New Driving Playlist

The Times They Are A-Changin' ~ Bob Dylan

You Give A Little Love ~ Paul Williams

Utopian Futures ~ Kimya Dawson

Put On Your Sunday Clothes ~ Jerry Herman

Mr. Blue Sky ~ ELO

Everywhere I Go ~ Lissie

No One Ever Does ~ Saul Williams

Mad World ~ Adam Lambert

Eyes ~ Rogue Wave

Memories (Someone We'll Never Know) ~ Clint Mansell

We're Going Home ~ Clint Mansell

Ambush ~ Cris Velasco & Sascha Dikiciyan

Still Alive ~ Jonathan Coultan

Hallelujah ~ Leonard Cohen

Summer Overture ~ Clint Mansell

Mass Effect (Theme) ~ Jack Wall

The Kraken ~ Hans Zimmer

Maenam ~ Jami Sieber

Tell It By Heart ~ Jami Sieber

Framework for the perfect conversation with a stranger

Hello.

Hello.

My name is (x)

My name is yyyyy zzzzz.

What?

(slower) yyyyyyy

Oh! Hi!

Hello.

So what do you do yyyyy?

I am a writer. Fantasy and science fiction. Unpublished, I make money elsewhere. And you?

I'm an (x).

Oh? (Possible general knowledge related inquiry) / That must be fun. You enjoy it?

(Answer)

Okay.

You have an accent! Where are you from?

zzzzz. But I grew up in The City. Since I was two, I went back briefly,  but I've always had the accent. Yes, it's weird.

Oh. Wow.
It's so cold / hot! Aren't you cold / hot?

Are you seriously talking to me about the weather?

Um... maybe?

Look, I'm not going to die of cold / heat and neither are you. Yes, the weather will change and we can most make educated guesses about when that will happen. But it doesn't matter. The chances are it will be uncomfortable and both of us will survive it.

That's... true.

So now that that's been covered, how about we talk about something with some actual substance?

(Runs away screaming) / Err... okay?

What kind of soul are you?

Excuse me?

What kind of soul are you? What do you call yourself that best describes who you are?

I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it.

You can think about it now, if you like.

I'm not sure I understand the question. I mean, I'm me.

Of course you are, but the idea of you isn't necessarily restricted to the time and space in which you live. I mean, here and now you are (x) the (x), but if you lived in a fantasy world, maybe you'd be a warrior or a wizard. Or if you lived in the future you could be a robot or an alien. And maybe when you look at yourself and ask, am I an (x) more than I'm a cyborg, the answer is that you're more of a cyborg, but you're living in a time and space where that's physically impossible, but not spiritually impossible.

I think I get it...

So what are you?

I don't really know. What are you?

I'm a voodoo cowboy.

A voodoo cowboy?

Yes.

What's that?

Someone who sees ghosts. Someone who likes to be a hero, but struggles to be one in a world where outlaws look much the same as the lawkeepers. Someone who fights things that aren't even real to other people.

You see ghosts?

I see emotions. I see people who act like zombies. I fight with my mind all the time. And I'm always on the edge of where everyone else is, walking into the sunset.

I can tell why you're a writer.

Can you? But the Voodoo Cowboy isn't the writer. When I write, I'm the Sixth World Librarian.

Wait - what?

I'm not only a soul, and I don't write with my soul. No more than you (x) with your soul. You (x) with your mind. My soul is the Voodoo Cowboy. My mind is The Sixth World Librarian.

But how does that work? Aren't your soul and your mind the same?

No.

But if not, then how does your soul think?

A soul doesn't think. A soul feels.

Oh. I guess.

Do you know what you are yet?

Uh... no.

Don't you think it's something you should know?

Wait. I mean, I know, I just don't have words for it like that. It isn't that simple.

Isn't it?

No! I mean people aren't just two words like that, people change and grow, the way they feel changes. That's how it works.

It isn't how I work.

But you change your mind, don't you? You can fall in and out of love, or sometimes when you get to know someone you like them more or less than when you started. You can love a song until it gets stuck in your head, and then it annoys you and you can't listen to it ever again.

I change my mind, yes, but just my mind. The way I think about things. Not the way I feel about them. If I love a song once, I will always love it. People too. If I don't like a person when I meet them, we will never connect through anything without dislike. I may spend time around them. I may devote time to thinking about what makes them, and how to understand them, but that initial feeling never goes away. Souls are immortal, aren't they?

Yes. But immortal and unchanging aren't the same.

They are. Change is death. You kill who you are to become something else. Don't tell yourself any different.

That's kind of harsh.

I'm a harsh kind of cowboy.

I still think you're wrong. I'm not one thing like that.

That's okay. You don't have to be. But it must be difficult, not knowing who you are from moment to moment.

I kind of want to hit you. It's like you're insulting me.

I've just agreed with you.

You've just tolerated me. That's different.

Is it?

Yes! Because you still think I'm wrong. You think I'm less than you are.

That's quite an awful lot to think. I've just met you. And for the most part I've been concentrating very hard on me and what I've been saying.

But it doesn't even matter to you. Nothing I do, because you already know how you feel about me. Didn't you just say that?

I did. And it doesn't. But why are you so concerned about what I feel?

Because that's how it works! People are supposed to find things they like about one another. They're supposed to talk about things they have in common. They're supposed to find people they like, and who like them. Otherwise they're just...

Some quiet guy who sits in the corner, waiting for cues?

Yes! And that's what you are!

And what's wrong with knowing what I like?

Because you don't really! I mean, people aren't what they appear to be when you first meet them. Some people don't make the best first impressions, and other people lie to make themselves seem nicer than they really are. If you don't talk to them, if you don't find out, it's like they're empty. And you're filling them up with the ideas in your head. But none of it's real. You're just projecting yourself on to them.

I like my own company.

But that's selfish. It doesn't benefit anyone.

It benefits me.

How?

It gives me time to think more. And time to observe. You're right, people do live to make first impressions, and try to control every impression that comes later. Talking to them is what gives them a chance to do that. I want to see what people really are, so I make them feel alone. Seeing them alone isn't really seeing 'them', but it makes them drop pretense. It's a start. Talking comes later.

You're talking to me now.

You tried to talk to me about the weather. It was a point of desperation.

So you'd prefer not talking to me?

No. This has been quite pleasant. I like to talk about things that matter. Not flavors or likes or anecdotes, though some stories can be good - not even books, or movies. I want to talk about ideas. About how spirituality is like quantum physics. How music isn't just one language, but loads of them. I want to talk about all your thoughts on (x)ing, why you chose it to be one of the largest parts of your life. I want to talk about what souls are and what art is and how to make the world better.

So why don't you?

I get there and I just... can't. I'm not shy. I'm quite articulate when I need to be. But something else stops me. It's reality, I think. Everything is so much better in my head. More alive, more focused, more vital. And then I open my eyes and everything is ordinary. It's small and proper, locked in place by a million laws, like planets whose orbits feel no shock but slow entropy. And the energy, the sheer effort of bridging that gap and moving the heavens makes me shaky and tired. And then I think I don't really need that. Everything I really want is already right here in my head. So I sit. And I think. And when it's too much to contain, I write. And I think that's sad, but I get by. And I think to myself, 'maybe next time.'

But you're doing it now, aren't you? Talking to me is how you want to talk to everybody. So you've done it.

I haven't. You're too perfect. I know you aren't real, stranger. You're just another way to pass the time inside my head while everyone's talking about bands and being drunk and how they're doing in school.

Wait - I'm not real?

Nope. Sorry.

I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.

It's a good thing. Being surreal is so much better. As I told you, it's better in my head than anywhere else.

But I want to be real.

I want you to be real too. I'll keep trying, I promise. Whenever I have the will, whenever I have the energy. Some people are like conductors, and it's easier to connect with them. But it's the other ones I worry about. Because I want to push them out of alignment most of all.

Maybe next time.

Maybe next time.

Heady vapours swirl around me, cutting through the verse
Of endless empathy for a gas mask, tripping on a curse
So we say, and so it is,
For now at least.

I never new the weirdway, but I walked it anyway, and any way I liked to walk.
Quickstep. Hopped scotch and segue. Ran it. Bounced it. Swam a while. Breathed it in.
Colours swirl around me, gentle purple, 'lectric blue,
Acid green, vitriolic, cutting through each hue.
Sometimes I think my eyes are rotting, so I might stare through ghosts ever after,
See the wraithe's way, spectral lights and swamp-fires surround me, fireworks for the fifth dimension
Which is that - rhyme?
If so, they'll have to deal with the disaster
Of every line I say.
Tempered worlds try confound me, chaos can't feel right, because it's chaos. Tension.

The night is young, but growing colder.
I stare, but I can't fit through the screen.
 I'm not bright enough.
~

Ahem. This is some instantaneous poetry. because I have itchy eyes and a stuffy nose and that makes it hard to work on essays & stories and things.

We run though quicksand walls through the halls of grasping dreams,
Fighting reams of soundproof souls, whose barricade ripples without rip, plays without playing,
Slays without slaying the harbingers of night's rapture,
'Til all else is nonsensical, reprehensible slurry of half-thought vowels, shot through bowels of crude digestion, harking way to quicksand walls, through halls of grasping dreams,
we scream, and find ourselves falling sidelong,
Run fast enough and life's a pit, halls are holy, so they told me, but truth is they're just holes
So skydive, stranger, hold on tight, falling through the endless night, a hug is halfway to a fight,
deadlocked in a duel,
push away and kick your feet, fall back to the line,
of quicksand walls, and choking travesty, traversed by cowboys on the dark way,
In deserts of the flat-plane land of thought's demise,
Tell them lies,
And they'll call them stories, making it less awkward to live with,
So they say,
And still we play the game, down the snakes, up the ladders,
Down the halls whose quicksand walls
Suck
'til past them tripping on your face
through the desert's smooth embrace
You walk upon the next face, tripping off the tongue to places & faces new and rough,
Twitching muscles tell a story, maybe sad and maybe gory,
Maybe light & happy too,
Maybe just a face.
I wonder,
Which is more permeable?
Less the flesh, more the soul,
Howl at darkness, and the moon,
But it's the howl, not the moon,
That makes the night.
~