Scrap

Scrap!

Nobody sees, nobody knows, nobody cares,

Still Scrap.

You look around for a finger to point,

and it stares you in the face.

Just scrap.

When the world ignores you, and you look for vindication,

Just scrap.

You're alone, you're uncared for, you're insignificant,

just scrap.

you look down the barrel of your own finger, and a tear falls wishing for somebody else to notice,a tear falls unnoticed

just scrap.

Fight, bleed, weep, hurt, hide, escape excuse.

Just scrap.

You stare through a black eye, and a wrinkled soul at the emptiness of a begging void,

It's all a waste except your ability to just scrap.

Fuck format. Fuck poise. Fuck propriety. Fuck ability, because it's all fucked anyway,

Just scrap.

It's ugly, and real, where poetry dies, where justice dies. all you've got left is just

Scrap, claw, abandon reason, forget logic,

just scrap.

Because you are. Live because you can.

Scrap.

Disaffection

I hovered over the front row chair of the college lecture hall, eagerly anticipating the featured Hypnotist. I recalled the envy I felt toward the subjects of a few hypnosis shows I'd seen before, and my fascination with being part of the group on stage. But this time I wouldn't wonder at the mystery of this apparent inhibition loss; I was determined to get on stage.

As the Perky gaited, well dressed, hypnosis authority pranced on stage in his perfectly creased designer slacks, I felt the rush of abandoned conversation wave swiftly through the auditorium. After a short introduction, and a petition for volunteers, I saw his smoothly decisive finger, accompanied by confirming eye contact motion me on stage with a dozen others.

"Ability to relax completely is of utmost importance." He said, already seducing us with the silk in his voice, his words tapering off like candle smoke. I battled elation at the opportunity, trying to remain as calm as I could, embracing the sleep prophet's soft sermon and shutting down all inhibitions. Fully submitting consciousness to the mental magician was the key to being hypnotized, as everybody knows. The last thing I wanted was to be one of the shameful "non-relaxed", who hypnotists always pre-invite to leave the stage if "It just isn't happening". As the hypnotist pointed out, his ability to hypnotize was not in question; the subjects' respective abilities to relax were.

"Now let your arm float...yes, float like a feather. Good, and as it falls, as I count down from 10..." I let his words sink completely in as the balloons on my arms deflated, and let myself fall underneath the surface of awareness. "Soon," I thought, "I'll be hypnotized, and I'll understand what waking up wondering feels like."

"And now, I'll count down from 3 to 1, and when I reach 1, the person I'm touching will be a lifeguard rescuing Shaquille O'neal, the person I'm touching now will...." I panicked as I heard him filter through instructions. "That was it? I'm hypnotized?" I kept my eyes closed, staying hypnotized, for I didn't want to ruin this...feeling...of..being hypnotized?

"I'm not hypnotized." I thought, "Or maybe I am, I did everything he asked, I relaxed, I cleared my mind, I felt my arms floating. He picked me for a reason. This is...yeah, this is what hypnotism must feel li..." But the gentle hand on my shoulder, and the accompanying voice interrupted my thoughts.

"...person I'm touching now will be an Olympic bodybuilder who has found the weight he can't lift." He said, just before beginning his numeric descent. Before I could think, he had reached "1", and I found myself catapulted from my chair without thinking, grabbing ferociously the immovable, invisible barbel on the floor. I strained excessively, feeling red pump through my visible neck veins into my shiny, nervous face.

"Just play along. Don't ruin the show for everybody else. Actually, no, you aren't playing along, you're hypnotized, stay hypnotized, don't ruin the show for the others." I struggled in my "relaxed" mind as I strained to lift the imaginary steel, the illusion, and my dissonance.

"Now the weights are light as helium." He said quickly, inciting a jolt of my hands upward, taking the rest of my body with it. As I sat on my bruised tailbone, maintaining a confused expression, the audience laughed raucously, reveling in the apparent context. I had crossed demarcation, and committed to join the body for the perceived sake of the hypnotized, both on stage and off.

This continued for the greater part of an hour. We "slept" when he said sleep. I danced when he said dance. And upon "waking", all our faces said "whaaaaaaa?" when told what had occurred. I could only speak for myself and my own experience; but I didn't. I didn't speak of it at all. I didn't even let myself fully admit it was a sham. The smiles of friends, and the probing curiosities of the crowd yielded a continuation of the charade. "Oh, it was weird; I don't remember any of it." I would say, "My ass hurts, what happened?" All the other people on stage seemed to mirror the same reaction, in shock and awe. I could only speak for myself, but i didn't. I could only ask for myself, but I didn't. The others who were ACTUALLY hypnotized would be furious to know that I'd faked the whole thing. How could I challenge their experience and become a threat to their claims in the face of an awed consensus?

I bought the VHS of the event, which came a few weeks later. And even laughed as I watched it alone, and later with a few family members. I've told many people of the experience, maintaining the hypnosis illusion, showing the video as the only evidence of what happened, because, "I don't remember. I was hypnotized." And perhaps I was, but now, I finally admit what that means to me.

Although not a thing of massive importance, I've since accepted that the hypnosis experience was a result of social compliance, expectations, dissonance, and desire to believe, but I can only speak for myself. I've since accepted that this wasn't the first time I'd been hypnotized by soothing words, sharply creased slacks, and collective thought. I've since felt my shoulders for the invisible strings of the puppeteer, only to find my own will connected. With so many faces seemingly happy to be dripping with the dirty charisma of pretended prophets, I finally have the sense to find a towel to wipe it off. I've walked off the stage declaring that "It's just not happening." I can only speak for myself, so I will.

Hold it Back

Self preserving cautious reason
Firmly braced by endless beam,
Erects a fortress, safe from treason,
Unborn threats, and hidden scheme.

Logic's obvious incantations
Sing avoidance from attack.
"Bright mirage may call for treasure;
Hold it back, lad! Hold it back!

Suppress the hope of rhythm's change.
Preserve with doors securely latched.
Fight with flighty feeling's motions!
Flee from haunted history's match!"

Yet with broken hand I reach
To hold despite apparent lack,
Screaming silent songs of pleading,
"Hold it back! Please, Hold it back!"

Making Sense

I remember one line from the movie, "Across the Universe" that sticks with me constantly. It's not one of my favorite movies, and although I like a lot of the Beatles' remakes therein, there is one non-musical line that speaks to me, "Man, music is the only thing that makes sense anymore." I dig.

I spend so much time reading, learning, digging, feasting, and the more I take into my little pod of a brain, the more I realize that I know nothing at all. In a previous entry, "knowledge is power for the power hungry", I touch on this in more detail. The point is that the explosion of chaos in my head often leaves me depressed, tired, bewildered, and altogether spent. In these moments when no amount of emotion or reason can enter my soul, I am peirced by a well crafted sonata, or a meaningful lyric and nothing else. It's the only thing that makes sense to me.

Let

A long time ago, the ignorant, bright eyed version of me told a friend of mine, "Be happy, you never know who's in love with your smile." Of all the things that I've forgotten from that era of Ivan, I think it's a strange to remember that one. Especially since I need to take my own advice the older I get.

Truth be told, if I ever encountered the "me" from 10 years ago, He would be disgusted at what he saw, and I'd probably trip him, or give him a wedgie as he walked away in his self righteous, much more athletic way. However the little bugger had a point, and I've always wondered if she listened to me.

My new pursuits in comedy are especially trying, and I'm amazed that so many comedians i know have a serious, thick, deep interior that is to be marveled at. Comedy seems to be a way for these people to scoff at what eats them, or at least laugh amidst their stressful schedules. But a lot of them are very serious, very passionate, (someteims just bitter) people. I cherish this time of learning to get over my stage fright, learn to just trust that somebody may be appealed by my smile, or some off color mistake thrown out into the mercies of the judging. I focus a lot of energy on this blog, and in my mind on concept of just letting ourselves be...I have the hardest time doing it.

My first stand up attempt is in the next couple weeks, and I hope i've finally worked out the jitters to share what I find laughable...Only because I choose to remove it from the category of "excruciating past." A way of opening up the closet of my life, and choosing to scoff at the monsters inside. Life is just life. Live it. and Let it go.

Halloween Blues

Within the walls of Bone and steel that cradle feeble thought,
I find the festive musings leave me anxious and distraught.
Remembrance sings the horror of last Hallow's eve's disgrace
When all my peers requested me to party at their place.
"Come! For all will Lingerie alone a donning be"
Only now am i aware they meant the girls, not me.

The Killer of the Cow

I find it counter artistic to thoroughly explain most of my work. It is a beautiful thing to have a work of art projected into a demographic, and to explore the interactive element of interpretation, criticism, and reaction. Usually, when I'm asked questions about the content of a song, I'll dish out some canned rhetoric and say "go listen and think about it," but in the case of "The Killer of the Cow," there are elements that, I think, beg a few questions for it to be a more enjoyable listen.

My childhood was not one of normality. My parents decided, when I was 5, that we should move from the suburbs, to an obscure Utah farm town, the population of which reflects a number close to an average graduating class. I encountered immediately new chores like feeding horses, castrating pigs, digging holes, hauling hay, etc. etc. etc. Not that I condemn the desire of my parents to give their kids a working environment, but it was a strange, traumatic life alteration to move from the suburban comfort around which I'd already built schemas, suddenly into the labor saturated farm town I then despised. Amongst the new, unexplained chores forced upon us were milking cows, feeding cows, graining cows, re-fencing cows, blah blah blah cows, cows, cows! COOOOOWWWWWS!!! Cows became a religion, and the fulcrum to every other activity i wanted to do. Cows, the lumbering, slothful, groaning beasts of unequivocal stupidity, had become my obligatory deity. Cows were not only MY diety, but it seemed the whole town, in which there was only about 3 females of my age and technical species, was saturated with bovine stink. Oh, there were other creatures; horses, sheep, pigs, even a llama here and there, but Cows dominated all the resources expended upon our farm, includig the time that could have been productively spent in gaining friendships, or riding horses in the mountains. I have no pity for cattle. In fact, the PETAesque videos featuring the "barbaric" methods of slaughter employed to make some use of these devil resembling creatures do little to stir emotion inside of me, except for the emotion that bursts through a bovinicidal filter and yields a "KILL! KILL! KIIIIILLLLLLL!" incantation to pour out my bloodthirsty mouth.


With my disdain for cows firmly established, it's important to introduce the hero. Ever since I can remember, my little brother has been a remarkably odd human. One of those unspeakable geniuses that, as such, is naturally different than many other human beings. He's always been an outlier, and thus, a person who has no place in subjection to uniform culture's rating system. Don't get me wrong, he's also always been able to fit in well enough with his peers, and in High School, helped lead the way for many identity stricken friends. He has always had a following of fellow athletes, lost souls, and girls (although he's often ignorant to all three). I marvel at the real way he chooses to be himself, sometimes breaking new trails of simple mentality. As a young teen, I think my little brother frightened me more than anybody, and in protection of my mentality, and my perception of normality we had a lot of violent fights which are some of the only memories that can still bring me to sobbing tears. Why did I feel so threatened by such a kind hearted, sincerely curious human being? It's something I never will understand.

I've since released my curious fear of my brother's remarkable mind, and now consider him to be a hero. When I wrote "The Killer of The Cow", I didn't understand all the connotations of the lyrics, but listening to it now puts me in awe. Without uncovering the gems of the lyrics, I will say that My little brother is the protagonist, the hero, the KILLER OF THE COW. What literally happened is that when my brother and i were teenagers, we went out, as normal, to subdue the bellowing cows with hay. I remember both of us grumbling, moaning, swearing etc. on the way out to the cows, and I also remember after getting a bale of hay, walking around the corner to see nothing but the befuddled look on my brother's face as the subjected steer lay on it's side, flinching epileptically in the mud and manure. After a half hearted attempt at cow CPR, and some twitchy discussion, I found that my brother had thrown a rock at the cow...punishment for not moving it's head out of the stanchion area. I may also state that a rock to the head is a mild reaction compared to precedent. In my moral system, I see nothing wrong with shooting a cow for merely being in my path of vision, but the real point is that I can't count the times I've thrown a rock at a cow, simply to have it moo slowly, and stare back blankly. It's unheard of, that a cow could be killed by such a thing...the bovine equivalent to a dodgeball.

To summarize, my little brother, my hero, had killed the cow. No more would that particular cow own my life with its needs. Although it was quite an ordeal to break the news to my dad that our most market ready steer had been destroyed by a small rock, there was a gratifying undertone to the remarkable event that had just occurred. It seemed to be a freeing mindset that whenever my mother would say, "The cows NEED to be fed." my first thought would be, "Not if they're dead. hehehe."


This is not the reason my little brother is my hero, nor should it be mistaken that the song is about a cow by any means, for I despise the thought of any bovine to gather enough attention yielding significance in words. This is about the oppressive mindset that can so often accompany cultural boundaries, religious fixation, or relationship musts. This cow is simply a metaphor for that which I loathe most in this life; ignorant, oppressed submission to an empty god, whatever that "god" may be. My brother is simply a metaphor for those few souls who dare to counter culture by incident of their honest mind telling them we're putting "a cow" way too far on a pedestal. The rest of the meanings and subplots in the song are yours to decipher.