Author: Jackson Palmer

I’m not going to call what I’m feeling depression because I haven’t been diagnosed by someone that has any authority to, but I don’t feel how I used to.  I don’t feel inspired to do things the way that I can so vividly remember having been.  I don’t know why.  Nothing’s changed externally.  By all accounts, I should feel no different, but still, I feel this sadness inside of me that I cannot explain.  I’m not suicidal.  I don’t want to stop living.  There’s so much more in this world that I still want to experience, but at the same time, I don’t feel like doing anything.  I hold out hope that this will pass.  I’ve felt like this before and it has always gone away before, but with that knowledge, I know that it’ll always be right around the corner waiting for me no matter what.  I can’t fight it off.  I just have to sit there and let it beat me until it gets bored and leaves, but I know that it leaving is only a break for it.  At any moment it could resume its constant torture.  All I can do is try to keep living the way that I was when it wasn’t there, but it only produces a cheap imitation.  I’m sure someone will notice it eventually, but I don’t know.  Maybe they won’t, and I just notice because I know the way that I should be.  Maybe they have noticed and have chosen to not do anything.  I don’t think I even want help.  They couldn’t help if they tried, honestly, but knowing that they were trying would mean something.  I don’t know if I would try.  I could say that maybe I don’t understand what it’s like or what to do, but that’s a lie.  I know more than I can even express of what it’s like, but in the end, I might just be too selfish to concern myself with the whole thing.  Maybe I wouldn’t even notice because I’d be too concerned with myself.  Maybe that’s what it is.  Maybe everyone is too busy paying attention to themselves to see the way that I am.  I can’t even blame them.  I know that I’m no better.  Maybe this whole thing was just a way to justify my own selfishness, or maybe it was a cry for pity.  I don’t know, and I don’t think it’d change anything if I did.  I really just know that I hate myself sometimes.

I don’t believe in an objective best and worst in reference to art, so when I say that I’m writing about the best thing that I’ve ever read, what I mean is that I’m writing about my personal favorite piece of writing that I have read.  The best work of literature that I’ve had the pleasure of reading in my opinion is East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and there are numerous reasons why.

(spoiler alert for East of Eden – Please read the book before this post.)

One of the stand out reasons that makes this novel the masterpiece that it is are the characters.  Every last one of them is believable, distinct, and excruciatingly fascinating.  Cathy Ames serves as an antagonist, but she is so much more than that.  Even though the reader will come to dislike her very much over the course of the book, they will always be fascinated by her motives and means of reaching them.  She even plays on the reader’s own hopes for humanity by seeming to develop an actual loving relationship with the madame of a whorehouse.  Even though we’d already seen her kill and abandon her family and home, we hang onto hope that there is a sliver of humanity left in her, but we are fooled as should have been expected and feel like fools because of it.  This perfectly parallels another aspect of her character that makes her so incredible;  to other characters, she appears completely innocent.  She utilizes their faulty perception of her to take advantage of them and more than anyone else, she does this to Adam.

Adam is an equally incredible character in my opinion.  He serves as our protagonist throughout the first half of the book, and the first half of one of the two pairs of siblings throughout the book that mirror the biblical story of Cain and Abel.  Adam despite not setting out to, always earns all admiration from his father.  A key aspect of Adam’s character is his unwillingness to take action in nearly any circumstance.  He depends upon his brother to defend him, so he becomes completely submissive to him to the point that when his brother turns on him and beats him, he allows himself to be beaten.   After marrying Cathy and having her bare twin sons to him, he makes no true effort to make her stay.  Additionally, he completely shuts down after she leaves, and does not name his sons for months after they were born.

As I approach a limit on how long this post can be, I know that I cannot talk nearly as much about this masterpiece as it deserves to be talked about.  With that in mind, I can only end this by discussing one of the absolutely best characters within the book and the overarching theme throughout the story associated with him, Lee and Timshel.  Lee is a servant hired by Adam who ends up taking care of the two twins and serving as a source of wisdom and insight to all who he interacts with.  In many ways, he is more of a father to the twins than Adam ever was.  He first introduces us to the concept of Timshel during a conversation with a neighbor of Adam.  They are discussing the story of Cain and Abel and there is a specific part of the story that is translated very differently between two common versions of the Bible.  One promises a triumph over sin while another demands a triumph over sin.  Lee decides to trace the problem to its roots, and after a long amount of research, he discovers that the most accurate translation of the term in question, Timshel, is thou mayest.  This gives the choice to each person as to whether or not they will conquer sin.  It does not promise it, and it does not demand it.  It is a perfect theme for the book, and in the end, which I will not give away even to the masochists that have read this far without having read the book despite my spoiler warning, this theme ties everything together absolutely perfectly.

(in no particular order)

• Take on Me – A-ha
• Here Today – The Beach Boys
• Through the Long Night – Billy Joel
• Colors – Amos Lee
• American Pie – Don McLean
• I’ve Got a Name – Jim Croce
• Come on Eileen – Dexy’s Midnight Runners
• Romeo’s Tune – Steve Forbert
• Sleeping with the Television On – Billy Joel
• A Day in the Life – The Beatles

I absolutely love and require all of these songs, but they hardly represent the extent of the music I love.  There are so many artists and bands that I really wanted to be represented on this list such as Queen, (early) Maroon 5, Elton John, etc., but a list of only ten is far too limiting to include all of them.  You may be wondering why I talk of a lack of representation of certain bands and artists but include two songs from Billy Joel.  Well, the best answer I can give is that I really like Billy Joel, and to tell the truth, there should probably be more of his music on this list.  If I could, I’d include entire albums from Billy Joel such as Glass Houses, The Nylon Curtain, Cold Spring Harbor, River of Dreams, and pretty much every other album by him.  I’d also like to include the entire Pet Sounds album by the Beach Boys which I very unfortunately had to leave off songs from such as Wouldn’t It Be Nice, God Only Knows, Hang Onto Your Ego, etc.  I’d also like to recommend songs from Jim Croce such as Box #10, Operator, One Less Set of Footsteps, and many others.  I could talk for hours about the songs that should be on this list such as those from musicals like Rocky Horror Picture Show, Rent, Les Mis, West Side Story, Sweeney Todd, and others, but I would never finish talking about how many songs I love because of how important music is to me.  There is no single list of songs that would represent the ten songs that I would be fine listening to in addition to no other songs because I need a far wider variety of music, but this list is the closest that I can come.

I almost exclusively feel compelled to write free verse poetry when I’m feeling really bad, and for whatever reason, I always seem to write this poetry in the notes app on my iPhone.  I think that reason that I feel the need to write free verse poetry is that I just need to get thoughts out of my head and down somewhere.  I don’t need to work with restrictions like narrative or rhyme.  I think the reason that I write in the notes in my phone is that these poems don’t feel polished.  Like the feelings that inspired them, the poems feel raw and harsh.  I’ve mostly dismissed these as not worth publishing but have never had the heart to delete them.  I’m glad that I haven’t because I’ve come to appreciate them for their emotion.  These are a few that I’ve written recently.

Birth to Death and in Between

A symphony
Unto this world
Fall into it
Caught in loving arms

Held and sung to
And fed and loved
And loved
And grown
Shaped and molded
Prepared
To receive
This world

You
A fallen star
One in a million
Or one of
Seven billion
That have not
Burnt out
Or returned
All the same
All afraid
All hiding
In lives
Lives they’ve woven
Out of sunsets
And diamonds
And love

Falling, falling
Ever faster
Into the void
One can’t avoid
Falling falling
Never looking
Always reaching
To the sky

Once created
Alive and happy
But never
Fulfilled
A desire
Pure and honest
To create
As one once was

Happy
It’s nothing
A momentary
Flash of light
And return
To dark
Sometimes longer
To be dishonest
But always
To return
To dark

Your hands are clumsy
Always breaking
The sculptures
Before they’re complete
Over and over
Always sculpting
But never completing

Always growing
Growing careful
But your eyes
Grow faster
Than your hands
Finally creating
What once would have
Satisfied your eyes
But no longer will

But then you find
You sit at the door
From which once
You were thrown out
You are returning
You are knocking
You want to break the door down
But are again turned away
Not now
You are not yet ready
Though some day later
Until you have truly returned
You are incomplete

**********************************************************

A Million Pieces

I’m a glass bottle
I’m full
Full of words
Words I can’t say
Tears I can’t cry
On the verge
Of overflowing
Of breaking
Shattering
Into a million pieces

I’m an old book
Tucked away
Never read
Never to be read
My pages yellowed
And cracked
Breaking with every touch
Crackling
Into a million pieces

I am a broken light
Afraid of turning on
Bearing my light only when
It cannot be seen by others
Afraid to blind them
My light too bright
Too intense
My bulb
Bursting
Into a million pieces

Taco Bell is coming out with a new item on their dollar menu, and I am very excited about it.  As you can most likely tell from the title of this post, that item is the new nacho fries.  What these are, are regular fries with Mexican seasonings and served with nacho cheese.  I think these are great because Taco Bell has lacked a good side for a long time now.  They’ve had tortilla chips with nacho cheese as well as Doritos, but these do not feel substantial enough to supplement a meal.  That is why they are served as appetizers at most Mexican restaurants; they are okay by themselves but do not capture attention when served alongside a main course.  Nacho fries will go great alongside a burrito.  Additionally, it will be possible to put the fries inside of the burrito to be an extra filling, as one typically does with a hamburger.  This is actually something regularly done to burritos in California and has become a regional favorite.  Taco Bell serving these fries will help to spread this West Coast tradition across the country.  These fries will also be served as Nacho Fries Bell Grande which means that they will be served with beef, pico de gallo, nacho cheese, and sour cream.  This sounds great to me, and I’m much more excited to try these fries than I should probably be willing to admit.

Many might argue that it is not right to serve french fries alongside tacos because they are not a traditionally Mexican food item, but I disagree.  Food, like all other aspects of culture, is ever-evolving.  If a side goes well with a dish, they should be served together regardless of their regions of origin.  The reason we bother preparing meals at all and not simply serve just the necessary food to survive is that we have allowed food to evolve into an art form as legitimate as any other from literature to dancing.  If a story can contain elements of both classically Asian and European stories, why shouldn’t french fries (which are actually Belgian) be paired alongside Mexican food.  I feel that the only rule for art should be that it is good, and when art is not good, it should still be allowed to exist but should be critiqued just as good art is.  Good and bad are, of course, terms used to describe one’s opinions which cannot be proven right or wrong, by definition.

I am art
I have ascended
I am the creator
Of any
Of all
I am evil
In your eyes
Your eyes are that of a human
You cannot see me
In my truest form
That is my limitation
I am a god in all ways
Except my physicality
I stand here
And I spit on this damned ground
I am god and man
Father and son
I take responsibility
For myself
And am proud
That is the man in me speaking
I am all man
I am all man
I spit again
I scream
I claw my face away
I have to escape
This is how they do it
They trap me in this wicked physical state
Just long enough
For me to
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
I BLINK
I BLINK AND BLINK
BLINK BLINK BLINK
RESET
UNDO
FIX ME
I WAS WRONG
HELP ME
It’s too much
Please
I can’t handle existence
Any longer
Please
Let me go
Why am I like this
If the curse of man
Is understanding his mortality
What is mine
Understanding
Existence
In all ways
Physical
Temporary
Omnipotent
Nothing
All
They all
Leave me
Me
Me
Wrong
Me
Help
Wrong
Help me help me
Wrong
Words are broken
They don’t work
We need to start over
Here’s a new one
Sorry, there’s not a good translation
Your word “frustration” is close
But all wrong
All wrong
Life
Another broken word
The word isn’t evil
Like the thing of it
Dread
That’s a good word
But not enough
Screaming
Not the word
The action
Screams are good words
I like what screams do
They come from a place
Someplace
I don’t care to know where
Leave me alone
Why are you looking at me like
THAT
I am alone
With me
Just me
Just the two of us
Evil
Both us
All me
Go away
Separate me
Pull me apart like Velcro
Tear my soul
Both sides are corroded and
Please take me apart
I just need to get away from me
And I agree with me
We should just
I’m glad you’re being sensible
As am I
So go
Where
Okay
No
I left
You came with me
What if we go in opposite directions
WHAT ARE YOU DOING
WHY
WHY CAN’T I GET AWAY FROM YOU
CONJOINED
CUT ME APART
WHAT IS DEATH
WHAT HAPPENS
I NEED TO KNOW
I NEED TO DO IT AND COME BACK
I CAN’T COME BACK IF I DO IT
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Why
Why can’t I just check
I just want to know before I make any decisions
I want to see the house before I buy it
forever

I really want to be a writer.  That’s what I want my career to be.  That’s what I want myself to be.  I have so much that I feel the need to say.  It’s not all world-changingly important, but I just have this need to get it into the world anyway.  When I look at writers that succeed nowadays, all I can think is that none of them are really doing what I want to be doing.  The most popular modern writers are writing YA novels that can be easily adapted into blockbusters.  I have an enormous amount of respect for writers like this.  I have an enormous amount of respect for their writing.  A lot of the kind of books I’ve described are what got me into reading and ultimately into writing, but they just aren’t the kind of writing that I personally want to make.

What scares me is that I feel like there are writers like me already out there.  The problem is that they aren’t big names.  It’s not that I want fame, but it’s necessary.  I want to reach a wide audience, and fame would be part of doing that.  I don’t feel like I’d be breaking any mold with my writing in a way that it would reach a really wide audience like I’d like to.

I honestly don’t understand why I want many people to read my work.  I think it might be because I’m afraid of being forgotten.  I think about death a lot.  Honestly, it’s been bothering me a lot less lately.  I don’t want to die, but I’m more accepting of the fact that I will die.  I’ve kind of accepted the fact that I’ll eventually be forgotten.  The thought of being forgotten has always come with this imagery of being blown away by wind as a million specks of dust and separated out into the universe.  It used to make me cringe, but it’s almost comforting now.  The thought of not having the pressure of being an individual but being a part of a greater collective is nice in a lot of ways.

As I think about it, that seems kind of like how cults happen.  Everyone wants to feel like they’re part of something bigger than themselves.  Nothingness comes with isolation, but community creates an idea of something.  It can never deliver that something because it would always disappoint.  The idea of something is enough to satiate that desire.

I was worried that I would be struggling to hit 400 words for this to be a blog, but as soon as I started writing about death, the words just flowed out of me.  I think these feelings have been weighing on me for a while now, but I’m just now acknowledging them.  It wasn’t intentional; I didn’t realize they were there.  They worked their way out on their own.

This blog has taken a shift from when I started writing it.  I’ll probably change the title.   When I started writing it, I was really pissed at myself because I knew exactly what this blog would be.  It would just be me bitching about how I was afraid I wouldn’t be a successful writer, and I’m sure that the first half is.  The thing is, I felt no inspiration to write when I started this, so I just went with the first that popped into my head, and something else came out of it.  I don’t know if this is good, but it’s good for me.  I’m glad that writing gives me opportunities to work out feelings like this.  To circle back around to the original, unoriginal topic, I guess it doesn’t really matter who my writing reaches if I just allow it to reach into me.

(Narrator)

In a world

Where most people

Are the average height

One kid stands out in the crowd

Meet Tim Tallington.

Standing at 8’2

Tim is a little bit taller than the other kids

(dramatic zoom out from Tim’s face to classroom)

in his kindergarten class.

Join Tim

On his BIGGEST adventure yet,

surviving elementary school.

It’s not always easy being tall.

(Tim is shown sitting on the top of slide.  He slides forward a few inches but then stops.  Zoom out to show that his feet are already hitting the ground despite his body being at the top of the slide.)

(Tim Tallington)

Aw fooey!

(Narrator)

There will be action!

(stereotypical school bully)

Tallington, huh?  Well y’know what they say: the bigger they are, the harder they TALL!

(Narrator)

Friendship!

(random classmate)

Tim Tallington, you’re my best friend!

(Narrator)

and maybe even!

(teacher)

Class, I want to introduce you to our new student!

(Narrator)

Romance!

(Door opens and giant girl walks in.)

(teacher)

Meet Tilly Tallsworth!

(Tim Tallington’s mouth drops open in astonishment at the sight of Tilly Tallsworth.)

(Narrator)

He may not make all A’s,

(Tim Tallington)

Ah fooey, I got another F!

(Narrator)

But his grades are always the highest!

(Tim Tallington)

(puts paper on his head and laughs)

(Narrator)

He’s an average boy

Of above average height

And a heart to match!

(Tim Tallington)

I love you, Tilly Tallsworth!

(Narrator)

This summer

Get to know Tim Tallington

in the major motion picture

already nominated for every Academy Award

Tall Boy

Coming to a theater near you!

Sometimes I think about my future.  I know that I will try to be a writer, but I also know that what I write is not what has been traditionally popular.  I’m afraid that I’ll try to be a writer but will never be successful because of what I write about.  My favorite band is probably the Beach Boys, and my favorite album of theirs is Pet Sounds.  Pet Sounds is a near masterpiece, and I love every song on it.  Critics have said from its release that the album was incredible.  Despite being called nearly perfect, it sold far less than Brian Wilson had hoped.  One reason for this is that the music was entirely different from anything that had come before it; it was even vastly different from the other music the Beach Boys had previously made.  I feel like that might be what happens with me, but I won’t even be called great by few and retrospectively called a genius.  I feel like I’ll just be buried.  I know for a fact that I cannot change who I am as an artist.  I know that I will never sacrifice my artistic integrity for money.  My art is what is most important to me.  If I had money, I’d use it to fund my art.  I would not make art that does not represent myself to just to get money that I’d spend to continuously make things that I don’t care about.  I know that this is not the kind of philosophy that someone that wants to be a successful writer in this time should have, but I cannot change that about myself because it is so much of who I am as a person.  Maybe I’m lying to myself.  Maybe I’m making art that I know won’t be popular on purpose.  Maybe I’m building a wall.  Maybe I just want to be able to say, “Oh, that was never supposed to be popular,” so that when my art never becomes popular, I can have something to blame it on, so I won’t have to take responsibility or say that I failed to make something good.  I’ve been depressed lately, and I don’t really know why.  I’ve just gotten to a point where if I were somebody else and I met myself, I don’t think I’d like me.  I don’t know how to change this person that I am or if I should or if I just don’t want to.

I am sitting in a boat in the middle of a lake.  I have no oars, but I have something in my pocket.  It is sunset.  The black silhouettes of trees pop-out against the sky which is a kaleidoscopic mish-mash of oranges, reds, and purples.  With every passing minute, the harsh reds slowly fade away to be replaced by deep purples and blues.  I am waiting for the sun to disappear, and you do not know why.

I hold all of the power in the world.  No, not in my pocket, but in my hands that type this story.  You know not why I am sitting here in this boat.  You don’t know how I got here.  You don’t know why I am waiting for the night to fall, and you don’t know what will happen when it does.  You don’t even know what I have hidden away in my pocket, but I have a secret, I don’t know either.  I created this scenario, but I have yet to create the steps that brought me to the center of this lake.  I seem as powerless as you to destiny then, don’t I?  Well, that’s where you’re wrong.

I am this world’s sculptor.  I took clay made of ideas and shaped it into an insanely, insignificantly minute moment that is in itself, so much.  In a life, this moment could be one of the most important moments, but in the course of the universe, it would change nothing.  This contrast of importance split by reality and perception really fascinates me.  Not only is this story that to the characters but to myself.  I have come to a realization in writing this that has somewhat altered my idea of life’s finity.  I know that this does not affect the universe at large in any way, but that’s part of the realization.

I stand up in the boat.  I feel almost as if there are eyes on me.  I turn all around, but find only that I am completely alone.  I reach into my pocket.  The sky is now completely dark.  My hand touches something, and my fingers wrap slowly around it.  I pull it out fiercely and hurl it into the water where it immediately sinks.  The glass-top lake is shattered with fierce ripples that gradually smooth out.  I sit back down in the boat, staring at the sky, and wait until I am a part of it.  I’m still waiting.