Spaghetti Westerns

Riddle me this batman:

What happens when someone thinks, feels, speaks, and understands how to communicate feeling to another human being? Tricky, right.

The great Tom Robbins once said, "If you're honest, you sooner or later have to confront your values. Then you're forced to separate what is right from what is merely legal. This puts you metaphysically on the run. America is full of metaphysical outlaws."

The world is full of metaphysical black hats who chase the white hats through imaginary western towns, into whiskey perfumed saloons, and out towards the sunset where they both ride onto infinity. We're tempted by black hats. We're tempted to think that we need to give something. That we need to fix their damn problems, or accommodate for the "people that they are"--those unchanging characters for whom we've sacrificed patiently because we thought everything really was a matter of patience. But learning through suffering gets old after a while. And so do black hats, Czech revolutionaries, and laughably intelligent people muttering, "heres to looking at you kid" in shady back alley bars.

White hats don't seem to exist in the real world. They're trapped under the letters of a Remington SL3 typewriter struggling to burst from pages sticking them to the inside of a book. And maybe thats why they're appealing. They're trapped. Their words are bound to the sentences, shackled by commas and periods, and given occasional free steps with an end dash to nowhere. Even though we read their words over and over, somehow they seem to defy impossibility and say something new. They think beyond themselves, to change. Or maybe it because they're not afraid to say something new. The sentences holding them back are just disguises. Somewhere in the stillness of those two-dimensional pages lives a dreaming, breathing, real human being. more real than any two-bit black hat slinking through the streets in search of tobacco fog and whiskey.

So, batman, what happens when you run into a living breathing white hat?

You put it on.

on Carlyle and Being in the World

So it's Christmas time now, and we're home. Tweedle dee is in Arizona, Tweedle Dum is in Novato, and the gender-bending Alice is in San Jose.

It's so easy to just yearn for a tea party.

So we've gotten to this point now. We're on the brink of the future, staring out at careers, the possibility to change the world, the opportunity to study obscure things that bring us one step closer to understanding "why" and there are no french horns playing, no trumpets sounding, no simple signs telling us where to go. We have nothing holding us back, and yet we hesitate, paralyzed by the problems of mind body duality and a nagging hope that someone out there just might prove us wrong.

So while Mr. narcy was watching this inspirational video on creativity and whatnot, he heard this line about how students in western education are taught to try to never get anything "wrong." and this scars them, destroys them, and turns them into mere shells of human beings. Somehow, I think the triumvirate has got turned around in this whole process. We've figured out that we're only going to be "right" about our ideas until some schmuck comes along and turns our world upside down, at which point we'll have to rethink our lives...or die.

The more silly literature we read. The more silly history we write. The more silly being we being-ify. The more deeply we plunge into a pit of stewing neuroses, mixing our doubt and curiosity about the human race. Because at the end, we just want to be proven wrong. We were those crazy kids who went through education and somehow managed to want our ideas about how the world works to be destroyed or at least critiqued. How simple it would be to reduce all of human emotion back to faculty psychology and courtly love. How much simpler life would be if we told ourselves that we were really over thinking, and that all the thoughts we've had could be made simple. We always hope that we hope. We hope somewhere, that some optimistic outlook on life might triumph over the shitdom that we've excepted to be our common reality. Or maybe, we just want someone to come along and tell us that we haven't thought far enough.

We're tired of this mind body duality--We're tired of being the ones who have to reach out to the other and speak the other's language, to try and communicate. We've learned the rules of communication, now it would just be nice to have someone to talk to. We suck at small talk, and the minute we wade into some deep conversation, people start flailing because they've never learned how to swim. It's like the older we get, the more distant we become. Our bodies exist in the "world over normal everyday people" because we can't ignore the questions that books, professors, poets, and playwrights have placed before us. There's no such thing as a stupid question, because sometimes it really is nice to be reassured that obvious things are really obvious. So often, they aren't obvious at all.

Won't dont come from a play and feel "improved" because we're too caught up in an endless cycle of self-criticism. If anything, we leave plays feeling like there's hope in the world.

And this makes us...artists. We make art, we live art, we collapse the subject object relationship between us and art because it is one of the few ways that we can get our minds off of the voices in our heads that keep battling over our minds. Rationality vs. mysticism, optimism vs. pessimism. Romanticism vs. empiricism. Art is the only way that we can keep our heads attached to the material, stuck on something we can touch, we can see.

and sometimes, we just want someone to hold our art.

Back to speed

It's been almost a year since I've taken the time to attend to this discourse. I read over what I have written before and cannot even imagine what type of person I was november of last year. Though, I have returned now, and this diaspora is over. Maura, the Other, and I are all back in our niches even though its taken some time to re-calibrate to this Seattle life. Nonetheless, I think the hardest thing for me about returning to this dialogue is trying to resume the persona that I had. Maybe this passage will provide enough catharsis to bring me back into the proper narcissistic state of mind or maybe it won't. Either way, it's good to be home.

Maura spends her time in a cave scratching away at the written word in a manner that, every week, seems more like an enactment of the allegory of the cave where a frazzled redhead emerges from the hole under a building to head towards the rising sun.

The Other spends her time trying to convince people to do good things, a challenging job well suited for altruistic people such as the Other. After a hard days work she likes stopping over at my apartment for dinner, another job that the Other performs with the utmost expertise.

The Center of the Universe, spends his time reading silly stores about Canadian history, trying convince himself to selflessly save the world, and baking far too much.

Though, the one thing that the poet, the philosopher, and the historian have in common is that they find their hearts wishing, at least once, for the providence of being able to skip to the idyllic future and jump into the arms of some one hanging by their legs from electrical scaffolding or some artistic soul willing to inspire me into doing greater, being better, and not being afraid of taking the world everyday from a different point of view.

I remember sitting in the cottage and thinking how wonderful it might be to have our courtly loves and romantic bildung, yet the only thing I ended up working for was survival and clinging to aspirations of some Gilmore Girl life, filled with friends, sassy children, and a sophomoric cohort of academics making nerdy jokes at each other at some cafe in Manhattan. We have churned our way through the creme de la creme and finally have been homogenized back in with the rest of the milk. Now, we find ourselves (having survived) making our way through boring classes hoping to settle into translucent dreams of badly drawn boys.

This is what happens to us socially oriented positive people wanting to make a lasting impact on the world. We fight for others to keep our translucent dreams from convincing us to start a process of birthing 15 children or running away to Europe.

Regardless, I think this is all a good thing. I can't wait to see 15 children calling me uncle or say that I've spilt tea on the carpet of one of the most well known Czech literary philosophers of our time. I'm actually quite excited. What I am not excited about is the fact that I am thinking once again about moving back into this diaspora--we want to return to that infinite longing that is our home.

We've talked about what's going to happen next year as I stay in the emerald city to accumulate pieces of paper that certify me in topics appreciated more by the clergy than anyone else. And as the one-two punch head out into proverbial "world" and have gotten into the habit of establishing our future in an outline that involves me in some domestic role taking care of the children that the poet produces, I sit here waiting for it to happen.

This community is one of the few I have. It's one of the few places that I can "I" can actually situate myself. That I can actually believe in an I, rather than a "we" formed by discursive powers beyond our control. I've spent a lot of time reflecting on this place, this setting where I am that guy in the tree suit.

We are all, at some level, souls disenchanted with home who decided that we were going to make a new one. We have our ties back to the desert, the land of milk (but not honey), and the suburban wasteland, but our home isn't geographical. We float off in our heads colliding with each other someplace in between the internet, cell phone signals, and coffee shops.

I've always been perplexed by the homesick, and it's becoming clearer now. While I have my family back in sweet home San Jose, the space that's between the poetic rock and a philosophically hard place is the discomforting place where I belong. We have no history of driving long distances into the middle of nowhere, listening to the romantic songs of our generation. Rather, we have relatively short (or long) meandering car rides to costco at odd hours of the morning listening to Irish folk music while making illegal turns. Our adventures have been through imaginary story lines created by bff history professors at UCLA reinforced with emphatic usage of verbs of being. Who the hell are we?

We never grew up. We're still playing in our imaginations, building forts out of cushions and low thread count sheets. The bitterness we've tasted is as real as it is literary and the catharsis that plagues our lives is as historical as it is fictitious--the dust of our former relationships clings to us, physically in Maura's car and viscerally in words exchanged in between sips of carefully measured cold water in oversized pyrex measuring cups.

How ridiculously quotidian are we? Our bildung was not made by restless decisions but by rational maturation driven by some desire to get out of where we were originally from. And now that we are here, we want to spend our lives in the imagination that our childhoods never forgot. It's depressing how much imagination fades as we get older.

To be fascinated by fanciful farfetched images makes one awkward, and so we've become tweedle dee, tweedle dumb and a gender-bending Alice, minus the opium. Children forever are we--getting jobs and playing house, never leaving the blissful state of our dreams.

If I may take a moment to say something...about...myself

Yesterday, as I was failing to breathe properly, I thought that I had become the pinnacle of nerd-dom. I have multiple sets of inhalers, medications, and a variety of eye ware to choose from. Then I thought, if such things were the criteria for nerd-dom, then Maura and the Other are in the same boat I am.

I couldn't help but smile reading both of their reflections. Maura writes like a poet, the Other writes like a philosopher, and yours truly likes to pretend he is a historian. As you might already notice, my sentence structure is far more blunt than the poetry of Maura and far less dense than the musing of the Other, quite fitting of history.

I suppose then, as the historian (and attempted master of the obvious), I will first go about declaring things the way in which I used to declare them.

1) Both Maura and the Other need me to plan out their lives

2) Despite the fact that I will never actually succeed in planning out their lives, they have become accustomed to shooting me down.

This is how the system worked. This is what Nirenberg would call "the economy of violence" that kept medieval Spanish society at a balance. As Nirenberg tells us, violence is not necessary physical. So despite the fact that Maura has not kicked me, my left testicle, or my laptop in a while, does not necessarily mean that my life requires a kicking.

What it does long for, is a return to the old rhythm of things. How easy it was to stroll into a certain irish cottage in during lunch with a sandwich and cranberry juice. How comforting it was to accidentally reset Maura's clocks by unplugging all her appliances. Is it strange to be nostalgic for a sticky honey-tea stained spot on the floor or to long for that feeling of being called paramilitaristic dictator named Paris?

I suppose it is a bit strange--comforting, but strange. The university really didn't do much to prepare us for this diaspora to happen in our third year. It was probably because we were filled with all these aspirations of entering the real world at the end of the honors program. We could conquer anything. We made it through Kangas' rings of fire (the teacher I think that solidified the ritualism of studying in the cottage), and we knew who we were. It was probably only now that we have finally flew through our clouds of aspiration and dreams of exotic and exciting places.

So the question of home returns. The questions of identity return, and our lives continue to be plagued by this postmodern white noise that fails to give anyone rest. Yet, I think it is ironic that the Other suffers from too much input and that Maura suffers from a white noise that fails to give her room to think. Is it possible for the philosopher to have too many ideas? Is it possible for the poet to have too much noise in her head?

I guess, the simple answer is, yes Narcy, yes. But thats just because our batteries are not recharged yet. We've come to the point where we have acknowledged our lives in Diaspora, forever home bound. And maybe we need to collapse this subject object relationship. Maybe the home that we are looking for, really isn't something that escapes us, but rather, something that is recreated every time one returns to that idea of the little irish cottage with the sticky stain on the floor. And maybe, our longing for home is the only home we have left. Living a positive existence is hard to do in this day and age. It's almost as though relying on the negative is all that we have left. (This is why analytic philosophy gets nowhere).

Despite the fact we we wont ever really find our authentic selves (feel free to contest me on this), we will continue to try and find them. It's like our lives have relapsed into a new form of Romanticism. We're stuck with infinite longing and that IS our home.

So I guess, I'm back to where I was before. Declaring things again. But then, maybe I'll get shot down. Rather, I'm expecting to be shot down, and I'm expecting to dodge a pointy boot flying toward my person, and maybe get a little taste of home

Narcissus got bored of himself

So after another long hiatus, Narcissus is back. He's had many a conversation with the Other and feels like she deserves something to jog her brain, because obviously, she already knows everything she's been assigned to learn in Prague. 

Who does she think she is anyway?-- the creme de la creme of some elite program that forces one to read for hours into the night only to be comforted by a flimsy certificate in the end? Instead of diddling around with this silly "central european studies program" she should be out banging the hell out of the Czech population. If she's already drinking enough beer to ritualistically dilate her leg veins each night, this should not be too hard. After all, she already understands enough Czech to know if some strange Czech man is trying to pick her up. 

Or, if she wants to do something productive in her life, she can come visit the oh so special me, on the other side of the world. For one who is supposedly so concerned with the well being of the other, the Other is definitely good at rejecting skype calls. 

I think it's because she's growing too used to the Czech's atheistic world. The good Catholic Other needs to go to confession.

She also needs to stop letting the other kids on the playground rub her eyes. That spreads disease, you know.

and on that note, I am now rubbing mine.

goodnight.  

It's been a long time

Since I have defended myself against the wild accusations of the fireheaded celt and the Other. I have been away because of my so narcissistically moving to China and having to do many a selfish things. Though, I have no found time to have to myself, and will commence writing once again.

Soon, the other will venture off to Prague and the Fireheaded Celt will attempt to come back to the United States. I say attempt because I don't think she will actually leave ireland. Despite her ill-conceived autonomy, I believe her penchant for gay men, gay irishmen, gay people in ireland, beer, whiskey, and all things green will keep her grounded in Dublin. It's hard to get ahold of a friend when you need to compete with Seamus Heaney and tall sexy irishmen. Simultaneously, the Celt thinks she's going to be a journalist. Dear Celt, I have already granted that you and the Other have souls, don't be a journalist. use your soul- dont make any money, work in latin america, and throw your future into the hands of not for profit organizations.

The Other, on the other hand, is a different story. Despite her traveling to the land of big sausage and beer, she has decided that she's going to fix the educational system. Dare I ask, what profession makes one more of a tool, low level government work that requires you to take some cheesy toolish photo or the educational system?

Okay. Maybe the other is right. Maybe low level government tool work is pretty toolish- but at least it's not pawn like. At least i can retain some semblance of self-governance instead of being caught in the iron cage of educational bureaucracy. I think i would rather be chased nightly by dinosaurs in my sleep than be caught in the educational system.


Despite their faults- I do believe the other and the celt should come visit me in Beijing. Apparently, the Moscow-Beijing rail route only takes 5-6 days.

Love me.

I'm me.

Mr. Narcy takes a Shit

Despite the Fireheaded's Celt's attempts to change her name to Maura Barnacle, you, reader, must not be duped by her schemes. The Celt is a master of disguise. One day, she will be in a shade of forest green, and the next day, she will be in a shade of sea foam green attempting to kill you and your little dog too. Regardless of her attempts to guise herself as a writer and describe nearly accurate realities of individuals like Yours Truly, I urge you all to remember that she, at her very core, is still the Fireheaded Celt. She is still the Celt that is preparing to overthrow the Roman Empire, the English Empire, and all other empires to further the desires of her Lord Pope, Emperor Palpatine.

First, she distracts the crowd by overwhelming them with her powers of pastiness. Refracting a combination of red light from her hair, bright glares from her claymore, and pure white from her bosom, she temporarily blinds and entrances anyone within a 30 foot radius. Once caught in this blind trance, her opponents are rendered immobile for three minutes. The Celt then chooses from her arsenal to dispose of her weakling enemies.

However, her blinding tactic proves to be ineffective, she uses her second paralysis ability. Raising her arms into the air, she releases the smell an Irish Cottage and English Breakfast tea from the depths of her armpits. This tactic is actually an illusory tactic. Upon inhaling the smell, her opponents believe they are in an alternate Irish reality, sipping tea and watching a Ballykissangel marathon. The combination of her pastiness and her Irish musk is unbeatable.

Once caught, the Celt then either hacks her opponent apart with her sword the she stole from the Highlander, or she uses her favorite weapon- her right foot.

Her right foot is unusually point and has the ability to do two things:

1) It has the ability to destroy computers - particularly Macs - with one swift kick. The Pagan energy contained in her contains the power to smash anything not containing Microsoft products.

2) It has the ability to render the individual that comes in contact with her foot completely impotent (assuming the victim is a male). You see, her foot has the natural affinity to seek and destroy the right testicle of any male with alarming accuracy. This destructive power, if not kept in check by her willpower, will actually act on its own accord.

Do not fall victim to her innocent writings. The Fireheaded Celt is a dangerous criminal with world dominating ambitions.

Her current location is in Dublin, Ireland. Be aware of her movements. At present, she is under the guise of a local journalist. Sources say that she is working with an underground branch of the IRA in order to orchestrate a Celtic Revolution. Please notify the authorities if you see a red headed irish girl that smells like tea. She is currently wanted by the CIA, FBI, M16, and M16. She has also been known to nock out her enemies with dense pieces of stale soda bread.

Good Day.