I wish I was thirty so I could just have my life figured out already. Deep down, I am so happy that everyone around me seems to be living all of my dreams. At least I am not a wannabe, seeking the approval of everyone else besides myself. Well, technically I’m writing applications that will evaluate me, so I am bending to others expectations that will surely self-fulfill the prophecy of what I really think of me. Another failure day, at my failure life, doing my failure job, so I can die a failure. Something I once heard rung through my eardrums today…The quote, “You’re better than him.” Even I believe it. And so, with a whim of bad luck glimmering like an awaited last breath, I beat on, against the wind, like the miserable sinner I know I am. Words hurt, but I think laughing at somebody’s sorrow is worse. I wish I had the foresight to have prepared a packed lunch instead of accepting old friend requested from the “life’s too short not to laugh” encouragers. It isn’t going to be worth it if you take yourself so seriously. It is going to be lonely when you come to see that all those people are going to leave, and then where will you be? I’m sure thousands of followers will understand, but man oh man, I am ready to burn a fat one. I have nothing to drink worth swallowing. I am convinced I am so terrible because nobody can recognize the beauty that is so afraid of itself. Good health is just a placeholder for an empty shell. I get scared easily, but really, I should believe in myself. There are some things that are worth being misinterpreted because if I ever found the right words, it would diminish the philosophy that emerged. Please bite me albino snake. I would shave my whole head off for a simple mistake. At least I have stayed focus on one thing in my loneliest hours that showers me with simplicity and relief…the blank page, ready to be vandalized by my pain.
Poet Without a Pen
Ben Bonkoske
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Quest ions
A madman, yes. Stupid, just practically. Questions, probably a few, Scratch what I said about being able to maintain focus on a daily routine. I went off the rails. Staying up later, running unannounced, and reading around seven books at once. If I saw exactly how much time I had between now and when I die, like a clock that diminished hour by hour until I was 100 years old, I might be a little less…comfortable. I haven’t even done the hard part for what I need to do. Well…maybe I don’t give myself enough credit. I have renounced all worldly possessions except for books and have decided to go back to the grind. I’m so serious I’ve spent nearly a week on one chapter. Inspiration strikes every night at 9 o’clock sharp. I think it is an ugly thing when a person thinks they can be an artist for a living, if they have rich parents (which I do, but who won’t support me) you might as well be a 2 out of 10. Unfuckable. I am at that point in my life where I would rather die a virgin than to digress from my rigorously flexible routine of sweet tea and reading. I’m so slow it is hysterical. It is like watching a monkey masturbate, it would be entertaining if you were in my mind, BUT, also misleading. I think there is a lot of things I miss when I read, which makes for an absent-minded author. My first book is terrible. The second will be unreadable. I have been told to throw it out by my only editor. Time is so unfair, but I’m happy to be older.
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Pornogeography
My horoscope basically said I shouldn’t half ass things (inferring that I do (and I did)). I wrote the same thing yesterday – “One mistake, one misstep and we go back to the beginning.” Now, it is after we indulge our vices, make mistakes, and basically let go of our high expectations for a minute that lasts a lifetime, that we reevaluate how minuscule every trudge towards commendable behavior really is. I feel wonderful right now after irredeemable lethargy that I doubt I will afford when it all comes crashing down. I spent a few too many hours in bed today (partly because of the rain) because, after one defeat, and one victory too many, I finally gave myself a swell of dopamine to rush through my brain transmitters so I wouldn’t transform into a giant insect. It’s a drug. I was convinced the whole show was over. Curtains. But like a deep gasp of breath coming up from thousands of leagues beneath the sea, I surfaced with a positive outlook that will last until I endure my next abstinence. I wish I were Jewish just so I would have a rational reason to starve my desires (which at this stage are still instinctual responses). Religion. Celibacy builds up and I can say that for the past three days, I was truly happy without sexual theatrics. It drains you and we all want a cigarette afterward. I have a binder that compiles all of my current life goals and are founded on the principles of Sleep, Water, and Yoga, but when it is a full moon, it is Sugar, Porn, and Cigarettes. Now, Back to the basics. I just haven’t developed a strong enough will to live. Yet? I am an old man! It might accost you if you hear my age, but believe me, it is old enough to know better. People just parade how disciplined they are in different ways. For me, it is this endless banter I blog about revealing my naughtiness (and Ideally progress). I was so depressed last night, and goddamnit if I didn’t have some beautiful revelations. Last night there was am automatic response from my computer that butt-dialed an old number which resulted in me tearing apart my office and hoping a cigarette would just fall from the sky while I listened to Mac Demarco. It was just a little heartbreaking to feel so close to something I shouldn’t be. Sorta like today, but the difference is I didn’t cry over pornography. I didn’t cry either way, but the tears were there. Here.
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Brave New World – Review
Along with books like The Bible, it isn’t necessarily the physical adventure that is most poignant, but what it implies. Brave New World takes place in a society where (for some reason) birth has been outdated, but casual sex is still very popular. I understand that there is a possibility of genetic engineering in our future (where I presume everything that comes out of the womb will be an Alpha-Plus), but the manufacturing and conditioning of babies just doesn’t seem like a reasonably likely answer to societies problems. We suffer from overpopulation, not a deficiency. I think a good indicator of a science fiction novel’s inherent good, is the correlation between the world it imagines, and the world we live in. It just makes for a better commentary in my opinion. The only r benefit of the doubt I will permit is that this book was written in the 1930s. Nearly one hundred years ago so I imagine the foresight may have been impeded.
As an essayist, I think Aldous Huxley is one of the finest. As a novelist, he comes up a bit short. I can’t tell if he is overly educated with an exceptional IQ or if he doesn’t really know what he is talking about. I think he has very constructive ideas, but poor execution. The novel follows a very particular scientific vocabulary that is acceptable if you enjoy odd dysmorphic descriptors.
Frankly, I was disappointed. Having read a few, very good books this year, I hope that I have not been recalibrated (like the humans in this book) to only enjoy the best, the finest literature, but isn’t this supposed to be one of the greatest Sci-fi novels ever written? There is a television show made this year about it. But no, in a world where free thought is discouraged, one man thinks for himself, is disciplined, until he finds that his superior has done an even more horrendous act (being a father), and then this unspeakable consequence becomes the focus of society. It makes no sense. If people are repulsed by the word “mother” (of which there is no instinctual reason, but is explained by being taught through sleep nursery rhymes of social conditioning), then why is there a celebration for her offspring? Perhaps an anomaly. More to the point, if these Savages exist around the world, what makes this one so special? Shouldn’t he be condemned? It is just not logical.
I may have not read close enough since it is a wordy book that I think gets enjoyment out of trying to outsmart the reader and pose itself as superior. I see through it. I am glad I finished it. For one, it does have a good structure. It is able to go in between characters and even reframe the focus of the book form Bernard Marx to John the Savage.
It also has a memorable scene in which the Savage confesses and then renounces his love for Lenina (a relatively fleshed out but one-dimensional female lead) out of artistic integrity. He won’t have sex with her when she offers, which, though I believe is far fetched (even for science fiction), was probably my favorite scene since it made me reminiscent of a young poet’s virginal love.
Another question…If art and science are condemned in this society, why are there journalists? Also, animals exist and reproduce naturally. I don’t think the word mother would be so unknown and taboo.
Overall, maybe I’m not smart enough to understand it on an intellectual level, but literarily it was ahead of its time, but far below today’s standards.
45/100Second Opinion 66/100
Ben Bonkoske is the author of two novels, Spoon in the Road, and Carolina, Colorado, California. He is also the author of two collections of short stories, Ten Zen by Ben, and Eleven Stories for 11:11. He lives in Chicago, where he likes to take walks.
B. A, M.A.T.
Ben Bonkoske 