Novel day. Drink an unimaginable amount of coffee. Snort some adderall, if that's your thing. But start your day off right. Call your mom as she's being discharged from the hospital. Yeah, I'm just calling to see how you're doing. Oh, I'm glad you're feeling well. Okay, well I'll let you go. Oh just one more thing, while I've got you on the line- I'm sorry to put this on you, but if I send you an invoice today, do you think you could send me the money via Paypal right away? Oh, gee. Thanks. But really- I was just calling to see if you're okay. I'm glad they let you out of the hospital so soon after your operation. I love you. Yeah, if you could. Today would be preferable. Whenever you get a chance. Thanks so much, mom. Get some rest.

Don't worry about it, she understands. It's your day to work on your novel. Get a big bottle of water from the gas station. You're going to need it. Oh, my debit card didn't work? Oh. Well here, try this credit card. I just made a ninety dollar payment on it, so there should be at least 15 bucks in available credit. Great. Thanks!

Really, don't worry about it. You've got some writing to do! Oh, you might want to give Verizon Wireless a call first. Get shoved around from representative to representative. No problem. It's a go-with-the-flow day. Here. This woman is named Faye. She'll help you.

Hi Faye. Um. Well, no. I don't really need to set up a payment plan. Yes I know. The thing is- I just sent out an invoice and I'll have the money soon. No. Faye, believe me, if I could pay 50 dollars right now, I totally would. Hell, I'd pay the whole 250 in a heartbeat if it was feasible. But I just bought water on credit. Not to be a defeatist or anything. It's a beautiful day, after all. I just don't have any... Yeah. Right. But I promise I can pay the past due amount next week. Yep. Yeah. Just please don't disconnect my service. It'll look bad. My next bill? Oh I'll definitely pay that on time. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, thanks Faye! You've been super helpful!

Let it roll off like water, brah. It's your day.

Coffee shop is good. Feeling the flow. That weird guy in the corner is sort of creeping you out. Yeah, he has headphones on, but surely he's aware that he's singing Ramstein's seminal hit "Du Hast" out loud in a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this chapter you're working on.

Oh my. This isn't exactly going where you thought it was going to go, is it? Just keep writing. It will all tie in with the story somehow. You're going to be a famous author! And hey, that last "chapter" you wrote--the one that's actually just a secondary character's unfinished Philosophy term paper--even if that doesn't have mass appeal, this new borderline-pedophilia story line is sure to win the hearts of Christian Book Clubs across the world. Just stick with your plan. Write a serial-like novel that can be sold in supermarkets. Let those handmaidens and housewives get their hands on it and gobble it up without realizing just how subversive and revolutionary it is. Change the system from the inside out, man. I really don't see how pedophilia fits in with the titled bank heist though. Are you sure about that? Oh. I see you've written another five pages on the subject. Well now you kind of have to include it, I guess. It'll all work out. This is your day. Your novel day.

Heading home. Coming down?That's okay. Cheer up. I thought that stuff you wrote today was really original and compelling. Especially all of that philosophical stuff. Although, as we speak, I'm brushing up on my Jungian psychology and... Are you aware that everything you wrote is just a flowery version of this Wikipedia entry on Jungian archetypes? It's okay. It's cool. It's totally you're own thing. Just maybe... Maybe your book could be like an extended metaphor on Jung's theories. But with pedophilia and a bank heist.

Tell you what- when you call Verizon Wireless next month to beg them not to shut off your service- just pitch the idea to them. Tell them the novel you're working on. Tell them you'll be cashing in on it big any day now and all your woes will evaporate. See what they say. They'll probably love the idea. I know I do.

Good work today. You deserve a vacation.

 drunk live blogging. you know you wanted it.
omg how do i type so well usually? the coordination. a marvel of human capacity.
yeah yeha,  whatever that means. i'm going out of my brain.
so it is, so it is.

 The heat came out of nowhere. One day it was cold, drizzling, depressing, now all of a sudden it's 90 degrees. No one was prepared for it. Walking to the park, I pass the top for one of those Kool-Aid squeeze bottle drinks. I miss those things. I forgot about them.

Something else I forgot: Los Angeles gets hot. It's been temperate and mild for so long, I forgot about the desert heat. The kids aren't playing on the playground. They sit in the shade.

In the sun, the heat is oppressive, but I like it. It's summer all over again. And not summer the season, but summer the place. The ideal. Those hot, dead days from my childhood. The different smells in the air. I miss it. I miss it and I don't miss it. Maybe I miss having friends more than anything. But I also miss those long stretches of empty road, those miles of abandoned beach, the forests and the fields of the midwest.

At least here there's an escape. Griffith Park is only a bus ride away, and the Angeles National Forest is, well, pretty big I hear. In Chicago there was no escape. No escape other than Lake Michigan. And that was hardly an escape. A day like today would find Navy Pier or Oak Street Beach jam packed with bodies. The smell of suntan lotion quietly pervading everything. But it was nice.

The ocean's nice too. But there's something about the Chicago shoreline. The way the city creeps up to the very edge of the lake and towers over it. The way you can walk through little tunnels beneath the city and, in a matter of a few meters, find yourself at the edge of Lake Michigan. 

I miss Chicago in the summertime. I miss the way the city felt. The way the heat spread across the city. I miss the Harold Washington Library and the Field Museum Campus. I miss the blue line and the 60 bus. I really miss it.

We're thinking about moving to Silver Lake. Koreatown is awful. I wanted the ocean. Santa Monica or Venice, or the No Man's Land in between. Megan would have preferred Culver City to either of those. But fuck it. Silver Lake is close enough to Hollywood and the hills and the park. Silver Lake at least feels like California.

 I was told it was ecstasy. I was also told that I would need to take nine of them.

It was the Fourth of July. I was fourteen. I had started smoking cigarettes, marijuana, and drinking coffee just a couple months earlier. And I was ready to try ecstasy.

The boy who gave it to me, Chris, wasn’t a total bastard. I would grow to be better and better friends with him until he died, less than a year later. Ironically—if only in the context of this story—he died of an overdose. Well, technically he suffocated to death. When he went unconscious, the people he was with left him in a dark basement. They put a plastic bag over his head. Later, when asked by the police why they’d put the bag over his head, one of them responded, “I didn’t want him be scared when he woke up.”

Needless to say, he didn’t wake up. But that’s another, darker story. This isn’t really about Chris. It’s about my adolescent idiocy.

The “ecstasy” Chris was giving me was niacin, an over the counter antihistamine. Niacin, at least in my town, was one of the many ways kids would prepare for drug tests. They’d take a bunch to “flush out” THC from their system before peeing into a cup.

I remember being nervous. I was with my friend Jesse. Whether or not he protested, I can’t remember. Either way, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“You need to take all nine of them for it to work.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Yes. I was an idiot. No, I don’t know what I was thinking.

We left Chris at the spools and kept walking. We had a family barbeque at my house to get to. Yes. My plan was to take nine ecstasy tablets and go have dinner with my family. Yes. This is a true story.

As we were walking back towards my place, I remember feeling warm. Too warm. It must be the ecstasy, I thought.

When I told my sister about this, years later, she told me that she had once taken a single niacin and felt like a middle-aged woman in heat. It affects everyone differently, but a common side-affect is a burning sensation on the surface of the skin. “I can’t imagine what taking nine would feel like,” my sister said.

It would have felt tolerable. But I didn’t know what was happening to me. My body was burning up. More specifically—my groin was on fire. Why my groin? I don’t know. But my nuts felt like they’d been dragged across a rug, then left in the desert sun to dry. It was excruciating.

We got back to my house. I was able to conceal my “altered state” enough to sit around with my family and Jesse, eating our Independence Day meal. We sat inside, with people rotating in and out of the house, grabbing more hotdogs off the grill, comingling with relatives in the backyard, etc. Every time Jesse and I were alone, I would turn to him.

“Oh my God, Jesse. My balls are on fire. I’m sweating. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Jesse thought it was pretty funny. And it was.

I'm becoming the angry vegetarian I never wanted to be. My stomach is growling as I stalk the narrow passages of the Grove's Farmer's Market, looking desperately for what I want. What do I want? A meal. A real, old-fashioned, delicious meal.

I get in line at this diner-type stand, desperately scanning the menu for something edible. I've been vegetarian for about a year and a half now, and it's great when you're cooking for yourself. But when you're going out to eat, or going to a dinner party, it can get really frustrating. Right now, I'm starving, and it's more than frustrating. "Don't you miss meat?" people ask me. Well yeah, especially when I go to places like this, where they serve things like "corned beef and eggs" and "pastrami & swiss omelettes."

Like, are you serious? Do you know how delicious that sounds?

On the other hand, it wouldn't be nearly as hard if places actually served delicious vegetarian meals. I'm sick of eating a dozen side-dishes and calling it a meal. It's not a meal. It's a consolation prize. Are you telling me you can't even have a box of frozen Boca burgers that you make on demand when someone "like me" comes in? This is LA for Christ's sake.

Some of the most delicious meals of my life that contained some sort of non-meat protein or substitute meat. Meat isn't as unique and irreplaceable as people think it is. We could replicate it and surpass it if people tried. But no one wants to. We've got a great system in place. Why should we cater to your lifestyle choices? Excuse me? I'm not asking you to go find the chute of a rare African plant for some weird New Age diet that my masseuse suggested to me. I just want a meal that doesn't have a goddamn dead animal in it. But every meal is built around meat. I'm looking at the menu. If you took meat out of any of these dishes, they wouldn't be dishes. They would be sides. I want an entree.

I guess I wasn't actively seeking out tofu or tempeh dishes on a regular basis when I was eating meat. But you know what? I'd eat it. I wasn't afraid of it. Sure, most people are going to order what they're comfortable eating, what they know is good. But some people will--gasp--try new things. I'm not going to go into some rant about how the meat industry is horrible for the environment. Because right now, I couldn't care less about the environment. I'm just hungry, and I want options. Here, I have two options.

The girl takes my order. I order a veggie omelette, hashbrowns, a bagel with cream cheese, and a root beer. Of course I don't want a veggie omelette. I want a damn burger or something. I want something with barbeque sauce on it. But people seem to think that the only thing you can thoughtlessly slather barbeque sauce on is a dead animal. I wish I was home. In my kitchen. My kitchen is empty, but at least then it would be my fault. And if there's one thing I excel at, it's forgiving my own faults. I step aside and wait for my food.

Last night, I was waiting for a bus in the rain and I nearly slipped on a drum stick that someone had left on the ground. Oh, they'd eaten most of it. All that remained were the grayish shreds of flesh, swimming in place as rain circulated the pool of dirty water it was laying in. I want to find the person who dropped that bone there, cut them up, and eat them. I would have no moral problem with it whatsoever.

You don't want me to talk about animal cruelty, etc., and I don't want to talk about it either. Why? Because it's depressing. But it's a fact. And if you only eat meat from cows who have names and were grass-fed on a free-roaming farm with rivers made of rainbows and smiling farmers, that's great. How often do you eat meat? Because 99%--and this isn't me being hyperbolic--99% of meat comes from "factory farming." So why bother? Is meat that amazing? It's really good, yeah. But there are other options that are just as good, if not better. BUT NO ONE OFFERS THEM. You need to go to a specialty restaurant if you want a tasty meat-substitute sandwich. I went to a place by my apartment called "Tofu House." There were only two entrées that didn't have meat in them.

I'm just sick of it. I don't mind that other people eat meat, and I don't want to have a debate about the merits of eating meat. We all know the facts, and we all do what we think is right. Don't we? Or do we do what's easy? Because after only a year and a half, I can tell you, eating out vegetarian is not easy. It's disgusting how deeply ingrained meat is in our diet. I'm not disgusted by the meat, or by the people eating it. I'm disgusted that it's all there is. Like, do you need to eat a dead animal every day?

I'm fed up. My number is called, and I go eat the 57th veggie omelet I've had in the last year. It's alright. It's not very flavorful. It's almost like they didn't try.

We must be living in a world of unimaginitive, lazy cooks. I'm not a picky eater. I love all kinds of food. I've decided that I don't agree with eating animals anymore, so I stopped. Only then did I realize: eating animals is all we do. And it's sort of, well, pathetic.
 

Before it was the Heated Forest, this blog was called the Heated Forest / The Velvet Beard. And now? Not It's just The Velvet Beard.

That's because the Heated Forest has moved.

Yes, I've started a new blog, a one-stop shop for all of my online and offline writings. I'm also posting the works of my friends and loved ones. So please check it out!

I'll still be updating the Velvet Beard with the same sporadic inconsistency as always. It will now be relegated to too-hot-for-tv type material (think heavy drug use and sexual escapades). So come back here once in a while.

The Heated Forest- I should note- will be updated consistently, as in multiple times a week. It features everything from fiction and poetry, to film news, tech tutorials, and pseudo-philosophical rants. I know. You can't wait. Luckily, you don't have to. The Heated Forest is online now. So CHECK IT OUT MUTHA FUCKA.

;) 

With a whole lotta love,
Benjamin Christopher Smith.

 You've never met me. I'm sure of it. You've heard of me like you've heard of God, but as with God, you've got me all wrong.

You're superstitious and non-believing. The combination brilliantly illuminates your flaws and your virtues. I am pure virtue disguised as a fatal flaw. We will meet, when you are ready.

You were told at a young age to fall in love with the thinking brain. You resisted, then caved, then excelled. The intellect is like a roller coaster, but you've forgotten that you can get off whenever you'd like. Instead, you wait for the ride to come to a stop.

It won't. I guarantee it.

You've met some very charming people. Some very persuasive people--most all of them on the same ride. The people who have gotten off the ride, the still ones, they watch you pass by, and you see them approaching then receding, and you wonder if they will ever return. They cannot return, because they haven't left. They are still. It is you who is imprisoned by perpetual motion. Your only hope for communion is to find the stillness yourself. Get off the ride.

I am the ride. I am the lights and sounds, I am the rumbling under your seat. I am the operator behind the switch. I can and will let you off. But first you have to ask. This has never occurred to you.

I am the creaky wooden spine arcing up into the sky. I give you a taste of heaven, and I always let you down. I am the clouds blocking out the sun, I am the sun blocking out the moon, I am the moon pulling at your insides, whispering things you seldom hear.

You have never met me. I wear no name tag, I have no face. I have no history. I am not sexy or mysterious or intriguing to you, because you do not see me. You see parts. You see glimpses. You catch whiffs. If you understood me, you might despise me. But if you knew me, you would celebrate me. You would thank me.

I am not your enemy, but I am not your friend. You cannot praise me and you cannot curse me. You could meet me, but you don't. You could love me, but you won't. You could know me, but you're afraid. You are trapped by what you believe: That you are you. But you are not. You are me, as I am you. When you sleep, I dream. When you dream, I sleep. This is the dream. The dream is everything. The dream is nothing. Your perception is skewed. You are trapped, and I am the only chance you have at freedom, salvation.

All you have to do is ask.

 Mountains don’t just slide away. They stay put. If a wind blows at them for enough millennia, it will slowly desolve, I’m sure. That’s what they say. I’ve never seen it. I never will. I’ll never see a canyon formed by the gentle, constant touch of a stream. I’ve felt such changes, once they were completed. Canyons carved inside of me by the incessant tides of emotion and doubt. Mountains of ambition and idealism slowly chipped away by a gentle, nearly undetectable breeze that flows through me. I’ve noticed that things have changed, I’ve seen the difference, but only now. After the canyon has been carved and the mountain has been crippled. What is left?

The desire to bend another’s will is the greatest source of anxiety and tension. Because you cannot change another person’s mind. You cannot make them love you. You cannot make them want you. You can’t even make them hate you. You can manipulate and intimidate, but the choice is never yours. You are helpless, powerless.

So stop trying to get others to do what you want. You do what you want. Who you want. How you want it. Whatever you want. You can only control yourself, so don’t worry about what others want from you, what you want from others. Your only goal is to be happy. You. Not them. Making someone else happy should never come at your own expense. There is compromise and there is sacrifice. Sacrifice is best served spontaneously. Any sacrifice you have to deliberate about is one not worth making, or one you're not ready to make.  So worry about yourself.

I’m talking about me here. But I suppose you might think I’m talking about you. It goes both ways, most everything does. But black doesn’t negate white. They both exist, one at a time. As we exist, one at a time. But never together.

 

It’s only the fifteenth of September, so it’s probably too early to tack on the label of “Most somber birthday ever,” but that’s how it feels. I’ve never cared less that it’s my birthday. Or almost my birthday. I got two checks from relatives and all I could think was, “Sweet, now I can pay those bills...”

I feel like I’ve been swimming in amniotic fluid for 24 years, and the likelihood that I’ll ever be birthed is decreasing by the minute. Twenty-five has long been my cutoff for “how old I’ll be when I'll have my first million.” Tomorrow I’ll be twenty-four. That puts 365 days and 6 zeros between me and my childhood goal. Should I just give up on that dream?

I’m thinking: not a chance.

The first million is the hardest, and the least likely. There are a couple ways this could all play out. One- a year from now and I’ll either have achieved my goal or be insanely close to it. Two- I will be exactly where I am today, but a year older. Either way, things will probably turn out for the best. A million dollars would be great, and stagnancy would be awful. But if September 16th, 2011 rolls by and I’ve accomplished nothing, you can bet your ass I won’t be extending the deadline.

I’ll give up.

And maybe giving up is a good thing. Giving up doesn’t necessarily mean slitting the old wrists. It could be as simple as burning my possessions, quitting my job, and disappearing. Either way, it’s a success. Because what I’m experiencing right now is not success.

I can handle failure. I cannot handle compromise. I will not “settle into” this way of life. I will either transcend it or abandon it. One year from now, I will either be on the road to where I’ve always wanted to be, or I will finally be ready for that other thing I’ve always considered part of my destiny. I will not be a paper pusher. I will not be a career man or a family man. I am and always will be an artist, starving or otherwise.

Love is not enough. Love is grand. I’m so grateful for it. But I will not let it satisfy me. I will let it intoxicate me. I will let it distract me. But that is all.

I’m done trying to explain myself. What I need now is a list of goals. What do I want out of the new year? Where do I want to be--other than in a penthouse--come next September? Find out, after the break.

( Read more... )