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Deep Purple Night, Bright White Day

Posted on Nov 26th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
He wasn’t aware she was a virgin. When he put his hand to her belly, he wasn’t aware. He could feel her in-breath, then—he breathed as her. When he put his hand to her jeans, to the part of her jeans that were her crotch, to the front part of her crotch, he didn’t know what kind of thing was there beneath. Was waiting for him. Had been waiting for him. He didn’t know the contours of its mush, the weirdness of its beauty, the flushed hue of its responsiveness, the rushed compression of its sensitivity. He wasn’t aware she was a virgin, as he collided once—apologies apologies—with her teeth, with his teeth. Just the once. Then softer, more careful. Like to an elfin soundtrack. Like gods were watching.

There’d been three beer between them, and these they’d shared in privacy. Private from law and filial law and safe from the prehensions of any being or thing outside the two of them, their small club of two, their restricted membership—even the whispers of trees they evaded, or built in. That had been in the bushes, outside town, bushes often seen from a highway and rarely seen from within, where things like branches and insight could prick you, and when you wouldn’t care.

There’d been three beer between them, but this had not given him amnesia, had not made him forget the meek supraskin scent of bundled nerves and pink life. Or that she would whimper a little when he pressed there with the tip of a tongue searching beyond itself, for the joy of its being, for the unified ecstasy buried as birthright in its ontology—looking, the tongue, to collaborate with mystics and criminals, with Jesus and Judas, on the road to awe. A cup of liqueur as reward in an infant laborer’s mouth. Here. On an edge of whatever kind. On the very edge. Right before slipping.

There was much to which he was not privy. And much to which he was. He knew the sound of the color of the sky. He knew the privilege and downturn of his inheritance. He knew that here would be a beautiful seamless outpouring of all carried as yet inside, between two who were to become not two. He knew the hardness of the floor of this post office in the earliest verve of morning. He could hear the thin click of her misgiving and tension both, thrumming unbidden behind her lips. He registered that he could love with his fingertips, and he learned where that love was wanted.

He saw in a moment how to nothing withhold, and so doing felt in a moment a closeness to that which had always been close, the great dark, just for a second, and then another.

And when she met him there he opened his eyes the way all kids do when they experience their first intricate liquid conjoining of body with body, being with being. How wide his eyes did open.

To be human is to be divine. To be divine is to be human. To love is to be human. Here is love. Will you wait for this? And waiting, with no idleness in you, find it?

And finding it know that you’ve found all there is. And as all there is, live.
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August 4 - A Parade For Charlize

Posted on Aug 5th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
A parade came by my street this morning. I wanted you to see it. There were horses, and onyx, and unicorns. They shon, those unicorns; blue, and gold, and pink. Their horns seemed the oldest part of them. Silver and twisting. I wanted you to be with me there, on the bench in front of the house, sitting beside me. I wanted to see your smile.

I imagine there are parades like this where you are. Wonderful floats, of wood and stone, rolling along at the pace you want. Out your window, you notice the parade. Here a grey ship rescued from the bottom of the ocean, gliding on hidden tracks, drifting stolidly by, haunted and forgotten. Here a troupe of monkeys unicycling. They weave a pattern you're sure looks good from overhead. The performance is impeccable, and fleeting. Here is a fashionable group of men. They wear berets and sunglasses, and they walk atop the world they own.

I imagine this, but I cannot be sure it is the case. I have ceased to hear you. I have ceased to see you, save in my mind, where you are always. It has been given to me, to love you. It is my birth-task, and I abide it with great dedication. You are the air I breathe. You lift me up on wings of eagles. These are things said to God, about God. They are things I say to you.

A parade came by my street this morning. I wanted you to see it.
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August 3 - Lest Ye Be Hobo

Posted on Aug 5th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
So what. So I am intended for something. Being readied, as a bride, for the enaction of this often stretching causal alignment.

My prayer, then, is to open to it. To let the opportunity of my being yield unreservantly to its culmination. Like that guy in the Fountain, floating in his bubble to the Big Light. To be swallowed and reissued, moment by moment: this is me.

So what. So I am wanting for something. Being entrusted with thirst, that I may feign enduring it, and graduate to pursuing its remedy.

My prayer, then, is to hold not to the inevitable; to cease grasping at all I am righted by birth, and let these gifts, instead, be immersed in me.

So what. So I see you wanting for something. I see you grounding the desire for incontravertible acceptance, for security without end, for the loving arms of everyone around you.

My prayer, then, is to add my arms. And impart with them their irreversible seal. Unless you are smelly, or a hobo.
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July 30 - Horses Without End

Posted on Aug 5th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
A day filled with fun. Yes. All kinds.

Gateway to Fun Land was invoked, again, this time in honor of Lindsey's birthday, with good friend Brendan along. We swung bats, pushed petals to metal, contemplatively nudged putters. Sipped things that tasted better than air or water in a cooled-off interior. Toured offerings of civilized society, and each other's day-to-day headspaces, by speaking.

I bought a horse book later in the day, because it's what I wanted to do.

There's something that you may not know about me. I spent a lot of time with horses. It's time that floods back on me when I'm sitting doing nothing. When there are no girls or beer in front of me. All the different times, and the different identities, on the road to as true and powerful a horsemanship I could muster. Times when I was driving with my brother, way too far, to work with tame horses for scared owners. Times when I would chase a horse around for three hours in a flimsy roundpen, fail to catch it, and go inside for a burger and a nap, and know I'd done good work, even though I'd been right pissed the whole time. Times when my horse was so far under water or snow only his wee struggling head was poking up. And there I would be, on his back or swimming beside him, giggling and concerned.

It's an odd thing, to aim your life at excellence in a specific area. To outpace your peers. To solicit the attention of the truly great in your field, on virtue of your talent and promise, your dedication and presipration, showing so clearly in your eyes and your actions. And then to let it all go for something else. In this case, writing.

And then, again, I began this business of aiming myself at excellence. Of attracting notice from the truly great, if not the truly great in my field, on virtue of my talent and promise. Of trying and failing and trying again to narratively induce a nexus of effects. Of learning and being inspired, and all that.

Where has it all gone? Conviction, dedication, straining and striving. What the fucking hell?

To answer this question, I bought a horse book. And now I'm reading it.
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July 29

Posted on Aug 5th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
Has anyone seen the 2001 film Sweet November? It's with Charlize Theron. She plays a strange lady who cuts all her relationships off at a thirty day marker because she has one of those fatal illnesses that leaves her looking and seeming totally healthy. It also stars Keanu Reeves. The movie got horribly reviewed, for reasons that become evident. The catch-word thrown out, a word that must have been symbiotically transmitted from one reviewer to another, so pervasive was its use, was 'cloying'. Yes, cloying. This movie was as unanimously disclaimed as 'cloying' as American Dream is being disclaimed as 'packaged'. So? I didn't mind. It was my first opportunity of July 29 to ponder the one, Charlize.

When I think about Charlize, I tend not to turn inward. Intro-, the way of my spection, is not. It's Charlize I'm interested in. And perhaps, subsidiarily, what about me is so h-bent on uniting with the whatever about her.

That's right! Unity!

Moving on: the second movie I watched was Monster. At first glance, you might see how watching a movie like Sweet November first was a bad idea. But at second glance, when you note the 12 beer I consumed while watching Sweet November, you are stuggling to calculate just how bad a decision it could've possibly been. Way bad. I'm one of those fellows that often chooses not to refrain from getting wildly identified and involved with the images and audios that come my way during a narrative unfolding motion-picture style. And 12 beer, if anything, exacerbates that tendency like a genie is exaggerated by lamp-rubbing. Hoky F, we are talking. But in the end, how enjoyable was it? So much so. Monster is truly an amazing movie.

After a brief interval of Drum-Circling it up, I decided to stick emotional dynamite into my most emotional place, and go for the emotional kill with Cider House Rules. (Another Theron flick, of course.)

Yep. Boom!
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July 28

Posted on Aug 5th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
When something clicks, when you make a discovery or a realization, the reason why it feels like you've uncovered the secret to an existence of easily renewable happiness and inner-shining (from that day forward) is because every piece of the puzzle, once it's snapped into its place, carries with it a taste of the whole puzzle. Just like every taste of Spirit carries with it a taste of Spirit's Spirit. It's sort of like they're the same as far as your tongue is concerned. Pepsi, and the God that created Pepsi, both taste like Pepsi.

Now, let's get down to business. I learned today that it is better to say, "I'm going to have beer," than, "I'm going to drink beer."

Further: I've been going to Gateway to FunLand a lot lately. It's not actually called that, but I call it that. It's got air hockey, and Dance Dance Revolution. It's got go-karts and mini-gulf and batting practice. I'll go more soon.

Lastly here are some things that I've been sitting and pondering tonight:

- What is it about Charlize Theron that makes me want to sit on a front porch and smoke a cigarette and talk about her to a deaf/mute who can't talk back or change the subject, except by walking away or making easily readable hand motions?

- What is it about Charlize Theron that causes me to build little fires in Lindsey's neighbor's backyards, and read the smoke for signs of my future? .... with Charlize Theron? I ask the flames.

- My fortune cookie at dinner tonight said, "A heavy burden will be lifted from you by a telpephone call or a letter." Adding the obligatory, "in bed," my request is: could someone phone me while I'm in bed and tell me Charlize Theron is on the other line, waiting to hear this love poem I wrote for her?

The poem goes:
Your face is like
the best thing I've ever seen
I don't even like looking at other people's faces
because yours is so much nicer

And your eyes are like
the eyes of an Egyptian serpant
whose great regal head
is coaxed out of a straw basket
and you're looking around
like, "who is mine?"
and I'm like, "me!"

And your ears
seem like they could
be sold on eBay
for the price of my heart

But I honestly want to kiss you on the cheek
and then later on the lips

I want to take it so slow with you
that by the time I am making out with
your irrepressible love box
we are both in Heaven

You are the greatest human
You make me happy to be alive
Just hearing your breath, in my mind,
from California
or wherever you are
is like when that kid
had Free Willy jump over
his fuckin arm

It's like knowing God exists
for a Christian

It's like knowing wheat will happen
for a farmer

It's like being tranqulized
for a horse

You are the best thing that ever happened to Earth;
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
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July 24

Posted on Jul 28th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
Thursday is the new Friday. At least on Pearl Street. Lots of folks milling about, hitting the bars, donning their gay party apparel. Lots and lots of good-looking girls. People in Boulder travel in incomprehensible packs. There'll be a group of seven guys and one girl. There'll be a group of seven girls and one guy. Does this make sense to anyone?

I can't wait til I turn 21 and start going to the bars. $1 pints. $2 Corona. Beer beer beer. Girls. Music. Relief from the heat.

I got paid today and bought a $1 book at a lesbian book store (yep. And on the shelves there was a section entitled Lesbian Mystery Novels). I also bought a pair of grey jeans. When it is time for Brian David to buy jeans, he finds a good store, he walks in, he sees a pair he likes, and he buys them. He does not browse. I really like my new jeans.

Here are some new quotes I came up with:

"If it bites you, punch it."
"That which makes a fart noise is not always a fart."
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Denver Clubbing vs. Calgary Church (July 25-27)

Posted on Jul 28th, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
I, your humble correspondant, am either a dab hand at sounding out tangible cultural differences by being both a passionate datatician and an ace analyist... or I've got weird issues. What I'm saying is that the differences between two cities' (countries') social scenes, are, to me, as transparent as kids' lies. The subtle differences, the glaring differences. They are articulated to me, you understand, in hue and form. They're as hard to ignore as elephant shit on the kitchen counter. I see things, you understand. I see people who are alive.

So, clubbing and church. These are things that I have moderate experience with in Calgary. In fact, I'd say that when it comes to clubbing (in Calgary) I have moderate to substantive experience. I go. I get in. I bob my head. I tap my toes. I do this oodles of places. Okay? And Church, too, in my five 'r six years of being a resident in that sprawling conglomerate of bubble-dwelling terrace-hoppers---I've seen a bunch of them. In Denver I've only been to one Church, and a handful of clubs. And it's those experiences, the differences between churching and clubbing in Denver and Calgary, that I want to talk about.

One of the few clubs I've been to in Denver, and the one I'll use for the purposes of this blog, just happens to be a renovated Church. A very old Church, re-done to be a party-spot for the kids. The outside still looks very Church-y. Inside there is still some religious iconography creeping about for effect. It's not difficult to intuit what the building was once used for (Lord-lauding, Lamb-praising). And now there are bright, vibrant young folk getting all hot and bothered with each other inside. All heathen, exciting.

There are several rooms, several dancefloors, in the Church. A large one upstairs where erratic/fluid break-dancers carve out a circle of bodies with their skillsets. Want-to-bes inhabit the outskirts like so much tenuous waste, orbiting tonight's avatars of their craft, denied arbitration by their pesky ambition, denied adjudication by these fill-in arbiters of their "shit". It's funny because these guys, the oops-I'm-not-good-enough-y
et crowd, are probably the most desperate looking bunch in the club. They want to experience, and have others experience with them, the fullness of kinetic glee. A diaspora of ideal bodily affect. But, yeah, I'm wasting too much time on these want-to-bes.

Upstairs there is trance music playing, and girls dance on stages or hang from the roof by two silk threads. These girls aren't wearing much, and are athletic, and acrobatic, and feminine. Some of them are good looking and one of them is incredibly fucking hot. The sort of hot that makes you want to stare at her, and stare at her, and wonder what it would take to make her fall in love with you. But yes. And downstairs there's a big hip-hop room. They play neat remixes of today's juiciest hits in the hip-hop room.

And there is also, downstairs, a very expressive group of dancers, going at it in their unique way on an alternate dancefloor. Remixed house music or something is what these lovers of kinky flow go for. And they are so cool. You can do anything on their dancefloor and get away with it. Sometimes these dancers look constipated and meditative at the same time. Some nights this floor, the one I'm describing, is reserved for goth kids who dress up as depressed masochists. Often their costumes are literally bleeding.

Did I mention there are lots more black, brown, and Asian folks in Denver? And more people in general. When you are dancing in the hip-hop room there are whole bunches of black people in there. And lots of cute girls who can manipulate the junk in their trunk with a dexterity that alarms, surprises, and is kind of joyful. It really is cause for jubilation, these precise maneuvers of the ass. It's hard to dance with them, cause you pop bone awful quick. When you're dancing with the hip-hop crowd, as long as you have a girl, and a girl has you, you're both fine. You're even eligible for random pounds and high-fives from black guys. I get a lot of these.

So the first thing I want to say is that clubbing in Denver is more fun because, and perhaps I can drag all America into this, people around here know better what they came for, and are equipped better for getting it. What I'm saying is that people are relaxed here, and free, and they have fun, and they celebrate (not resist) the hemorrhaging of their personal lives into atavistic excellence. Cuz that is what is happening, that is the ethic of their night. Except there's nothing atavistic about it, really. Everybody has a cell phone, you see. Contrast this to Calgary, Canada, where there are no party people. Only normal people. Poor bloodless motherfuckers, cramming themselves into an oversterilized batch of their embarassed and embarassing familiars, co-pilots on Calgary's collective and cold trajectory to half-assed legitimacy. Public identity, in Calgary, is an art we've lost. We think we know what a good public identity is, but what we have actually created is a simulacrum of ourselves, a remote-controlled avatar whose operations manual we misplaced in a toilet-flushing mishap. We take this show, this avatar, on the road, and we mash it into other people's. We display ours if they display theirs. But this is not fun, what we are having, because fun is something we are not allowing ourselves to have. Fun is when you get your personality wet, when those traits of yours, the ones that want to come out and play, come out and play, fully and passionately, in public, and you find that this is where they belong. Shared. You see, Canadians have mixed up the true meaning of private and public domains. In private, Canadians go for the big Reveal. Americans go for the big Reveal in public. They do it every day, all the time, in the street, at Taco Bell, and most purely... in da club. And it's no big deal. Except when it is. When folks start not being able to tell the difference between themselves and all these others they want to be (or don't want to admit they are) like. Then it gets annoying.

But Church. What is the deal with actual Church in Denver? I went to Church on Sunday, and man oh man was it ever not what I was looking for.

You see, and here is where things get interesting, in Calgary there are churches for young lads like me who drink and smoke and occasionally fuck, and definitely swear, and still want to sing loudly and get together and emotionally leech whatever we can from Christian archetypes and themes for one night. Churches where incredibly hot chicks come to strut their stuff and look good, and get over their guilt-trips about the weekend. Okay, it's not quite as sleezy as it sounds, but it's close. And, sure, I'm quite a bit more, you know, intelligent than the average person who attends these Churches. (I am conscious about my desire for "fellowship" with the prevalent meme of my upbringing, that incontrovertible rite of my youth, my taste for Christian themes in my spirituality. I would never get guilty about fucking one of these youthful Christian girls, or anything else for that matter.) But still! There's singing, and youth, and kids. And they're so funny to watch cause some of the geekier kids actually get into it.

In Denver, apparently, the closest thing to this phenomenon is a bunch of adults who have a hardly emotional connection to God, and all the Christian talk, who, worst of all, aren't funny to watch, and who actually do things to help folks in the world. What a load of shit. I'm not making a joke. It's a load of shit!

So the really big question of the day that I need your help for is: what about Calgary makes their Christian youth more fun than the Denver Christian youth, and yet their clubbing pop. is as bear-ass-hair-in-my-mouth as anything can be?

Weigh in! Love your neighbor as yourself. God be with you.
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July 23

Posted on Jul 23rd, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
There are spiders in my room. Not often. Every third day a spider will appear on the wall. The first one was smallish, and its smear was rust-colored and chunky. It seemed male, its legs were hairy. The second one was larger, and female-seeming, and right up by the ceiling. She was more difficult to kill, and her smear was long, trailing, and black. Most of her is on the bottom of my shoe.

The problem is, I have to kill spiders. If I see one, and its not, you know, lethally huge, I'll probably end up killing it. Why? Because I associate spiders with spider-bites. Because when I see a spider on the wall, all I can imagine is that spider, if left alone, crawling under my covers at night and worming its way right inside my pee-hole. Or latching on to my taint. Or walking upside-down onto the ceiling and kamikazing into my open mouth. Or laying eggs in my ears. Or taking a tiny shit in my eyes. Or making a cozy warm bed where my balls meet my thighs. It gets warm in there. So how can I leave such a danger alone? How can I let it live, as, say, Robert Thurman might have me do.

Ah, the Buddhist. God is that fellow funny. He talked and talked. He commented on how much better everything would be if the Chinese left Tibet alone. His mainstay sayings were centered around having fun, rock groups, and he often plugged Barack Obama. On Uma: "Uma is very sweet. She doesn't kill four hundred people before breakfast. That's Quentin's idea." On Berlin: "The wall came down, people started having fun, lots of rock groups were able to play."

Actually, it's hard for me to quote him directly. I went and drank seven or eight quick beer before the show. Not right before the show, mind you, and I was mostly sober/hung-over by the time things wrapped up. But it was enough that I mostly drifted through the interview. It's alarming, looking back, how much I missed. There I was, sitting beside Lindsey, laughing. Laughing a lot. Amused by the various ways in which Thurman was outlining his vision, his very optimistic vision, and shutting down his interviewer, who seemed hellbent on joking his way through the proceedings. Like a horse whose taken the bit and is on a tear. And yet Thurman was just as jokey if not more so.

It's nice to get near someone who raised one of the hottest chicks alive. Other than seeing Kelly, that was the main reason I went. To share a room with the dude who would've seen Uma grow up. And been there. And who still likely shares a dinner table with her every once in a while. Turns out he's kind of neat on his own.

After Thurman finished there was an Eco fashion show. Waylin, or somebody, the fellow who did the interview, now had his opportunity to unleash his class-clown humor upon the world. Effectively ruining the little show, but it was funny. The mainstays of the show were old Ts, old sports jerseys (Michael Somebody's), old sheets, and old curtains. The girls looked nice and there was plenty of side-boob to keep me interested. But when Waylin (I'll call him that) came across a fashion-specific word he didn't recognize he'd say, "I don't know what that it is, but it's Eco."

To close: I would give one of my seven perfect lives to spend a year in Europe with Charlize Theron.
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July 22

Posted on Jul 23rd, 2008 by Brondu : Human Brondu
It's been dark outside for a few hours now. I am with some friends and our location is less than fixed. This is not simply because we are walking. If the ground beneath us seems infirm, our coordinates incalculable, it's because it is not ground, per se, that we are walking on. We tread, my friends and I, the arc of our voiced thoughts, the meeting-point of our interests. A bridge, a fragile one, of hair and bone and words, is formed between our lenses. We traverse it. It coaleces, that bridge. It fluctuates. It breathes.

For a while we are speaking of our histories, our principles, our tenuous futures. The sinewy threads that bind us to our felt trajectories, these are apprehended subtly more than they are discussed. It's something that people do, you'll find. Chat. Feel each other. The content varies, when talk happens, but the structure is often the same. While we talk we sit out back of a cafe, and consume, like good Americans.

Then we are walking. Red brick beneath our feet. The bright, pencil-crayon green of tree's leaves contrasts a construction-paper sky. Purple, yellow. Our conversation turns to the plight of our friends as we perceive it. Being in the world means wishing everyone the very best, and going about your way. Here we see if there is anything else we can do. But no, not really. We can't.

Then we are sitting. Sitting in front of a house of product. A palace of variegated necessities. Convenience store. Pick your pleasure. I'll take one. I'll sit back down. I'll take more. There is an appropriate settledness to us now. The wheel that is 'us' has found its hub. A hub that, eventually, accrues bored drunks like planks in lakes acrrue algae. But not before a story is unravelled. One of those really compelling stories, unspooled like so much yarn around the fire that is our willingness to stay together. A true story, for as long as it's being told. A story that scares you, makes you want to smoke, deepens your stare. It's a story about the end of the world. As it's communicated, the landscape around us is retextured. This peace, this endless seeming peace of Boulder 08, now hangs by a thread.

And then that thread snaps. But there is no war. Only silence. Dumbass deer. Newspaper men. Quiet, heartfelt goodbyes. The will and volition to do this all tomorrow.

Somewhere, in a new voice, a voice that isn't my friend's, the story of the end of our world is still being told. And so, of course, it must be true.
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