Breathe & Burn

A little intro… I took this ‘course’ like 4+ years ago… a couple friends had already taken it… I resisted in my own way for a while, then eventually gave in… It was definitely worth experiencing… I was, however, in a very interesting place in life enough as it was… BUT… everything in this life, in my opinion at least, is a double-edged sword… I have no regrets and I have turned many people I truly care for onto the experience in the years since I’ve taken it…  Anyway, this is basically a journal entry… something in me just decided to post it… thought some of you might get something out of it…

“And I don’t understand anything…”  ~EBTG  …Yes, and we teach what we need to learn…  Just had dinner with my fiend xxxxx.  We talked about the futility of life, her Saturn’s ascent, and the post ‘forum’ realizations… She barely connects to her world…  Everything in her life seems futile, devastated, yet unaffected… She feels this lack of passion, due probably from the forum’s whole “Life is empty and meaningless, and it’s empty and meaningless that it’s empty and meaningless” concept… Which, of course, is true… (well, probably…)  But it’s also one of the major fallbacks of partaking in the whole ‘landmark forum’ thingy… It takes and tears down all of our little life stories and shows them for exactly what they are… stories… Nothing more, nothing less… But what isn’t a story?  Nothing… And they leave you with exactly that… Nothing… To then make up a ‘better’ story to create for your life with any and all possibilities, possible… The problem, however, is that you know it’s all a story.  It’s obviously hard to believe in it and if you do, you know it’s only a lie you are lying to yourself, or, at the very least, nothing more than a game… And this is where most people have trouble with their ‘passions’. 

How can you be passionate about something meaningless, especially if you are the one who made it up, and also know it was you who made it up?  So above and beyond everything in your life now having developed meaninglessness, what is there to believe in?  Nothing… You sure as hell (hahah..: oxymoron) aren’t going to get any answers on anything in your life, like choices perhaps, having been right or even wrong, much less the more important questions that plague us, like “Does God exist?” or “Is there life after death?” or “Is my penis big enough…?” So like before your ‘empty and meaningless’ experience, or your near death experience, or your kick ass hallucinogenic experience, or your near-suicidal loss-of-faith period, it is, again, up to you and you alone.  And what exactly, is it that is up to you?  “What do I believe in?”  …That is big question, isn’t it?  What do I believe in?  What can I actually be passionate about?  What can I give?  What can I give away (because I really don’t want it in me anymore…lol)?  What can I fill this incredible void of meaningless emptiness that I am swimming through in this brief period of conscious consciousness I call my life, that of being aware of being aware of being alive?  What is it that is to keep me getting out of bed in the morning and not of killing myself the night prior? What is it?

It’s PASSION!  Its faith!  It’s love!  It’s that of living every moment for the beautiful blessing it is…  It sure isn’t the hopes and dreams I have of some far or not so far off future where I have every DVD, CD or Book I ever wanted.  It’s not writing some best seller.  It’s not having some big house, getting married, having kids, or going to work every day.  It’s not some kick ass career either.  It’s not even my family and friends, (although they all make this insane little roller coaster ride that is called life that much more enjoyable, and comfortable for me.)  ..Because in the end, no matter how much comfort these endearing souls deliver to the hope of this heart, it’s me, alone, at the end, and in every moment and space between the moments that has to make this life count…  And by the grace of God, I pray that I always remember, recall, relive, and remind myself, that this, this right here, right now, is all there is… And I swear by this in me that is able to perceive it, that I will let it be, let it live within me, and let this passion breathe… and burn… This… is what it means to be… Alive!

2006 Soundtrack

The American Writer

There is a restlessness in us

A violence so deeply engrained

So nearly impossible to separate

So difficult to see through

It's this need to be great

We have to get ahead

We have to tower the competition

We have no other choice

But to embrace each and every ambition

The gentleness isn’t enough

And the curiosity isn’t enough

And if there is a spark of greatness

Some light shown through the crack

Here in this city, in this country

It is not enough

Because here

We naively believe we can change the world

And in order to do that

We must first give into the fold

Because what will all this evidence piling up portray?

What will my words mean to the readers

At the end of their distracted days

Style of soul is often not even a thought

It’s become overshadowed

By the ever important image we project

And so the thought then burrows

And soon takes over the craft

It snuffs out any silence

And becomes the popular cynical laugh

The American writer, the poet, the artist

Sells his face, his words, his image

And becomes himself, the product

And the poets of other cities

Other countries remain free

Searching for a state of grace

In the moments in between

On the images in the screen

Developing a style for the life they live

A style that could only create

The writer within

And they search for a woman’s skin

And they search for a lover’s scent

And they search for a teacher’s gift

And they search for the line within

Seeing poetry in everything around

Blending into the voices aloud

Ignoring thoughts of their image’s pride

Laughing besides themselves

As their words are wowed

As for me, born into this country

Where not so many, so great

Not even Bukowski

Because at least on some level

All have fallen victim to this same mistake

It’s so deeply engrained

The challenge so great

No poet has ever directly changed the world

As no single warrior has ever won the war

The miracle comes in giving up

In embracing the style

And sharing generously the love

And in those moments

So full of hate, so full of rage

To sit down and write it

To give it away

And the fear and restlessness,

This need to get ahead

To leave it in the background

To, if you can, leave it for dead…

The truth, so simple

It hides in everything

Even if the words don’t come

To try and explain the scene

To give up the miracle

In exchange for the everything

ⓒ 2006 Shawn Michael Quinn

It's The Little Things

So I'm sitting on the train, gazing out the window into the overcast sky, letting my mind wander & fly... as I often do…
My concentration breaks, I feel like someone is staring intently at me, from the corner of their eye.
I shake my head, as if shaking off the last thought, and look to my left.  
I see her sitting there, blending into the rest.  
We have eye contact.  
"Yeap, she's still angry" I hear my mind identify, immediately I know…
She gets up, walks over to me and stands in front of me for a moment.  
I stay quiet, (I'm not quite that brave…) but I am having trouble holding in my infamous evil smirk… I feel her temperature rising.
BANG, right across my face.  
I open my eyes, calmly, look at her again, then raise my left hand to my face and touch my cheek where she's just slapped me.  Then I raise my hand further to my nose.
"Jesus, you smell good!"
"Eugh" She huffs, her jaw twisting, but still she says nothing, she doesn't need to…
Then some righteous meathead, wannabe knight & shining armor, stands up, with the generic repose, and says "Is this guy bothering you miss?"
I laugh… and turn my head towards him, smiling.
She looks back at me, then back to him again, but still she stays silent.
I break the silence… I might as well… right?
"I think she's doing just fine on her own buddy…”
I still have trouble hiding the smirk… what else is new…  
Mr. Meathead gets in my face, with pointed finger, "Was I talkin’ to you?"
I sniff the air, towards his finger, still smirking, and reply,
"Now you, no, you don't smell so good… her on the other hand… hmm, that’s…"
I'm interrupted...
"I'm fine, thank you, really, its ok..."
Meathead peers at me again, as if to reiterate his mask of impotence…
I sniff the air again, then turn my head in disgust.
She looks to me, and for once, her thoughts and mine, seem the same…
Funny how it all works out…
I'll call her tomorrow.
This is my stop, and yes, life is good. 

It’s the little things…

ⓒ 2006 Shawn Michael Quinn