steered the conversation towards underwear or something. at least the typical boy-girl college hookup stories. maybe in one of the other seven dimension t. and i could've hooked up and then i'll spend my late nights thinking about vida guerra instead. i think i'm gonna do this next year or within a year in a half... right before my round the world trip... anyone know a good archeological volunteer program i can look into? even though i've made a conscious choice to be a corporate kid, do the grad school thing, and make lots and lots and lots of money, i still have this vague sense that my life can be totally different ... like i can still take off and do whatever the hell i want.. it's like i'm toying with myself, deluding myself. why do i do it? cause it's fun--in a masochistic way. here i am, number crunching in the middle of the office in the middle of manhattan in the middle of capitalism and i think i can be a musician | a writer | a volunteer | a social worker | a traveler... with means! it's crazy! so one of my buddies is ambivalently gay. or at least i think he's gay, he gives off gay vibes and says gay things about himself.. but he's not openly gay. so do i go along with the flow or well.. go along with the flow? well, my girlfriend is great. still. too bad she's not euroasian. too bad i'm not euroasian. and can speak with a cool brit accent or basque accent or something.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 11/11/2003 04:46:31 PM ----- BODY:
There are cabs in the city that turn on their “off duty” lights so they won’t have to pick up passengers going to Bronx or Brooklyn. Consequently, most of these passengers are Latino or Black, and that figures to be, if not racial discrimination, then geographical discrimination. I saw two instances of that Friday night, when my own cabbie entertained discourse regarding such practices by slowing down and pointing out the offenders. He then ended with, “And most of them just came here anyways, bastards.” Jun and I had dinner on Sunday after watching Kill Bill vol. 1. And the conversation relentlessly turned to what we wanted in the opposite sex. We wrote our conditions on a napkin for safekeeping. She wanted companionship and I wanted a mixed European-Asian girl who can dress well and dance well and sing well and who’s not fat. I think that people tend to turn on their sex / relationship radar as the weather gets colder. It’s always nice to have someone, or at least the thought of someone close when it is dark and chilly outside. But then again, a kiss is just a kiss is just a kiss, isn’t it? What, if any, are the evolutionary advantages to monogamy / marriage / fidelity? Or, from the male perspective, why not impregnate as many females as you can if the criterion is for biology reproduction and species survival? (Well, why did males develop anyways? Why couldn’t females have sperm or the ability to bear offspring on their own, unless that means we’re putting too many biological eggs in one basket… and the chances are greater if there were two incomplete keyholders instead of one…) We’ve devised this intricate ritual of wooing and whatnot and then we set limitations on the practicality of those means via shady moral schemes. Has romance gone off its intended track? It’s now decorated with add-ons like marriage and whatnot. Whatever happened to just getting laid?
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Part One DATE: 11/06/2003 08:42:00 PM ----- BODY:
It’s like I’m living inside a bubble. Impervious to external going ons, but one prick and the fragile womb bursts. I was supposed to meet Michelle at nine o’clock tonight, but she canceled cause of menstruation. Too bloated to talk to right now, she says. Actually, I’m feeling crummy and you’re part of it. So I got in the pickup and drove. It would have been better if I had a boat or a plane or something. But at least roads go somewhere, even if you have to stay on them. I wondered if they have lanes in the sky and if you had to fly in them? Cause the space up there seemed big enough to handle me zigzagging up and over and under and all that. I thought about driving to Callum’s place, but I’m sure he’s with his girl. He’s always with that girl now – no sense in trying to get him outta there. I bet his girl don’t have menstruation issues. It woulda been fun to grab a couple of beers and borrow Ole Jonsey’s rifle to practice on Callum’s dad rusty car. But I couldn’t mess up his fun and I guessed there’s no one around really to hang with. I made a beeline for Blue Pebble Creek. I hoped the kids are away – there’s this turn around the bend, and drooped right at the corner where the ground sloped down to the water, was an oak tree that I liked a lot. I liked it cause it was a sad sorta tree, like my ol’ grandpappy sometimes when he tells stories of this girl he knows back in the war, how she brought him sandwiches one day and the next day he never heard from her again. He tells that story a lot; usually when I’m trying to get someplace quick. The tree bent over like that, all mopey and such. I felt even though it was rooted besides this creek, it really wanted to be where all the other trees were, in the forest somewhere far off. I parked the truck right under the branches, sat on the hood, and grabbed a smoke. I got some corn chips out and hummed a little. The moon was like a soft egg, all yolky and droopy. It made the creek sparkle like a million shiny coins, and in the light summer air, I could hear the night sigh. I can hear Michelle sigh too, but in a more exasperated way. She’s been doing that a lot recently, but I don’t know why except that she tells me to stay away and she brings up her period a lot. I mean, I want to figure whatever it is she wants me to figure out, but I can’t compete with the ol’ menstruation routine. And besides Callum and Michelle, there wasn’t really anyone else I cared enough about to hang with. And the town was small enough so that I pretty much figured out everyone I wanted to hang with by the time I was ten.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 11/05/2003 02:30:14 AM ----- BODY:
FAO Schwartz Trash can game Endless fun at 2:30 am!!!
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Midnight thoughts DATE: 11/03/2003 12:34:51 AM ----- BODY:
12:11 am. So far, today, I've - rearranged the perspective of pie and bar graphs - enlarged bullet points - put together a shell model - and corrected pagination on a 10Q That's what a college degree from Wharton allows me to do, insert page breaks in a SEC document. Yippee. But I'm not bitter. The monotony of work kills enough of my brain cells so that I don't really have to think about all the other crap that's going on. I woke up today to the sound of conversation between my brother and a friend; I kept my eyes shut as they talked about me. It wasn't the accusatory tone, nor was it the topic of conversation regarding my private decisions that pissed me off. It wasn't the untruths - nope, it was the realization that my brother and I do not know each other at all, whatsover. And though I've tried all these years to breach that gap, I realized today that we approached things from different ways - I in my desultory manner that incorporates the worries of those I care about, and he in his invariable self-assuring isolated methods. And I give up. I'm sick of trying to build bridges that ends halfway. I suppose that while I do care about my family and my sibling, there comes a point where I need to find some substance in the things I do, and not in the things that I do for others. Caroline and I are parting ways, it seems (at least to me). Apparently there's a miscommunication, so this week, I'll have to reaffirm the fact. I suppose that I get tired of trying in this particular relationship also. I am not willing to put forth so much effort for so little satisfaction in return. It's gotten to the point where every week, there's a tear to patch up, an apology to issue, or a talk to identify the glaring problems that is gnawing at this relationship from it's weakening foundations. I get this lump, like a empty stone that weighs me down from the inside, every time I think about her - I listen to Lifehouse and every song belongs to us, and as I write, I think of more and more ways to describe the beautiful pieces of us that remains from the splintered feelings and memories. A part of me wants to give it another try, but the wiser part of me says that it's time to step back, to love from afar where the barbs don't hurt as much, and to keep the memories before they turn to illusions. I think she realizes the same thing, but I don't think that will lessen the sting any. She said she misses me today. I'm driving through the desert on empty but full of your pain I'm staring at the sun, and oh it's bright, bright like you There's nothing I regret, cause there's nothing to do But wake up tomorrow to find pieces that remain
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Nick-Ack DATE: 10/30/2003 03:11:19 PM ----- BODY:
10 am. Palace Hotel. I'm sitting at the Lenders Meeting while my powerpoint is on the big screen. The CEO of Company X is speaking from memory and I hope to God that what's he is saying fits the facts on screen. He makes a joke. Polite laughter creeps across the crowd, dark suits and subdued ties. The horde of creditors flip along, fingering the 100 books that I put together - waited for production to be finished on until 4 am today. The sole woman in the crowd takes a sip of water and writes down some numbers. My numbers. The speaker halts and makes another joke. Except this time, it's about a typo in the graph on screen. My graph. Oh shit. Polite laughter again. I guess it wasn't that serious, but my stomache is squirming at the mistake. It wasn't trepidation that struck - it was annoyance. I don't care if the senior guys are going to make that one small snide comment that stamps their seal of disapproval on the mistake. I cared about the mistake itself. One typo out of 65 pages - mulitplied by 100 times and projected onto the screen. The typo stared at me - it was a blight on my entire week's worth of work.. throwing a wrench into 20 hour days and rendering 64 pages almost irrelevant. For the next 10 minutes, maddening thoughts crept into my system. What a waste. It didn't matter if all my work was spotless if there was this error. Not error with the numbers or figures mind you, but presentation error. I don't make mistakes, at least not in business; but then again, what's in it for me? Polite laughter. "I'm not crazy just a little unwell, I know right now, you can't tell. But wait a while and maybe then you'll see, a different side of me." -MB20.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: A winding weirded place DATE: 10/28/2003 05:11:49 AM ----- BODY:
There is a place where the sun forgets to come sometimes and lets the stars play a little while longer. There is a place where the road goes not beyond but with the horizon, like friends on a summer afternoon, going along chattily; a place where days are spent dreaming, fishing rod in hand and feet stretched out beside the babbling brook. My dog, that big ol’ lug himself, plops next to me, pink tongue lolling out and head in paws; no doubt he is dreaming of something too. It’s a place of earthy grass perfect for wiggling toes and of penetrating skies with milky clouds, so low that you can touch if you stand tip-toe with outstretched fingers. There are humble little daisies shooting out of the ground without cares cause they don’t know any better; gnarled trees droop cause they are curious forlorn creatures, while roses blush not for vanity - they laugh instead at their silly pretty dresses ------------------ I am here though. I’m here in my cubicle at 5:20 am and not anywhere near that place where the sun laughs and pieces of my childhood I carry in my pocket so I can smile when I want to. I’m here in my cubicle because at 1:20 am the file crashed and so I’m here staring at a Snapple bottle again, dragging itty-bitty numbers around pie charts. And yet I am not miserable or depressed or angry or anything like 2001. I’ve exhaled. And besides, it’s no mystery to me what my life is – and the expectation of pain (the back is killing me) is not all that exciting when I know what the consequences are… And so there is the emptiness of feeling, of movement or anything that resembles passion. I have segregated my life outside of this place from my work inside this place. I suppose the two don’t like each other very much, but I have to keep both of them all the same, like little brats throwing wussy punches at each other. I make myself believe that I’m doing something that is worthwhile; no, not worthwhile, but at the very least, productive and supportive of my great desire to be at liberty in the future. I think I’ll go home and sleep for an hour; but sleep is overrated isn’t it, cause once I’ve awaken I have already forgotten all about the delicious desire to sleep more and more; but this, this I will remember forever. When I’m old and beyond repair and advice, I will remember only a few things, and this great misery of sorts, (but also of satisfaction because I know this is easy and not all that very cumbersome) will be an icy prick on my feeble mind. There’s something about leaving the office at 5:30 am and coming back at 8:30 am that is wickedly funny.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Ticket Stub DATE: 10/02/2003 01:40:20 PM ----- BODY:
I took the train to Philadelphia yesterday to visit a couple of old college buddies. There is still a distinct socio-class difference in America; you can see it through the railway system. New Jersey Transit costs $14 (peak fare) to go from NY Penn Station to 30th Street Station. It takes 3 hours for the trip. It is used primarily by security guards, educators, unkempt mothers with crying babies, and loud rude people who blow their noses, scratch their armpits and proclaim loudly at the “Gawd lordy the lack of room in the cars”. The passengers are overwhelmingly black. The train screeches and lurches every time it slows to a stop. Amtrak trains are sleek and faster (somewhat). Amtrak costs $48 to go from Philadelphia to New York, off peak fare. It takes approximately 1.5 hours to zoom the same distance. The passengers are primarily businessmen, lawyers, girls who squawk over their cell phones, “Like, my mom won’t give me money to get this delicious purse…”, and fat balding men who stretch out like sea lions on open seats. They are overwhelmingly white. The train smoothly stops next to the escalator in the station. I took NJT to Philadelphia. As the train chugged along, I find that the rail tracks are beautiful. Brown rough steel inlaid with gleaming blue-gray metal; two straight lines parallel, stretching out without comment to the endless horizon, always keeping the same distance between them. If only relationships were like that. Bespeckled gravel playing with the afternoon sun, lying carelessly between unflinching uncaring boundaries. Vanilla beams crossing the tracks, like steps going somewhere, steady steps that don’t break a sweat or shed a tear. The track, with its individual colors and parts, stubbornly refused to be roused by speed, and soon its details, those lines and colors, were blurred. Brownblue-graybespeckled|vanilla. Like a swirling soup of colors, or dreams, or something undefined, lighted aglow by the clouded sun. I suspect that’s what I needed to do with my life. Stop breaking it down to individual parts and let it blur. Who is to say that the blurred picture is less desirable than the clear static image? Blur my career and my loves and my people. My spirituality, my yearnings, my hates, my everdays, and my goals. Blur it all, and maybe the speed of life will make it beautiful. The boys were still the same. Rob is living with a girl but not really dating her. Henry is seriously dating someone but not living with her. And they act really gay when they get together. There is a rush of judgment among people my age to get engaged. I found that Norman and Kristine are engaged and that he spent his entire year’s savings on the ring. It seems that Kristine went with him to choose the ring. Perhaps I need to get on this engagement wagon, before all the prospects dry up. I mean, at this rate, by the time I’m twenty-six all my friends will have been hook, line and sinker. Time to get in while the getting is good. Besides, it’s an insurance thing. Who said engagement necessarily has to lead to marriage? Perpetual engagement, that’s the new paradigm. You gotta back up your files, right? And if engagement is a serious ploy that results in marriage, it’s a stupid idea. Basically, you’re making a commitment to being committed? I think it’s just a ploy for women to get an extra piece of jewelry. Rob mentioned that each year, the girls in college are getting younger. Or was it that we were getting older? ‘It seems like we get older but nothing has changed,’ Rob said. ‘Well, except for the fact that you’re increasingly bitter and want to quit your job,’ I said. ‘Fucker,’ he said. ‘Maybe you need to date younger women,’ I said. ‘Makes you less bitter.’ ‘I can’t even look at girls under twenty-one,’ he said. ‘Yeah, just the talk of midterms and studying zones me out.’ ‘But maybe it’ll be good for me,’ he said. ‘Don’t you have a girlfriend?’ ‘She’s twenty-three.’ ‘Yeah, having an eighteen year old girl will solve all your problems.’ I took Amtrak back to New York. By the time I got back, I realized that all my friends are leading lives. Lives! We all have actual lives now, meaty with unique expectations and heavy with responsibilities. Gone are the days of dining halls and football on the green, of homogenous experiences in the petri dish of academia and the solitude of the ivory towers. And as we burden ourselves, we increasingly separate our paths. Rob is doggedly living the slacker way. Henry is moving up the corporate ladder, securing his comfortable middle management lifestyle. Dan is in his third year of med school. Yas is heading off to the Peace Corps. And everyone is looking inward to find something that will fulfill and inspire them, although right now, they call that careers and relationships. Oh, to be twentysomething and not afraid!
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 9/04/2003 10:43:08 PM ----- BODY:
d. drivel deviant dead dumb dread dreary dry drone didditydid dastardly dinged damn dammed dog-gy done dangerous drag damp dimpled dolores dang. ee cummings i shall imagine life is not worth dying,if (and when)roses complain their beauties are in vain but though mankind persuades itself that every weed's a rose,roses(you feel certain)will only smile
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: on the road again DATE: 8/29/2003 11:42:45 PM ----- BODY:
taking a weekend trip to new england with carolyn. open roads, open skies, turning of summer, leaves, brooks, forestsbeacheslighthouses - hills and bridges and man it's going to be walden.. weee..
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: these are my... DATE: 8/29/2003 02:43:37 PM ----- BODY:
porn n' ice cream. don't need em. don't really want em'. they're kinda bad for you. but fun? eh.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: N-Train DATE: 8/28/2003 01:35:43 PM ----- BODY:
"What would you do if you had all the money in the world?" "I'd snap out of my reverie." _________________________ There was an incident yesterday. On the N train, heading uptown. North to home, to dinner, to another normal night of whatevers and whatnots. Jun and Paul were making "stupid faces" and I was taking it all in with my Palm camera. Bugged eyes. Pouting lips. Gansta pose. We stood next to the door as blue streaks passed by on the outside and the train deposited and picked up passengers. "Step all the way in please. Step all the way in." Passengers packed together like matchsticks, sharing oxygen and frittering, ready for the end of the workday. My arms flailed and banged against the metal railing as Jun crushed against my neck. The car lurched, shuddering for a couple of seconds, then slowly screeched to a stop. 23rd street station. Men started for the door, checking their watches. Women smoothed their skirts and rose from their seats. The door stayed shut. Crossed eyes. Paul smirked and I laughed as Jun giggled. The door didn't budge. I peered out the stained windows. Normal. Parents with toddlers, a smattering of chattering teenagers - men and women milled about, waiting for the train to open its doors. Our fellow passengers slowly sat down and waited patiently. Two minutes. Short minutes because we three were still within hazy conversation. Long minutes in retrospect. A group of girls, not yet matured, were crying outside our window. Men with briefcases and women with purses begin to exit the station outside. Fingers pointed one way, then another. What was going on? Down. Look down. Below the tracks? Jun tapped the windows, motioning for another observer. What happened? We filed out of the train. I stopped and looked back, wondering if I should get out since this wasn't my stop. Something was happening. Some people stayed in the train. Others exited quickly. Still, some were like me, standing haltingly on the platform. Oh my God. Jun clutched her mouth and gestured to the door that just spat us out. Crimson. Blood on our door. Shining and bright dripping - like paint or jam or wine. Not yet congealed. Much lighter than the stuff in the movies. Blood on the platform, red on yellow, ketchup on mustard. Blood on the side of our subway car, a lazy streak, eloquent, curving against the silver frame, like a Nike swoosh or a Nerf football. Paul said, "What happened?" I think we hit someone. Shit. "Everyone please exit the station. We have a passenger incident. Stations from Canal Street to 34th Street will be closed until further review. Please exit to 23rd or 28th Streets." The metallic voice spurred a dazed population to action. People streamed out of the station, turnstiles spinning and heavy swinging doors grunting at the effort. Jun pulled Paul and I against the flow of traffic. "I wanta see. C'mon." You're so insane I thought, but she threaded her way down the platform. I followed with morbid curiosity and petulant indignation at my wasted minutes on the way home. Paul protested. Dirty indigo jeans and a dirty green T-shirt. A clean white towel. A bloodied mangled arm. Right arm. The towel was draped over a cocked head. To the right side. Face down; it wasn't even a body anymore. Not human. To me, it was now just a mass of flesh, bloodied and still. It was a news item, a story invention - it was not real. It wasn't a man. There wasn't a story to him. He didn't really live, have a life. It was just parts, medical and biological parts. Bloodied lateral tricep brachii muscles. Twisted phalanges. Crumpled cranial cavity. Zygomaticus muscles pressed to the pavement. I grabbed Jun and Paul and climbed up to the streets. He wasn't real. Faceless, kin-less, probably jobless. Who did he love? What did he do? How was he as a child? What were his dreams, his lusts, his failures? His life? People stopped to ask us, what happened? "Can't go there. Subway incident. Lines not working." They walked on. Cars blared their horns and people chattered on the way home from work. An elderly woman crossed the street as the light turned green. A couple of tourists snapped a few photos of buildings against a darkening blue afternoon sky. Normal night, with normal dinners and it's normal going home, except for the distant sound of sirens, as the ambulances and firetrucks made their way towards us, towards the incident.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: bad day diary DATE: 8/25/2003 10:10:48 PM ----- BODY:
i hate fucking fuck fuck. fuck. ARGH. fucking french guys. it's been a month on this fucking project and they still can't make up their minds about anything fuck. bossy whiny french fucks. fuck inconsequential work and what's so glamorous about $1,333/month? fuck. fuck me complaining about work. again. i come home and check the mail and there's an invoice from the IRS demanding payment in full of $13,135.68. fuck! what the fuck? my federal deductions didn't go through so i owe the government 10 months worth of my salary. fuck them. and fuck the automated phone system that makes me wait 40 minutes before i get to talk to a government drone. "may i help you, mmmmmm?" yes you can help me you fuckers! how the hell do i owe that much money? fuck. fuck me for letting other people's stupidity get to me. fuck. just calm the fuck down and figure out what happen, for fuck's sake. fuck all this red bloody tape. fuck my phone service for giving me only 400 anytime minutes and now i've gone and used an hour of it up. fuck. fuck fuck fuck. fuck my broken phone. fuck pumpkin. fuck the cat. lying there, eyes slitted cause she's annoyed i woke her up. fuck. lying on my sheets. no, fuck me. my brother's sheets. now i have to clean it. oh, and she ate half the fern. fuck! and her food is all over the place. fuck! fuck fuckity fuck fuck. no, i don't mean that. let's make up. oh, and fuck bofa. "unfortunately, the position has been filled but we'll keep your records on file.." no, fuck that. fuck you guys. fuck me. fuck me for scheduling another interview so that i can't make this interview. no fuck that. fuck the fucker who told me the interview was going to be 2 hours long when it turned into 6.5 hours. and now i won't get either job. fuck me for caring about a fucking stupid retarded job that i can do with my eyes closed. fuck me for wanting acceptance from people who don't matter. except they might. fuck that. fuck my interview tomorrow. fuck job searches. fuck dumbass questions that don't tell anyone anything except to make your dumbass small penises feel important because your fucking grunt work is changing the world. oh yeah, cause it's so mind blowing and grand and deep, that job of yours. fuck my future my ambitions cause i don't really want to do anything. i want to sit. i want to be entertained. fuck this "man is made to work" shit. who the fuck made that up? cause some girl can't keep her hands off an apple and some guy can't keep his dick off a girl cause he can't live alone? what kind of bullshit is that? fuck. and what the fuck? i rent a movie and the fucking smiling bastard forgot to unlock the dvd case so now i have to walk my ass back to blockbuster and get him to do his job. how the fuck can you fuck up something as simple as unlocking the case? scan the fucking dvd, get the money, give me my receipt and unlock the case! what the fuck? i just wanted to watch a fucking movie! and fuck the building cause the elevators aren't working again. fuck this. so i have to walk down and walk up ten flights of stairs because someone didn't do their job. fuck me for complaining about free rent. josef haydn is not making me feel better. fuck this. fuck me trying to plan this vacation with a girl... oh fuck her. fuck that shit. crap. i wish i can still play the violin. fuck. fuck me cause i can't think about how great carolyn is, how she's understanding and spontaneous and caring and funny cause all i can think about is crap. fuck me. fuck her walk. why the hell does she have to walk so slow?and stop agreeing with me. stop saying you'll support whatever i do. stop saying you understand cause you don't. give me an opinion - you don't have to agree with me. fuck. say something instead of sighing. argh. dammit. fuck this. and why the hell does she smile all the time? and ask those dumb questions? what the hell. yes, you can spend time with me. yes, i'm annoyed. what the fuck? argh. what the fuck fuck fuck? fuck me. what the fuck is wrong with me? leave me alone. no don't do that. fuck? why the fuck do i have a better time with other people sometimes than her? fuck. can you just go home and let me think? shit. i'm going to hell and i'm going to be forever alone. cause i can't appreciate what i have. fuck. fuck me for not being interested. interest? nothing is interesting anymore. fuck this vacation we're planning. fuck me for thinking she's going to get on my nerves. fuck. why the fuck are you wearing that? what the fuck. yes. i remember. fuck my parents for doing this guilt trip again. yes. i didn't return your calls. can it be that i may busy for one day? yes, i went out. yes. fuck. fuck, yes, i'm a fucking inconsiderate son. fuck that. no i don't fucking think about you guys at all. fuck. you're worried about me? who the fuck cares? i don't worry about me. stop worrying about me. fuck. fuck me for not having anything together. what the fuck. fuck you guys who know what you want. how the hell do you know what you want? what makes you so sure? fuck your sneering confidence and your lust of things that are all meaningless. meaningless. fuck this. we all are chasing fucking nothing. fuck your money and fuck my money cause it only buys stuff. fuck this need to buy. fuck relationships cause they fill voids you can't fill yourself. fuck finding yourself. what the fuck are you so worked up about? don't fucking think about so much and just live your crappy ass life, not knowing is better than knowing, and die, fade to dust, worms eating your insides out cause it's all fuck. yeah, all. not all? sure? everything. you're happy now? you lead a happy life? what the fuck does happiness matter when you're fucking six feet under and you can't even feel the blackness? fuck religion for stirring up everything and givng you hope when you need truth. fuck freedom. free to what? to see the good inside of you? cause the only way to do that is to see the despicable murky grotesque you. that's right. that fucker is staring right back. slobbering. fuck your dreams cause they all amount to fuck. fuck this. nothing lasts cause money is spent and people grow up and love is shallow. the girl becomes fat and you become decrepit. fuck growing old. fuck you mom and dad for dying one day. fuck girls and their whiny gossips and fuck guys for their dumbass hard exteriors. fuck your need for security and your insufficient egos. killing is bad. love is good. what the fuck? pumpkin just came over and held out her paws. she wants me to hold her paws and shake. she licks my hand. i love this cat. she rolls over, plops down next to me, and sleeps. she's not going to wake up. i love this cat.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: if only girls knew DATE: 8/13/2003 05:00:14 PM ----- BODY:
if only girls knew what went on inside the testosterone-addled malfunctioning male brain. if only girls knew that half the things they think guys think about don't ever really occur because that space in the brain is filled up with such thoughts as: "wow. look at that butt wiggle." "i think i see pantylines" "wow. she's fat. she could be a decent lineman." "can't believe those raiders choked." "that was a good superbowl party, with them chicken wings." "i'm hungry." "man, look at that butt wiggle, like two buns. mmm. buns." i wish i knew what girls were talking about half the time.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: hrm DATE: 8/12/2003 03:13:47 PM ----- BODY:
"happiness is like peeing in your pants. everyone can see it and you can sure feel it." "josh. call your girlfriend. you're her gatekeeper." "'scuse me?" "creak. open. close. gatekeeper." "you big perv." "asians have a good way of relieving stress. tai chi. meditation. inner awareness." "what are you talking about? i'm all substance abuse. smoking. drinking. if i can't release stress on someone else, i release it on myself."
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: and you? DATE: 8/11/2003 11:07:50 PM ----- BODY:
i punched my hands in my jeans pockets today riding down the elevator to another monday morning and out came a wrinkly crumpled receipt; it musta been important cause it was in my left pocket (that's where i keep important stuff), but there was nothing on it. just a blank white void staring back at me. it musta been through the wash a couple of times, cause the edges were frayed and the fabric brittle but oh-never-mind, it had nothing on it. like me. worn out by another cycle, another time through the wash. rehashed. nothing to say really anymore because it's all the same shit. same same same like so. you hear people who chase their dreams and succeed all the time (never give up or give in! you can do it, too, just take the risk!) but when do you ever hear about those poor losers who chase their dreams and fail? those dumb blokes who are blinded by the sugary misleading (evil) dreams of being happy! who's really happy? for every single person who've made it, who are at the top of their games, there are thousands who fall by the wayside, dropping through the cracks, who become jaded and resentful at the lives they gave up for their dreams. burnt-out musician sitting on the a cardboard box playing to a testy audience waiting for the subway. snarling waitress with her plastic boobs, sagging now, waiting on pimple faced boys snorting ketchup through straws. balding writer writing copies for a radio jingle about lugnuts and a "new season for home improvement, clearance prices!" - all have chased their dreams. but at least they did it, huh? they tried, they know, they failed. no regrets, i'm sure. there are 8 million people in new york city, all trying to make it, to make something out of their measly gray lives. doormen, mistresses, students, bouncers, waiters, prostitutes, hairdressers. so what? cooks, valets, performers, writers, musicians, artists, models, bankers, accountants, tailors, butchers, delivery boys, pimps, politicians, thieves, oh and on and on. and how many, out of the 8 million, will realize their dreams? it's a cruel vicious world with only so much happiness - so much success - to go around. it's a zero sum game and not everyone is playing fair. who are you to say that you're any different than the defeated souls hovering on the crooked sidewalks? you're smart? thousands, millions of smart brains ready to shoot up your neurons up. sexy? models struggle to get by each day, hungry for a chance to show their breasts and their hips and their talents to producers for two-bit exercise infomercials. ambitious? humorous? there are thousands just like you, better possibly. it's all a game of luck. you're dealt the cards, and the it's all about ante up. it's about the risk of losing the house, of cutting yourself to the marrow, take what's given to you and shove it back at all the fuckers who have better hands, of throwing your chips on the table, of bluffing your way to another round, another day to play the game - it's about random acts of mercy by an ironic God who looks down at his folorn creation, wondering how the heck things are so fucked up, it's about the unexplainable, unidentifiable voice inside that tells you to keep on going and not look back or around even when everything is meaningless and pointless. or, it's about folding and taking that nice cubicle with an option for a office in five years, then perhaps that mortgage in seven years and so on. life is a big itch that i can't scratch.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: When I wake up.. I wanna be... DATE: 8/07/2003 04:35:47 PM ----- BODY:
Why do girls alienate other girls as a [sub]conscious social tactic? What is it about group mentality/belonging that drives them so? ___________________ I miss it. I miss the quiet unpredictability of each morning. The lucid sun clamoring to break free from the horizon, hazy sometimes, pallid and hidden by indignant rain clouds at times. The randomness of a strange bed and stranger views outside the window; the newness of carefreedom, of people milling about, getting ready to go places and do things and see everything. The pale clear nights with the universe opened, shining down twinkling revelations onto shimmering cool sand, waters lapping in a hidden bay, fireflies fluttering carelessly. The sizzling of sausages on a makeshift gas stove next to the silhouette of the tent next to gnarled trees, interrupted by the herky-jerky flash lights bumping into grass and leaves and logs at night. I miss the clear mountain air, the debate of ideals and the murmurs of ideas on a lonely trail; the burn in my calves climbing over boulders and streams, the vistas of glacial valleys and distant seas and craggy teenage peaks, the soft flowing yolky grassland set against azure skies and cotton clouds, and the dense mossy forests with silent springs and forgotten ponds. The religious sunsets burning purple and pink into the afternoon, the impatient waterfalls rushing somewhere, running over bedrocks and valleys and cliff faces; the warm sleeping bag thwarting the cold cold night. The weight of backpack and camera and dreams in a lively city; random cobblestone alleys and the ubiquitous botanical – the curved bridges - and the everdayness of people chugging along their paths, their lives set in the particular pattern of the city, waiting, wanting to be observed and so normal. The old cathedrals with its dusty memories, the lazy cafes and foodstands with strange delectable foodstuffs, the clamoring plazas and town squares and marketplaces – I miss the eyes of traveling, the ancient wizened eyes of grandmothers who’ve lived through weddings and funerals and events of their town, the exuberant eyes of teenagers wanting to get away, to start something new, to be like Amerika and MTV and New York, and the tired eyes of dads and moms coming home from work in their sad briefcases and sad meshed bags and lovely shoes. I miss the vividness of my dreams, of thoughts and ideas; on long bus rides and longer waits for a willing car – by the silent sea and the whirring train station, in meadows and valleys, on unbelievable hilltops and random uncaring girls – I miss the sights and sounds, smells and tastes and randomness of it all. I miss how each day is different and new, living isn’t confined to schedules, purposeless is forgiven, and purpose is in your hands and feet and the landscape before you. I guess I miss traveling.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: I love this thing DATE: 8/05/2003 02:22:37 PM ----- BODY:
Lemme just say I love my Palm Zire 71. I get to work cause the meeting is on my datebook. I call up the photographers cause their names are in my address book. I take down numbers and random sayings on my notepad. I snap pictures of random street performers on the way to work with the built-in camera. I hum to the playlist on my mp3 player. And I check off to-do lists for the day and write emails to long lost high school friends while I'm sitting between to fat people on the subway. And soon, I'll have fandango and books and and the whole office suite on this thing... wooowooo. Who needs women? If only this thing can give massages and connect to the net wirelessly, I'm set!
Oh Palm, how I love thee Thy metallic blue case So shiny and functional Thy gifts are bountiful Thy clean lines beautfiul How I love thee...
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Funny how it seems DATE: 8/05/2003 02:10:31 PM ----- BODY:
I work with a lovely cute creative director. She amuses me because she reminds me of my friend Mary. She has one of those peculiar toonlike Korean names that I like to say whenever I'm speaking to her. Yoosoon is, I think, forty years old but she still has an adorable way of speaking softly and sometimes with a gasp of exclamation at the most usual of things. I always check with her to see if I'm doing the correct thing and she always respond with upraised eyes and a quirky "Ok? Ok." or "I dunno... dun really know.." I suppose it's funny how certain traits never change in some people. I suppose I imagine what Yoosoon must have been like when she was a little girl, saying "Ohmagawde... ok? ok." I suppose I like working with her.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Fat lovely droplets DATE: 8/01/2003 12:34:58 PM ----- BODY:
Christen made dinner yesterday. Then, to rid me of the inevitable sluggish post-dinner coma, she suggested a walk. Cross Broadway and down to 79th and across to the West End. We dropped down a sloping driveway, passed a lighted cafe and went out to the riverside, under a misty shower of rain. Rain on our faces our fingers and our darkened forms. Drip drop plop. We walked across small tugboats with peeling paint, cracked and comforting in the silent waters, and onto the shining white yachts; past the drenched lawns and towards the outstretched canopy of a stooped elm. I wondered where all those ships have been to. Shabby. I said that as we sat on the bench facing the gleaming lights of Jersey. But not in a bad way. I'm in my 24th year, my year of shabbiness. Unpolished, roughed somewhat, and grandiosely uncaring and purposeless. For the past eight years or more, I've always seen a goal ahead, something that I should aim for, presumably to make myself and others happy. But now in this contented stage of shabbiness, I don't have a clear goal, and until recently, I haven't come to terms with the uncertainties, with the inevitable smudgeness and grime that accompany living without defined paths. The irony of this is that in the past days I have come close to a career decision, but at the same time, because of the months of shabbiness, I am ok with leaving frayed ends (incomplete and untidied) - train of thoughts - about my decision to go with this life or that. I've made the leap across the yawning ditch of faith. Mid-air and I'm contented. Because I know that I have to land somewhere, and that there are things in my control and things out of my control. Like the rain. It comes down happily now, not caring about the people milling about below. It comes through the silvery leaves and soaks the gnarled branches and makes a puddle about our shoes. There's a music to the rain, uncomplicated and random. Splosh splish drip - plunk. It glistens on her face and blurs my vision. I see myself fade out and a newer, shabbier, and more assured kid fade in.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Show me the money DATE: 7/31/2003 04:26:26 PM ----- BODY:
So I've worked a month and one week as a freelancer and haven't gotten paid yet. The secretary was helpful. "You get paid every two weeks, on the middle and last day of the month, except weekends, and in that case, blah blah..." So I get paid every two weeks? Great, how come I haven't seen anything? "You should go to Min, the finance guy," she says. I go to Min and he said, "Talk to Manabu, your boss." "I've talked to him already," I said, "and he said you guys figure it out." Yeah. Invoice? What invoice? I thought I was just going to turn in a timesheet? That's what the MD told me. "Uh, I dunno," said the finance guy. "But Katie, my boss, will be back Monday." That's funny. I spoke to Katie last week and she said I should talk to my secretary about it. Sometimes, woops isn't going to cut it.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Et tu? DATE: 7/31/2003 01:29:04 PM ----- BODY:
I interviewed a model for a shoot today. I asked her age cause we're looking for girls 25 and up. No matter which way I asked, she wouldn't answer. "You look good" I said. "Give me a smile" I said. "25-35" she replied, smiling. Ok. I think it must be weird to have people take pictures of you all the time. "Turn around. Look this way. Tilt your face more." I guess you get to a point where you don't care who knows your face and your body and what not. She looks good for someone that old. Tucked and crimped.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: UU DATE: 7/31/2003 11:58:16 AM ----- BODY:
Boobs. I see boobs everywhere.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Moving on DATE: 7/30/2003 09:51:47 PM ----- BODY:
- Investment banking (miserable but gadgetry is a plus) to business school to finance shop (miserable possibly) to corporate strategy to own company (failure possibly) - Investment banking (blah blah) and/or finance job to business school to public policy job in developing nations - Freelance agency producer (hand-to-mouth) to advertising producer (boredom and/or meager living possibly) - Freelance agency producer to film production assistant (non-livable wages for eons) to film production (failure is big) - Architecture school (five years or less) to architect (meager wages for a long time without assurances of desired position) to own company - Journalism school (no experience so most likely a crappy position is needed before) to journalist (lifelong position possibly) to editorship and/or analyst job - Writer (uh huh) - History masters/phD (long stint in academia) to public policy possibly - Depend on mom and dad till they die then maybe mooch off brother Things to consider: Time usage/waste, purchasing power now versus later, purchasing power priority/non-priority, life outside of work v. work complementing life, travel, dog, geographical preference, parents, personal welfare and happiness now, tomorrow, and in the long-run (risk)
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: The perks of nothing DATE: 7/30/2003 09:29:34 PM ----- BODY:
I sat and stared at the grinning ivory totem, gleaming and bare. One hour. One hour and nothing to write. All that is going on and nothing to say. I don't want to say anything. Cause I run in circles and everything that I say has already been said - by me. I'm meandering in this sweaty season of self-indulgence; I make attempts, oh sure, to grasp at any thoughts that might be of substance, but plainly, my forte lies not with thoughts but with thinking, and thinking gets me to nothing cause thoughts are all that matter. In this case, anyways. My head blots. It is full of childhood dreams and adult cynicism. Carved from mishappened and bloodied thoughts. I should know better. I want to know. I wanta fly and float and be with you somehow, I wanta move I wanta dream cause I get psyched from begotten dreams and I wanta know better. I want to see beyond the present and maybe, maybe see grace somewhere. I wanta ask Him, what is it you see, what is it I should do? Choices are my shackles, and if I can only shake this dammed confidence. Grievious. This is my recipe for disaster: confidence stirred and shaken with just a dash of hope in better things to come. I can't get away from it, cause it's the hope that eats at me, that pulls me in impossible directions. I fume and simmer but it gets me nowhere nothing not one thing. I'm still here, but something's got to give.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Doubtful DATE: 7/27/2003 10:54:08 PM ----- BODY:
Seems nice, huh? Yeah. So what's up? I don't know. Should I would I will I? Who? Me? What's all this? Maybe possibly could be hmm. Yes. No. Sure.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: Pack-aged DATE: 7/27/2003 02:07:01 AM ----- BODY:
I'm all packed and ready to go, Forward, onward, let's go It's the same destination The same way, it's the same how Trust me, hon, it's just better this way Cause I got nowhere to go
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 7/24/2003 08:49:26 PM ----- BODY:
i saw this poem on the subway: there are some unafraid to show how life has beaten them up, or down; they sit on the streets head in hands or stare anesthesized into dumbfounding spaces, crowd, rain others choose familiar artifice and carry their defeat like money they don't have to spend yet
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 7/23/2003 03:46:32 PM ----- BODY:
Let us stop looking to the sky Blaming fate and twisting ourselves Instead of persevering in self-resolve Hating not today or tomorrow but Immersing in the escape of now
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 7/20/2003 09:52:54 PM ----- BODY:
She has a funny way of living. It’s four pm, Sunday afternoon in Central Park. A hazy bright afternoon of roving pigeons and silent rowboats on the soupy pond, a lazy summertime afternoon of couples in embrace and children in play; a yellow New York afternoon of people doing anything anywhere anyhow because they wanted to—to explore, to dream, to procrastinate, to create. I’m walking with Nine and it’s her last weekend in New York. “If only you didn’t go on that stupid Australia trip,” she said. “You’re the one who’s leaving,” I said. “If you came earlier,” she retorted. “You’re the one who’s leaving,” I replied. And it’s true. I suppose I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time with this girl in the past couple of weeks, for reasons still uncertain, except for the fact that her company is pleasant. And I suppose that in this city of steel and grit and life, companionship is a novel scarcity. Her circle of friends and acquaintances seems so different from mine, like a sitcom that I’ve watched for some time but haven’t understood completely; and yet, her views on the characters and the plot are completely at odds with the ways that I think she would see those situations and circumstances. And so we talk this afternoon, of girls and their guys, of girls and their quarrels, of girls and their wants. We talked of nothing, of course. Of cheerio contests and women body-builders, of traveling and men and Adam’s apples and blubber. But also of possibilities and whys, the whys that exists in relationships, those questions of how and when that play with each other whenever boys and girls talk about each other, like electrons swirling around an unseen and unresolved nucleus. We walked across a jazz ensemble jazzing away on 67th street. It was a mellow tune in contrast with the breezy playful summer day, but there was mischievousness about it, a lack of seriousness in the way the trio made fun of themselves. And I suppose that’s why Nine made good company, because it was in contrast with my life, my inner fascination with the weighty concerns of a twentysomething. She pokes fun, she mocks, she reduces the complexities of the structural problems of my quarter-life while exaggerating and enlarging them so. There’s an irreverent spirit that tugs Nine along; a sense of self-deprecation among her complaints, but it is through her complaints that I see my own complaints for what they are (oddly important only to me), and in that way, her ministrations jolts my sensibilities and gives me that glorious creative destruction/ordered chaos that moves me to act. I know. The sun continued his descent, arching slowly so over the tiny people below. The park seems emptier now, lighter, and even a little slower. I wonder what next week will be like. I’ll be in the park on Sunday again, but the differences of the days ahead when matched with the days of now are stunning. I’ll be in the same park, the same patch of worn lawn—I’ll pass the same people groups of rollerbladers and families and couples, the baseball games and the hot dog stands, and I’ll be writing again, hopefully. But today, with all of its similarities to past days and future days, is singular because of minutiae, of the events and people leading up to this moment, because of expectations about the hours ahead, and because of the realizations of now. Deep stuff, huh?
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 7/07/2003 09:41:56 PM ----- BODY:
Matt's wedding was great. Makes me wanna go and get hitched. Ehh. Maybe not, but I'm happy for him. And her. It's been a while since I've been happy for anyone truly. I'm surprised he still have the cognition to go through the ceremony after three nights of poker and scotch... In any case, I did meet his kid cousins, boys who totally reminded me of, well, myself when I was goofy and crazy.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 7/06/2003 07:41:19 PM ----- BODY:
Starched white coats and neat black bowties greeted me as I sat down at Newark’s Sullivan’s steakhouse. Forty minutes to spare before the plane takes off. Busy servers paced back and forth, dragging aromas of grilled steaks and sautéed onions, of butter and pepper across the brightly lit room; they walked stiffly with trays of crab cakes and lemon drenched grouper and steamed lobster on upturned hands. A Latino girl with streaked hair cleared finished tables with sincere briskness. A middle aged couple sat across from me, poking their salad gingerly and looking beyond the vast windows towards the lumbering 737s making their way towards the grey takeoff strip. Their Vuitton bags sat stranded in the aisle, leaning against each other like a bored monument to tired travelers. Behind them sat two hotshots in grey pinstriped suits. One was gesturing jerkily, stabbing at his french fries while delivering rapid-fire commands into his PDA cell phone. His partner stared straight ahead blankly while he sipped a beer, fingering his cufflinks. Their shoes were amazingly polished. I was the only one wearing a t-shirt. I wondered why I was here, if I should be eating at all, except for the fact that I wanted a steak sandwich. Doubtless there will be food on the plane. And yet, here I am, acting like I was still one of them. One of the select: a class in which success meant financial independence, where $30 lunches were the norm, and cravings were always satisfied. Except I can’t afford to be like them any longer. I identified more with the waiters who blended into the background – the cooks who were laughing in the kitchen – and not with the businessmen in their leather attaches or the vacationers heading off to whitewashed beaches. It dawned. The days of expense accounts and five-star dinners are over, and I have to adjust to the want of material things because I have, in good faith, rejected the need for material satisfaction. I can’t buy just because I want: gadgets, meals, clothes – affection. It’s because I look for happiness in totality that I have to reject the material part that has made me happy at the expense of everything else. As the planes took off, each aiming for a different destination, crossing but never meeting in the vast canopy sky, I became morose and brooded with St. Agustine: “For it is error to follow anything that brings us not to that which we have the will to attain. And so far as one errs the more in the way of life so much the less is he wise; because he is so much the more remote from the truth, in which the highest good is discerned and held. But it is by the attaining and the holding of the highest good that one is made happy, which, beyond controversy, is the aim of us all.” My life, my decisions and all of its consequences, will be entirely my own. We all live alone, and whatever we do, or however we think, our lives are individual corpuscles floating in the immense infinite space of possibilities. I was born alone, and into death I go alone. Since birth, I have been led to believe that there was a support structure of family and friends and love, that there were examples to follow – that my living was in relation somehow to others like me, and I had thought naively that I could emulate, that I could learn from others who had gone before me. I learned to walk with encouragement, to speak with help, and to think with lessons. But in all those things, it was I who performed the task. My own two feet, my own tongue, and my own mind – I did everything in solitude. And in the stark airport restaurant, I was utterly alone. There is no roadmap for the decisions that I make. There may be similar circumstances in which those who have gone before have endured, but it’s never complete, and it’ll never replace the experiences and choices that are uniquely mine. I thought of my brother and his parties at Sotheby’s and Christies’, of my parents and their struggles during political upheavals, of countless peers who are at private equity shops and business schools – and I thought of how amazingly my life will be different from theirs. Not because I want it to be but because I can’t see it any other way. I took this all in, and like breathing rarefied air for the first time, there was a suffocating realization that I am alone in a strange life, one that I did not expect or was adequately prepared for. We all think we are wise. The philosophers because they seek truth; the businessmen because they control money; the politicians because they debate justice and civic responsibilities; and the creatives because they are slaves to beauty. But I know that I am not wise, nor am I happy. I have glimmers of what could be, but sometimes, it is as if I reach blindly in the dark for the walls of my cage while everyone else is in the light. And so I retreat. I take refuge in the immediate present, the reactions and not the foresights. I surround myself with books and music and photos – I lose myself in stories and songs and pictures, hoping that this lonely path leads somewhere, trusting that I have graduated beyond simple wants and expectations, and knowing that I have a lot to learn and re-learn. It’s funny. I remember when my high school buddies – how we would sit late at nights on our cars, smoking, and think of how we would be when we became twenty-five. Would we find the same jokes funny; would we be rich or rebellious? Would we make it and survive? Would things stay the same? And as we go on with our lives, will we be happy? Now at the age of twenty-four, I remembered that those times were curiously happy times, and that growing up didn’t feel as empty, decisions were easy, and that we always believed in making it. I suppose growing up has lost some of its luster, and as we grow, we grow apart. And yet, I have the hope that we will grow into ourselves, and like our existence in which we did not have a say, so too do we not have the choice but to grow, to learn, and to do those things ably.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 6/25/2003 11:23:48 PM ----- BODY:
yesterday: 4 hours in record studio giving direction on radio spot to actors and recorder. 6 hours in office going over paperwork, talent release forms and equipment requests. 2 hours in tv studio editing tv spot. 2 hours soul searching. today: 4 hours in tv studio going over color editing and tape to tape. color editor just worked with bon jovi on his music video... got to see pics of bon jovi before they erased the wrinkles on his face. gave opinions about tv scenes. 4 hours learning the ropes, getting the CDs of the radio spot sent to the client and our own internal creatives, and going through the storyboard for the new big account. production companies just sent in director bids for the new commercial, so tomorrow.. go over the videos and maybe pick a director by the end of the week. set up conference call for tomorrow's re-record of a radio spot. am i happy with this job? i got out at six pm today, and spent the night in east village. tomorrow, i'm starting my contact list of directors, their agents, and production companies. and check my ego and material ambitions at the door. i'm not sure yet.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 6/25/2003 12:38:45 AM ----- BODY:
I'm on the chase, not knowing where to go, or what to bring, or who to meet. I know what I've left behind: monetary security, family stability, prestige and the safe confines of my ego. And ahead? Who knows, dreams that change with every new insight and conversation. I've become an associate producer. It's a hard choice, certainly. But I'm agonizing because I don't know if it's the right choice. There are people who can't do anything else but what their passion dictates; you hear that about actors and writers all the time. But I'm a part of the other group, the ones that have choices. And choices are definitely more daunting to face. I know I am good at finance. I know I can succeed at it. I know I'm not happy in it. Now. But what if? What if happiness in the present doesn't matter when you can provide for your loved ones in the future? Instead, I'm stepping into a highly coveted and scarce job, yes, but a job without a saftety net. One wrong step, one miscue from luck and I'm tossed into the trashbin of so many college dropouts and wanna be creatives, who only get bitter and desperate at 35 because their life is spend in pursuit of ideals which fail to materialize. It's a sickening thought for me. More so because I know I can compete with my peers, those lawyers and doctors and engineers - those successful entrenched upper middle class peers... but I like to think I'm doing something different and brave and bold, something that appeals to my soul and my creativity - to my desire to find more meaning out of life besides a paycheck and the security of .. well, being secure. But maybe I'm deluding myself. Maybe I like to fantasize and live in this world where the P.Diddy or Rob Reiner are possibilities and not freaks of statistics. Maybe I like the idea that I'm a rash independent creative when all I should be is to be smart and take a job that will give me a house in the surburbs by the time I'm 28 and a Porsche by 34 - I mean, one has to think about retirement nest eggs, right? So I don't know. Faith and a blind understanding that somehow things will turn out ok. That I'm smart enough to take care of myself now. That my life isn't a game any longer.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 6/20/2003 09:25:19 AM ----- BODY:
People moving about pondering about waiting about fretting about. Airport terminals are like cocoons, just a pit stop before the madcap race begins; where are they going? Somewhere important, as bald men in pinstriped suits and gray haired women reading lingerie magazines and kids with dirty unlaced shoes (all staying for just an infinitesimal short stay at my terminal) are going somewhere. I, like many other quarter-lifers, am going nowhere cause I am in such a rush reach the plateau of my contentment - but nothing is settled, nothing is decided and nothing doing. I want everything to be a perfect Raphael madonna and yet I’m still grappling with an angular cubist Picasso. All upside down inside out inside my head and not very reflective of the natural external scenes. It’s all about the scenes, you know! When I was in middle school I wanted to be in high school where kids have cars and study important stuff (like European history and Anatomy). When I was in college I debated existentialism on oak tree-d lawns and finance in cedar paneled lecture rooms, but I wanted to get to real life so I can get a real apartment with a real bed and a real entertainment system (plasma screen and Bose surround sound!) – real drapes and real stainless steel kitchen – all paid for by a real exciting job. And six months ago in the depths of a hellish job all I wanted was to be anywhere but my window office and my glamorous lifestyle – my four bedroom house (complete with a studio and a backyard with a gazebo) and my flatscreen HDTV and XBox and my lonely weekend at martini lounges and my $200 dinners. Three months ago I was reveling alone on mountaintops and next to blue beaches and under the Great Barrier Reef – I was free from corporate-dom and its insidious politics, but yet, the uneasy thought of coming back to the States won’t let go of my sensibilities - the thought of unresolved careered ambitions and the lack of, oh yes, a job, weighed heavily on my uplifted soul; and more, now I wasn’t so lonely, cause traveling meant meeting other travelers, and travelers (especially backpackers) had no walls or boundaries or reason not to be affable and communal and uncomplicated; I also found time to have a girlfriend and she was great and now it wasn’t about work all the time but more about people and places and things that made living livable, and yet, and yet there was the nagging doubt, the lump of want, like an itch that subsides with the distractions of superfluous activity but is aggravated with incessant inactivity. And so, here I am, inactive most of the time and thinking, man, I want more. More than an attentive and supportive girlfriend, more than time off, more than just a job and just a life and just a city – but what am I talking about? More? I’m living in New York and leisure time I have in abundance and money I have in spite of worries and companionship I have even if love is stillborn. What do I have to complain about? I should be writing and be young and glad! Get it together! Deal! Life are but moments strung together, like flickering lanterns, an ocean of impressions and emotions, lapping onto the shore of eternity. I confront change by embracing the movement, the need to want more – everything changes, and I concede to the imperious fickleness of me, of my environment. Chase the moon.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 6/18/2003 10:32:20 AM ----- BODY:
9 am and I'm shifting the weight onto my right leg at the Lexington station between Park and Third. What a dreary bleary day. I'm looking at the stooped figures stretched taut by undistinguished lives, the weight of their worlds, of smudge-faced kids and tired rents and rote mute sex - of grey cubicles of greyer departed dreams of hurried lunches at the office - weighing on their sagging shoulders, peering into the gaping tunnel mouth, waiting for the E train to come, to whisk them to oblivion, to their oblivious lives. I shuffled closer to the edge. Dark and dank and dripping. White haired men in their striped suits stand erect next to sinking middle-aged women whose caked faces stood immovable to the realities of time. A black man with neatly pressed trousers and a blue solid tie read the entertainment section of the paper while a Hispanic girl twiddled with her greasy stringy hair, her cheap rubber sneakers squeaking on the stained wet floor. Kids in baggy T-shirts and mothers in worn pumps and gay men in tight hugging jeans. And I'm standing with them, all tired people, tired of a morning with nothing to talk about nothing to smile about nothing to think about. Then this fella comes. All five feet four inches of him - brown skinned and dark eyes - throws down his case, leans against the dirty wall, scans the platform, and begins to play. Ode to Joy. Ludwig Beethoven stopped by the 53rd street station, lower platform, third section, and he was all about himself. He was all over the insolent refrain, the steady steps of major notes, the lilting cascading golden motif. But the fella pays no notice to Beethoven (cause he was just playing his song) and just keeps on playing the mellow yellow notes, a little vibrato here, a quick dash to an archipeggio, still andate but oh so sweet, so delectable in the curved womb of the subway. The violin was throbbing, casually spilling out thoughts of ecstasy and liberty and redemption and the tired people couldn't help themselves but to look up. The vacuous pupils brightened cause the day was brightened. Bent figures straightened because the morning was straightened. And Beethoven shuffled off cause in all his symphonies, all his blaring brass parts and timpanies and celloes and basses - in all of that - he couldn't compare, he couldn't comprehend the symphony that was before him; that of a gruff steady single violin, holding on to the rivers of melodies while the orchestra of a New York morning swelled to accompany... the screeching of the train comes haltering into the station, the pittering thumps of a thousand passengers rushing in and out of sliding doors, summer coughs and a crazy homeless rant, muffled sirens above ground and disparate laughs and earnest conversations below ground, elbows brushing against each other and shoes sliding and stomping and clackity-clacking on cement pavements - it was an earnest morning, a hopeful morning drowned in reality, bagel breakfasts and reheated dinners and the loneliness of watching re-runs and reality shows and late night talk shows. It was all a symphony of sounds and thoughts, come crashing together in this curved moment. Maybe living is simple after all.
-------- AUTHOR: j.fisher TITLE: DATE: 6/16/2003 07:47:39 PM ----- BODY:
woa. who are you guys? voyeurs and peeps and pseudo-intelligentistas. malcontents and neurotics. bubbly fubbly anime loving fiends living in your own weirded out worlds, fantastical dreamers of dragon swords and starships, of happy hazy days and what? self-help loving desirers of completion? or maybe not. maybe type As yowassup with tha shinitz down wit dat, maybe PDA toking, bong smoking, semi-charmed wonderguys aiming for golden towers. where are you going? how did you stop here? stop. stop. look. see me yet? i didn't think so. look harder. see yourself? kick back, listen to that jazz rolling off, bumping yellowing and grinding over... there ya go. much love, me.