3/27/2014

Thank You, Jaden Smith

It's no secret.
There's something magically prophetic about Jaden Smith.


The plethora of pithy adages that spill from the young phenom's mind with such laconic elegance are almost too good to be true. Their unwavering and insurmountable wisdom is something of proverb, of legend, and I think the word "prophet" would not be an incorrect interpolatory noun to use when discussing Jaden Smith. The internet is somewhat of an inchoate collective unconscious (shout out to Gambino on this one)--a reservoir for all of our latent anxieties and passions to be shared with the world. A place (an entity) where every common emotion can be united in an immaterial web of communion with almost everyone around the world. It is a mass storage for our collective knowledge and experience, our universal spirit that we created out of the need to be united. At the center of this web, we get these prophetic quips from Jaden being tweeted and shared instantaneously with millions of others around the world. If that sort of religious communion isn't something miraculous, then I don't know what is. Instead of being subsequently codified like previous religious texts (i.e. the Bible) these truths are being shared with this New Age universal spirit directly. The wisdom of this young prophet is not something we read about secondhand in later texts, but something we are witnessing and experiencing right now together! Wake up people!

These Jadenian maxims are more relevant to our generation than nearly anything else I've witnessed. I think the most appropriate comparison I can make for this young prophet is none other than Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche was a fabulous wordsmith with the ability to craft otherwise incomprehensible philosophical ideologues into beautiful poetic prose. My favorite work of his, a story I often turn to during my most confusing times, would be Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The satirical (but not apocryphal--it's completely serious), sanctimonious epic uses the traditional scriptural form to provoke an exegetical process for interpretation. At the heart of this story is the lesson of self-actualization. The realization that one must reject church AND state in order to become fully realized, self-reliant, and self-aware. Like most religious teachings, the story is geared towards spiritually awakening the individual of practice, but instead of doing this through ideological indoctrination, Zarathustra teaches us to achieve this through ideological rejection: dismissing any objective truth in favor our own subjective knowledge. In other words, learning to live our life based on what we experience instead of based on the template prescribed to us. When the camel is able to slay the dragon of THOU SHALT (an obvious symbol for extrinsic oppression), he becomes a lion--no longer a beast of burden, but an independent beast.


Starting to see parallels? The reverent verses tweeted by Jaden are not unlike other canonical precepts found in texts like Thus Spoke Zarathustra or even the Bible.

But what does that mean if we aren't willing to listen?

Well, all I know is that these prophets--these divine messengers--are merely a catalyst for our spiritual guidance and earthly success. If we aren't open to heeding the knowledge they have to spread, then the knowledge itself becomes less than useless. My advice to you all, as a disciple of Jaden Smith would be to open your mind to the wisdom they are sharing AND apply it to your life! It's one thing to hear the information, it's another thing to actually glean something from it. These prophets aren't an end all to our existential endeavors, they are merely divine liaisons. Just like Zarathustra helped us see, it's up to us as individuals to really make a difference.

You can watch all the inspirational videos you want and believe the motivational quotes you read are making an impact on your life, but the truth is that you're not doing anything until you become a materialized reflection of this universal wisdom. Jaden Smith is just there to help us along the way. Unless you act for yourself, these extrinsic motivators will do nothing for you. It's easy to belive in something someone else is doing.
It's not so easy to believe in yourself.
But you can.
I am not even a dimple in Jaden Smith's repertoire of verse. But that's okay.
The truth is, we all can't be prophets. We all aren't born enlightened, but that doesn't mean we can't achieve the same enlightenment that they have. Why else would they be here to help if it were impossible? That wouldn't make any sense.

Jaden is our prophet and we need to pay attention to what he has to say.

I'll leave you with my favorite Jadenian aphorism:


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3/18/2014

Dear Drake or Drake Bell:

I have a reproduction of American Gothic by regionalist artist Grant Wood on my wall. Honestly, I prefer Thomas Hart Benton over Grant Wood, but something about the iconic grandeur of American Gothic makes it so desirable.

For reference:



Thomas Hart Benton, the real deal.

And my American Gothic Poster:




The painting (American Gothic) portrays an idealized caricature of Americana and decontextualizes the implicit values associated with middle-class America, making an implied correlation to late medieval/early gothic religious iconography. What does that mean to us?

Well, first of all, I want to clarify that the glory of the Renaissance is a story made up by the Italians. No offense to Italians, but the renaissance isn't the pinnacle of art and intelligence we seem to think it is. The Middle Ages, however, seem to be shrouded in bitter disregard without further elucidation, left to a stock portrayal characterized by a wicked plague and even wickeder Crusades.

The trident in the hand of that maudlin farmer tells a similar story. The stoic, conservatively dressed, bird-faced man stands next to his presumed wife, far from brevity without the slightest hint of movement. Looking at the couple is like twentieth century anagogy: a stained glass nightmare intended for spurious prayer and feigned transcendence. A picture of what you don't want but tell yourself you do.

Today I sat in the library and skimmed over some poems I had already read. I sat facing the window for reasons I have yet to discern but as I let my eyes wander up from the page to the glass pane intermittently I began to imagine a cloud of yellow smoke devour the cityscape. Maybe a monster was triumphing through the town, breathing fire and Spitting Venom (Modest Mouse reference up in here), rejoicing in the cacophony of shrill screams that dissolve into the smoke-bomb haze. The lady in front of me was a sad goddess from some ancient civilization and I could see tiny moles crawling out of her pores. Tiny, blind MOLES.

I recorded this all in my notebook:

in response to "I thought of ships, of armies, hanging on..."

I hate the word juxtaposition/
juxtapose,
(and sweet John Belushi
is still a ghost)
I make up chances that I don't take
(in my head).
I could have told you
something, whatever,
but a chance missed
is the death of matter
(because) you didn't give
something, whatever,
the opportunity
to exist.
You can say
something took it's place, but
graves are just a reminder
of what isn't there.

I want you to understand what I'm saying but I'm too afraid to actually tell you, and far too lazy to explain.

(maybe god can't hear you, but you can hear yourself).
After all, who are you really praying for?

An ideal is a collective effort, a collective lie. We all collude to uphold a false notion because we're afraid that, if we don't, we will slip through the cracks of society (am I being cliché, or am I being serious?). So we become rats--essentially moles that can see. That lady was a symbol for something, and we're blindly digging ourselves out of something, into an umpromised afterlife.

If you're wondering why I brought up the Middle Ages, you probably missed the point, but that's okay. Everything we know about them is whatever we're all willing to believe, collectively. I can tell you that Grant Wood put that supple, I mean supplicating, house in the background with the pointy ass window that makes it look like a cathedral so we're left to ponder what's inside, but we all already know it's as empty as the eyes of that knockoff American couple. That's capitalism.
I mean that's religion.

We're sinners in the hands of an angry God,
like tribute money in the hands
of a starving martyr.

but I guess you can at least choose which God you want to believe in.

If you're not full of shit, you're not full.

I have a reproduction of American Gothic by regionalist artist Grant Wood on my wall. It's printed on cheap poster paper and held up by staples.
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3/09/2014

Does anybody truly love David Spade?

Yes. Yes they do.

 But what does that mean?

 Well, take a look at this:




















It's a sculpture I made of/for David Spade.

And this:




















 It's a self-portrait I drew as David Spade.

 My problem with contemporary society (and it really is my only problem with it) is what I call the magnetic-social-bandwagon, or The Pop-culture Vacuum. People, generally, will always exist in a state of psychological resistance between their reality and their idealized version thereof. It's the same sort of thing with David Spade, who is a perfectly fine musician. Whenever our ideal becomes threatened by reality, we immediately dismiss it and reject any sort of internal compromise. Have you ever noticed that people will try to attract other poeple by materializing in themselves what they are attracted to, and it eventually backfires? That's because of this cognitive dissonance we beset upon ourselves. Our idealized versions of reality our displaced unto us by external sources, and we wrongly accept them as our own. How many fairy-tales did you watch growing up that overrided your reality with false expectations of happiness? If your happiness is contingent upon a false reality, your happiness will never be. When a facsimile of reality supercedes the experience of our own reality it causes intrinsic friction because what we think we want and what we actually want are two completely different things. When you see David Spade, what happens? You associate him with contemporary society's connotation and you accept their portrayal despite the fact that you love David Spade.

That's right. If you're a David Spade hater you better reevaluate your entire life because you may very well be living in a false reality. David Spade is a sweet bro and there's a reason he's as successful as he is: everyone loves him. And love is nothing to be ashamed of. If you don't love someone because they don't live up to society's supplanted idealization then you are in for a rude awakening. The truth is, nobody lives up to society's artificial ideal because it is a volatile, adaptive entity. Go look in the mirror and you'll see the frowning face of Frankenstein's monster.

This morning I was wrestling with my Karma (I won btw) and in the midst of all that discord, I decided to write a freaking poem about David Spade but also secretly about a girl but also secretly about me (OMG right? Because poetry is like using one thing to talk about another thing but also secretly about another thing and that makes it good). Check it:

      Do you think this is a joke?
Only on the surface,
but then again I was tired.
Light can come in any color
it passes through
and yet we still can't
figure out why the stars make us sad.
Maybe if you were trasnparent
it would make more sense.
Maybe if you weren't too busy
trying to shine you could
let yourslef reflect the light
that has already been given.
Please.
Very rarely will you--
      what was that?
It doesn't matter,
we're both fighting for
something else so
neither of us will win.
You can ask whatever you want
but that doesn't mean
you're asking the right thing.

I got out of bed and twisted the stick-thing that makes the blinds open up like weird plastic eyelids that shoot sunlight like cyclops' lazer-eyes in X-men. There was a weird shaped shadow on my John Belushi Animal House poster that looked like some imaginary dinosaur. They were here first, you know. We're made out of dinosaur dust and yet we sweep the floors because we see our environment as an extension of our success and status. Ugh. I realized I never defined the Pop-Culture Vacuum for you little guys so here it goes:

No matter what happens naturally, there's always going to be external interference. The pinnacle of cultural success is only achieved through rejecting oneself. Popularity is conditional. It relies on the objective awareness of society as a whole and can only move as fast as people can reject themselves in favor of someone else's ideal.  My mom used to sing me a song about this dinosaur toy I had and that memory is one of my favorite things. It's this plastic dipolodocus and I still have it. Dinosaur nostalgia is exactly what I'm talking about. Once something gets superceded by something else, the pop-culture vacuum pulls us forward against our will. We will eventually be fossils of our society. We're already shells.

David Spade is a chill man. He is who he is because of who loved him. Remember that.

I have a great-friend in Arizona, one in like vermont or something, one in Albuquerque and another in England. What does that mean? Or is that the wrong question?

It's not a matter of who loves you, but who you love.
As long as there is someone out there to love David Spade, he will continue to be David Spade.
The universe is funny like that--everything has to be in equal correspondance, and that's something you have to figure out for yourself. If you want something, maybe you should try giving it first.

So I'll leave you guys with this question (but it may not be the right one):
Who's your David Spade?
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3/02/2014

Concerning Guy Fieri: the Lead Singer of Smash Mouth

My mom has been really into figuring out our family history lately. She'll sit at her laptop and commit to novice Google searches of dead people with funny names that she's convinced we're related to. I was lying my way through an essay about caste disparity in Pre-Colombian Mesoamerica (or maybe it was for my other class, I don't know, I just rememeber I referenced Big Willie Style--if you haven't heard that album you should check it out. It's not bad) and I continuously overheard her vocalize her enthusiasm about those internet ancestors. Those graves. I couldn't figure out if she was trying to talk to either my dad or me, in hopes one of us would reciprocate her suppressed familial anxiety or she was merely unconsciously having unbridled outbursts of authentic joy scrolling through dead names but it made me feel very uncomfortable. It made me feel shame, a teeming shame about myself because I was engaging in the same passive existence as she. I was a dog, submitting myself to The Great Master in exchange for pity. I wanted the infinite force of the universe to recognize my place in its growing corpus and spare me the dread of my blessed context. I wanted one of those giant Olmec heads (okay, so it was the mexican essay) to unlock its stone jaw and swallow me so I could slide down the spiritual tunnel form whence I came and deep into the underworld where the Molemen live.

The Molemen are a species of earth-dwelling creatures that choose not to see, but rather they dig. They dig immense underground tunnels and hide away from us crust-walkers patiently awaiting our implosion, our final demise so they can surface like a war submarine (Moses split the red Sea, but Jesus walked on water so...) and finally walk the Earth where the dusty footprints of last year's Jordan's dissapear in the decadence. There is a Molaman at the university I go to who lives in the utitlity tunnels snaking around the campus. I know he's there because I've seen him; he likes to come out at night and kidnap unsuspecting victims to take back to his lair.

Here's a visual approximation of the Moleman:

(If seen please call COPS)

Anyways, one of my good-guy friends and I went searching for the Moleman, unsuccessfully. This friend was the kind that would have your back no matter what. The kind that would buy you some beef jerky and sip on Soda Shaq because he was just an all aound guy who wanted to chill. One time, this chill friend and I (and this decently chill girl) went to go see SMASH MOUTH LIVE IN THE FLESH. The car ride there was nothing but pure zeal (the very same sort of zeal my mom had trying to claim her past). We sang some tunes, some of those sweet, sweet weed songs, and talked about the zeitgeist in some pretty cool shirts. Did I mention that the one and only Sugar Ray himself was also playing with Smash Mouth? Yeah, we were pumped to say the least.

Here's a pic of me and Guy Fieri:

(note the frosted tips. Hella cool!)

There are very few things a true man will remember from his lifetime. Every tick of the clock that leaves us with nothing but a thin, silky vibration travelling through space is like an earth worm, crawling through the bedding of a newly planted garden (are you guys picking up on my well-placed, subtle motifs yet?). In the digital age, most of us don't use analog watches or old-fashioned clocks anymore and have supplanted our traditional quantitations of the world with intangible digitalization. My mom searches the ends of the internet for any sort of glimpse at self-discovery while I recapitulate the speculations we have about a once great civilization. My phone buzzes.

Beneath the layers of dirt, the skin-cell dust that mixes with the smog and whistles in the wind, we find the molecules who were there to bear witness to such great events. A sunset sacrifice atop a great pyramid, or just a trio of friends, driving into the very same color scheme ready to listen to some good Smash Mouth music.

It's there; we're always going to be there.


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