Helter Skelter

Helter Skelter by Sir Stanley Spencer (1937)

Life is crazy.  Super crazy—no joke.  I spend my nights working graveyard shifts in order to retain some semblance of healthcare, and I spend my days writing, promoting, reading, and absorbing as much pop culture as Borgly possible.  During the rare occasions that I actually find some shuteye I dream of two things: electric sheep and the one-day that I’ll live abroad as a fulltime writer.  Even if it is just ever so briefly I will feel fulfilled; honestly who knows maybe the path to literary greatness only resides in alcoholism and sadness, but I am going to try my damndest to repave that yellow brick road with moderation and wit. I’m definitely not one to try and rekindle the Beat Generation in some desperate plea to find an ends to a means, but in a world where craziness runs wild like a lost bumble bee in a snow storm I think my odds of running against the grain are at least an even fifty-fifty.  To read about Billy Burroughs maybe be intriguing, but to live the life is another thing all together.

Thus far I’ve been fairly successful.  I’ve finally begun to save for that journey abroad and every minor success seems to be slowly adding together towards a fulltime writing gig.  I’ve built a following from absolutely nothing.  I’ve had complete and utter strangers shred my work as well as provide it with glowing terms of admiration.

We live in such a dichotomous life that it’s heard to believe in the gray at times.  We’re bombarded with this black and white perception of reality, when in fact we all live in a varied gray-space.  For example, when I write I listen to music.  This by itself isn’t all uncommon, but at times I like to curl up and click, clack away like a childish Bull listening to the soft crackle of my record player as the decades gone by lyrics of Sinatra sooth and influence my prose; however, at other times I sit in my study with a Bacardi and cola fervently penning my next chapter of “Jack and the Lilac Butcher” to various hip-hop legends.  This is the just a mere example of the gray that I have created for myself.

We all have it, and it extends far beyond my shallow music example.  It resides within our day-to-day interactions as well as more philosophical ideologies as they pertain to religion and politics.  I’m an agnostic liberal who tries to be a student of all faiths and politics.  I may not agree with everyone all the time, but I will always stay deeply nestled within the French cuff of knowledge—folded nicely away like a cybernetic fly on the virtual wall.

I live in a constant state of flux.  I’m constantly evaluating and re-evaluating every decision I’ve ever made as well as every immediate decision I will make.  I take different angles on all predicaments and try to proceed with the utmost care by jockeying back and forth between caution and impulse.  It’s a rough ride like all of our own personal journeys, but there is one thing that I have learned over the course of twenty some odd years: live for your desires.

So, many people live in this habitual bubble that just slowly dissipates over the years–until it just pops one day.  There is no point in existence if life is lived that way.  Just like the Force, there needs to be balance.  A beam needs to be carefully walked across as you enter every and any situation.  Caution and impulse need to be wed, and the gray needs to be embraced.  Nothing is black and white, and everything that appears to be so—isn’t.  True story.  Look it up.  I read it in a book.


A.R. Schultz

Mr. Jiggles and The Who

Mr. Jiggles

Ever rhyme without a reason, or care?  Ever feel the need to feel the sensation of the season, or dance with a bear? Neither have I, but do we ever truly know our own mind’s eye?  I think not, but, yet again, what do I know?  I’m just a young pup with his peacock feathers up for show.   Like a traveling Russian circus I’m all lights and no pizzazz…yet.  But, if I were you I would lay down a bet.  Odds are one day I’ll be something great, and more than less, your bet will pay off at a better rate.  Not to boast like my young friend, however, I know with age comes a mind on the mend.  Heed my diction; please mark them.  There will be no cause for friction, only meaningful REM.

The Who

An eternal moment lost and only found by the individual who masters time, who attempts to supersede death in an effort to unshackle the lock and heart with same skeleton key.  This dead bolt only reveals an archway that leads the beholder of the key to a graveyard filled with an immeasurable amount of locks that no key will open.  Age is not the question, nor is wisdom, but happiness unlocks all.  The one who seeks this refuge will find all the coffins ajar with no locks and the Who that found time will find that his key will no longer be necessary.  It’ll disappear into the abyss of the six-footer that no man glimpses without loss.  Another moment followed by an infinite amount of other moments is merely life.  Don’t be afraid that the prior moments have passed, but embrace the next and as soon as the present moment is slow view the happiness that has already occurred and shed a tear and chortle, and then grab the next moment by its thread and hold it tight.  If you don’t then there will be only one consequence…you will be the Who with the key that opens no locks and no hearts.

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