I feel like writing but I don't know what about.
Boredom isn't necessarily painful. It is just a state of agitation to substitute for the possibility of a state of nothingness in the hope of eventual action. I guess I can see the evolutionary advocation for constant action.
Damn this language failure. I've been forgetting things again. It comes in cycles. And I look at a structure of some idiomatic sentence and start to wonder: how the hell does this even work? I guess that's not the point of an idiomatic statement. It is idiomatic because that collection of words adhered under a common acceptance of meaning, whether it works or not. But it doesn't do me much good trying to think about it, and then I lose the ability to produce anything for a moment. And then I forget what the sentence is. And it would have been useful to say something else. Damnation.
It is raining again. It rains for a while and you get to thinking, "well this is how it is". And then it clears up and the blue sky looks a little strange and even invasive. But then you realize that yes, the sky is good, and the sun will feel good today, and the air and the streets are clean from just being washed, and it looks very nice out: clean and shiny and the colors are vibrant. And then the clouds gather yet again and you wake up to the pattering, thinking, "again"?
Nothing cohesive for now. Lots of phone calls to make. Meaningless anxiety. Doesn't make any sense.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Another Quarter Down, Moving On
The danger has passed for now. I can breathe again. Was there ever a danger? Of being left behind after being so close to graduating? I don't know. I don't know what I learn these days. I read the books and do the homework and take the tests and forget about it. They say the only things that stick enough to move you to action are the things that you genuinely accept as true, and vividly so, where enough force is applied to push it back into your subconscious to gestate there for later days. And all this school is just a blur. I have the vague feeling I'm losing these days spent here, but no, the philosophy is invigorating my mind, shaping it, preparing it for exercise, that I can be sure of. And there are some things that are sticking. I don't think like I used to.
But I do think I am starting to believe in something. It is hard to believe in nothing, but I remember being pretty close. And it was painful. But now there is something. Nothing from school either. Maybe some things from philosophers here and there, but I've been reading on my own and oh the ideas, they can be so beautiful. Contemplating them can give that swelling in the chest that comes with the viewing of a sunset or a grand landscape, or a great work of art, or a sprawling skyline, or a gorgeous person, or whatever else it is that gives the swell.
And the music. The music has been good. Listening. Playing. Sometimes I'm improvising on the guitar and it gives rise to certain modes of thought that I hadn't been expecting: say a collection of images or somebody arguing with someone else or someone advocating a certain idea. I carry off a certain pattern of notes and here is a man who believes he has been cheated, and here is another who is trying to tell me something important. Vague constellations of meaning, trying to sharpen into focus. It slips away for now. I think I'm moving in the right direction. It feels good to be in a trance once in a while.
It is getting colder and colder for the coming winter. The dusk is very beautiful in the clear cold. The fire leaves are back. The brightest red-orange tree in the neighborhood. It catches my eye when I go out back to turn on the jacuzzi. But then I move past a certain point and the wall and the neighbor's trees obscure it and I curse the obstructions and look to the right, where there is a beautiful sunset with huge plumes of clouds and I can't sit down to enjoy it because of another wall and I curse that obstruction too. And I curse the suburbs, all crammed together with nothing to see but walls and houses and its all the same and these backyards are just concessions to something lesser, as there's not much to see out here. But I'm glad for a backyard. I am. I just want to be able to sit out and watch the colors changing in the clouds, that's all. Because it is there, and it is very large, and shouldn't be that hard to see. But it is.
It has just begun to rain. Sleep for now. The rain should make drifting off pleasant.
But I do think I am starting to believe in something. It is hard to believe in nothing, but I remember being pretty close. And it was painful. But now there is something. Nothing from school either. Maybe some things from philosophers here and there, but I've been reading on my own and oh the ideas, they can be so beautiful. Contemplating them can give that swelling in the chest that comes with the viewing of a sunset or a grand landscape, or a great work of art, or a sprawling skyline, or a gorgeous person, or whatever else it is that gives the swell.
And the music. The music has been good. Listening. Playing. Sometimes I'm improvising on the guitar and it gives rise to certain modes of thought that I hadn't been expecting: say a collection of images or somebody arguing with someone else or someone advocating a certain idea. I carry off a certain pattern of notes and here is a man who believes he has been cheated, and here is another who is trying to tell me something important. Vague constellations of meaning, trying to sharpen into focus. It slips away for now. I think I'm moving in the right direction. It feels good to be in a trance once in a while.
It is getting colder and colder for the coming winter. The dusk is very beautiful in the clear cold. The fire leaves are back. The brightest red-orange tree in the neighborhood. It catches my eye when I go out back to turn on the jacuzzi. But then I move past a certain point and the wall and the neighbor's trees obscure it and I curse the obstructions and look to the right, where there is a beautiful sunset with huge plumes of clouds and I can't sit down to enjoy it because of another wall and I curse that obstruction too. And I curse the suburbs, all crammed together with nothing to see but walls and houses and its all the same and these backyards are just concessions to something lesser, as there's not much to see out here. But I'm glad for a backyard. I am. I just want to be able to sit out and watch the colors changing in the clouds, that's all. Because it is there, and it is very large, and shouldn't be that hard to see. But it is.
It has just begun to rain. Sleep for now. The rain should make drifting off pleasant.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
That's Me?
Says something naive like a kitten while looking into a mirror for the first time, not sure whether to be overjoyed or to be in complete terror. Complete terror? A kitten?
Ah forget it. It's nonsense anyway.
Ah forget it. It's nonsense anyway.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The Double-Sided Effects of The Stimulant
If I drew an analogy between tackling a certain complex task like writing a paper with the more simple task of threading a needle with a string, where the achievement of writing the paper lies beyond the hole, and my focus is concentrated in the string, it may be possible to address the double-edged aspect of a stimulant in my system. The problem before coffee would be as follows: the string approaches the hole slowly, with deliberation but slowly. The string faces the threat of fatigue and thus sleep, where the needle would not be threaded. The coffee would provide the benefit of pushing the string towards the hole faster and keeping the deliberator all the more awake to do so, but would also succeed in forcing the string too fast and thus crash the string against the sides of the hole, splitting the thread into multiple separate fibers, all of them not enough to thread the needle, and thus my focus splintering into several disembodied tangents, such as writing this post, contemplating the possibilities of DADGAD tuning, testing the possibilities of DADGAD tuning, weighing the pros and cons of the concept of basic subsistence and security rights (which is directly related to my paper, and thus is one of the threads that is making it through the hole) and etc. Needless to say I took the coffee approach, and at this point I am not sure if it was the most efficient, though for most people it might have been. I regret this, because it is just past 11, and I haven't started my 5 page paper, and am still gathering information in order to even write it.
I have this habit of writing posts in place of writing papers. I have many posts like this. But tonight is worse than usual. Just now I slipped out of focus even in this seperate thread of writing a blog post, and so it seems the seperate threads that split apart from the original string are themselves seperating further out, as a sort of fractal, and I fear this exponential splitting will increase until my progress is halted altogether, and the coffee crash comes and I am completely doomed.
And now...the muffled throbbing against the walls of my head: a sign of an oncoming headache.
I have this habit of writing posts in place of writing papers. I have many posts like this. But tonight is worse than usual. Just now I slipped out of focus even in this seperate thread of writing a blog post, and so it seems the seperate threads that split apart from the original string are themselves seperating further out, as a sort of fractal, and I fear this exponential splitting will increase until my progress is halted altogether, and the coffee crash comes and I am completely doomed.
And now...the muffled throbbing against the walls of my head: a sign of an oncoming headache.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
"A Flame", She Says
It started bright and hot, burned and burned and I had thought with reverence, "Man is capable of great things". I harbored that bright flame of optimism. Funny, I've forgotten how it feels, and at one time it was so strong. You take a belief system and you think, how can I have thought that? You fail to comprehend the sorts of sentiments that stirred in your past self, as opposed to a comprehension of what if feels to be warm or cold, or to be in pain. Yes, the feeling is diminished but you can comprehend it. Maybe because a belief system is situated so complexly in those feelings, and to change it would be to alter a score of connections, while things like warmth and pain are simple and can be recalled as primitives.
That flame for humanity did burn, yes. And then over the years it started to die, until it barely flickered there, a cold blue little bulb of light, and I held my reverence for every living thing except man. Sometimes, it would catch a kindle and flare up, only to consume its fuel and die back down under those arctic blasts of disappointment. Those were bad times. As if I had been poisoned, I laid low to conserve energy.
It seems now that it may have the chance to flare up once again. In time. It may be premature to say so. But in this prickly cynicism I do find myself hiding a sort of hopeful excitement for things to come. I see flashes of it here and there, as if as an entity it is trying to stir and claim my attention.
And in between those moments of contempt in which I am asking, "Man, what are you and what have you done?" there are these other more rare moments of "Well, you've done beautiful things before, what can you do next?"
That flame for humanity did burn, yes. And then over the years it started to die, until it barely flickered there, a cold blue little bulb of light, and I held my reverence for every living thing except man. Sometimes, it would catch a kindle and flare up, only to consume its fuel and die back down under those arctic blasts of disappointment. Those were bad times. As if I had been poisoned, I laid low to conserve energy.
It seems now that it may have the chance to flare up once again. In time. It may be premature to say so. But in this prickly cynicism I do find myself hiding a sort of hopeful excitement for things to come. I see flashes of it here and there, as if as an entity it is trying to stir and claim my attention.
And in between those moments of contempt in which I am asking, "Man, what are you and what have you done?" there are these other more rare moments of "Well, you've done beautiful things before, what can you do next?"
Friday, November 14, 2008
Warmth And Comfort
Like being back in the womb. But with the mere illusion of safety. We forget that we are out in space decaying. Or at least approaching that peak of growth that precedes the decay.
But that's ok. The nature of things presents us with that ebb and flow. Life blooms out and then sucks back in to disperse to conserve and bloom again, supposedly outwards. The expanding universe as it were.
The sun revolves and lends us its rays and the warmth pours in and then leaks back out to wherever it must go, and the cold night awaits the next oscillation.
It feels good, laying here with this full body fatigue that is achieved from every muscle fighting in the resistance that water provides. Back to surfing, in short.
It is quiet out there, quiet in the respect that the roar of the breaking waves is rhythmic and constant and becomes soothing background noise that the brain ignores. The ebb and flow is out there as well. Benign and impersonal as opposed to the offense to our sensibilities that the ebb of life causes. It is all impersonal in a sense, but we assign offense to that particular ebb of life because we are wired to do so in order that we may desire its flow, simply by necessity.
But bobbing up and down out on that ocean is not a threat. As long as one doesn't become nauseous or tipped over. There is a profound serenity under the sun. Nevertheless, I can't help but cast morbid glances down into that murky brown emerald, with its discs of light rolling past the surface as the sun hits the water at the right angle. I imagine the broad gaping face of a great white, silently rising into focus out of the murk, its jaw slowly opening, its eyes rolling to the back of its head, going white. It comes up silent and deliberate and inevitable, like death itself. The face of shameless death coming up to meet me, to pass finally through that uppermost film of filth in the Huntington surf.
It hasn't come yet. But I've always had a fear of sharks. They're just moments of fancy. Of the imagination running wild, and then there is a bulge on the horizon that meets the peripheral, and ah here comes a wave, and I am off and then I forget for a while.
But that's ok. The nature of things presents us with that ebb and flow. Life blooms out and then sucks back in to disperse to conserve and bloom again, supposedly outwards. The expanding universe as it were.
The sun revolves and lends us its rays and the warmth pours in and then leaks back out to wherever it must go, and the cold night awaits the next oscillation.
It feels good, laying here with this full body fatigue that is achieved from every muscle fighting in the resistance that water provides. Back to surfing, in short.
It is quiet out there, quiet in the respect that the roar of the breaking waves is rhythmic and constant and becomes soothing background noise that the brain ignores. The ebb and flow is out there as well. Benign and impersonal as opposed to the offense to our sensibilities that the ebb of life causes. It is all impersonal in a sense, but we assign offense to that particular ebb of life because we are wired to do so in order that we may desire its flow, simply by necessity.
But bobbing up and down out on that ocean is not a threat. As long as one doesn't become nauseous or tipped over. There is a profound serenity under the sun. Nevertheless, I can't help but cast morbid glances down into that murky brown emerald, with its discs of light rolling past the surface as the sun hits the water at the right angle. I imagine the broad gaping face of a great white, silently rising into focus out of the murk, its jaw slowly opening, its eyes rolling to the back of its head, going white. It comes up silent and deliberate and inevitable, like death itself. The face of shameless death coming up to meet me, to pass finally through that uppermost film of filth in the Huntington surf.
It hasn't come yet. But I've always had a fear of sharks. They're just moments of fancy. Of the imagination running wild, and then there is a bulge on the horizon that meets the peripheral, and ah here comes a wave, and I am off and then I forget for a while.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Oh, Thought Current
There are times of a sort of overdriven discharge, where the thoughts come one after another ceaselessly with no control like a flooded river gushing violently over its boundaries. Alarm sets in, the loss of control can be troubling when the thoughts are barbed, and I feel as the man who is lost and tumbling in a strong current and in that brief moment of clarity when his head breaches the surface and he is momentarily able to breathe he asks, "When will it end"? before being sucked right back under to pass further downstream. Unwanted thoughts, images, conceptions, they all drive this surge and push it with force and I am caught within and pulled apart and I wonder if permanent insanity is the perpetual tumble in this ceaseless surge, a surge that has broken free from something that was supposed to be securely dammed.
And I wonder if our dams can be broken. And they can. It happens. You can see those to whom it has happened. What does it look like on the outside? Babbling, or violent outbursts, or catatonia. Who could imagine what goes on in their heads when he himself is not insane? But can we approach it? Catch glimpses?
These are troubling moments. In certain intervals the episodes seem to intensify and get worse. A phase to pass, or perhaps ominous indicators of horrors to come. Hard to tell now. Not healthy to think about, surely.
And I wonder if our dams can be broken. And they can. It happens. You can see those to whom it has happened. What does it look like on the outside? Babbling, or violent outbursts, or catatonia. Who could imagine what goes on in their heads when he himself is not insane? But can we approach it? Catch glimpses?
These are troubling moments. In certain intervals the episodes seem to intensify and get worse. A phase to pass, or perhaps ominous indicators of horrors to come. Hard to tell now. Not healthy to think about, surely.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
There It Goes Again
The tequila feels good burning in my stomach.
Tonight was supposed to be productive. It started out that way. I was catching up on all my reading. Tonight I was going to be a good student with good stress management skills. But...
Well, my new pair of glasses broke in my hands for no reason. The little fuckers, they just fell apart as I was rubbing the lens so I could read better. And I thought back to all the times a pair of glasses broke by my hands. This wretched curse.
So I thought, fuck it, tonight is no longer catch-up night. I was tired of reading these Bush Memo papers anyway. Yeah, instead of questioning whether this whole Guantanamo Bay thing is really that humane, or consistent with those progressive ideals of the United States, they have to send memos back and forth discussing whether there is a possibility for an incarcerated alien to file a habeas corpus against them for inhumane acts. Like eh, torture. Oh it's just fine, there's this idea that the base is outside of the country's jurisdiction and these people don't fall under certain international war treaties and there are all sorts of legal sidesteps and loophole finding that is going to save their asses. But this happens all the time. At the height of power, one may experience a sort of moral blind, and it all becomes a focus on how to keep that power, or how to lose as little of it as possible as slowly as possible.
So I went to the tequila, good tequila. But of course I spilled it all over my bed. Funny how the little things catch all that momentum and you can feel it all winding down as you stand there stupefied. I felt like a baby who had just experienced a minor injustice and I was not that embarrassed that I wanted to cry.
But now the tequila is starting to take hold. It is a familiar warmth that starts in the stomach and radiates out and soon you are thinking, "Let the bed smell like tequila", and "Let those papers be, it is bedtime soon", and "Let the glasses break. I will get them fixed."
Yes. There are other means of stress management. Maybe not as effective. But I'll take it.
Tonight was supposed to be productive. It started out that way. I was catching up on all my reading. Tonight I was going to be a good student with good stress management skills. But...
Well, my new pair of glasses broke in my hands for no reason. The little fuckers, they just fell apart as I was rubbing the lens so I could read better. And I thought back to all the times a pair of glasses broke by my hands. This wretched curse.
So I thought, fuck it, tonight is no longer catch-up night. I was tired of reading these Bush Memo papers anyway. Yeah, instead of questioning whether this whole Guantanamo Bay thing is really that humane, or consistent with those progressive ideals of the United States, they have to send memos back and forth discussing whether there is a possibility for an incarcerated alien to file a habeas corpus against them for inhumane acts. Like eh, torture. Oh it's just fine, there's this idea that the base is outside of the country's jurisdiction and these people don't fall under certain international war treaties and there are all sorts of legal sidesteps and loophole finding that is going to save their asses. But this happens all the time. At the height of power, one may experience a sort of moral blind, and it all becomes a focus on how to keep that power, or how to lose as little of it as possible as slowly as possible.
So I went to the tequila, good tequila. But of course I spilled it all over my bed. Funny how the little things catch all that momentum and you can feel it all winding down as you stand there stupefied. I felt like a baby who had just experienced a minor injustice and I was not that embarrassed that I wanted to cry.
But now the tequila is starting to take hold. It is a familiar warmth that starts in the stomach and radiates out and soon you are thinking, "Let the bed smell like tequila", and "Let those papers be, it is bedtime soon", and "Let the glasses break. I will get them fixed."
Yes. There are other means of stress management. Maybe not as effective. But I'll take it.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Truth Hurts, And Floats Out In The Open Like Dust Particles
Yeah, this internet is a beautiful thing, a beautiful thing. All these interconnected nodes...it is as if the patterns of connection are growing more crystalline and dense and gorgeous.
But lives now are broadcasted into this electric air and they float around in front of your face like dust particles dancing in the light rays and you see what you don't really want to see.
Or I see what I don't want to see. Being an antisocial creature I guess it is more of a personal problem.
I could always look away, but the instinct contains certain fascinations. Just as a fascination of the extraordinary and of the macabre draws our eyes to car crashes, a thirst for social knowledge draws our eyes and ears to gossip, whether electronic or not.
With evolution came the social animal, and with the combination of experience and a genetic filter I myself become an antisocial one, and the two doctrines met head-on to clash: conscious versus the unconscious; it is one of several pairs of conflicting forces that have been so troublesome in these recent years.
Aw hell. I need my guitar fixed. I need my guitar fixed so that bullshit like this doesn't fill up my head all the time.
But lives now are broadcasted into this electric air and they float around in front of your face like dust particles dancing in the light rays and you see what you don't really want to see.
Or I see what I don't want to see. Being an antisocial creature I guess it is more of a personal problem.
I could always look away, but the instinct contains certain fascinations. Just as a fascination of the extraordinary and of the macabre draws our eyes to car crashes, a thirst for social knowledge draws our eyes and ears to gossip, whether electronic or not.
With evolution came the social animal, and with the combination of experience and a genetic filter I myself become an antisocial one, and the two doctrines met head-on to clash: conscious versus the unconscious; it is one of several pairs of conflicting forces that have been so troublesome in these recent years.
Aw hell. I need my guitar fixed. I need my guitar fixed so that bullshit like this doesn't fill up my head all the time.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Writing And The Drug Analogy
Writing and music and drugs have this common thread, a common effect on mental ailment: a sort of balancing effort that either adds to something that is missing or takes away from that which is too much. The difference is the origin of cause; you have physical causes that eventually manifest mental change, and you have activities that go right to the mental and cause the change first-hand (the usually healthier ones, but it depends).
You have your narcotics that dull the throbbing, and the head trips that suspend you from reality and the accompanying anxiety, and then there are the emetics that basically purge that vile buildup that can't be knocked loose. And like the physical drugs, the mental activities have different effects on different people.
For me, writing (cathartic writing anyway) is an emetic. It is as if putting down the words is removing something that actually has weight from the mind itself.
At the time it feels very good to be rid of the poison, but unfortunately when one looks over the expenditure the next day it looks exactly like its nature: a waste dump. One flushes their vomit because it generally invokes revulsion, and sometimes these words appear just like that material.
But these words I can't seem to flush. I can't get rid of it because unlike vomit there remains these semantics in the words that are somehow sticking together and building up and sometimes when I feel I am losing my mind I look over it again and it fills in those missing pieces and puts me level again and re-coalesces this patchwork belief system that I am starting to acquire. I lose it sometimes, as if it is sliding back into the murk, but upon refreshing it, the system re-suspends, however fragile, and that is something I cannot do without.
You have your narcotics that dull the throbbing, and the head trips that suspend you from reality and the accompanying anxiety, and then there are the emetics that basically purge that vile buildup that can't be knocked loose. And like the physical drugs, the mental activities have different effects on different people.
For me, writing (cathartic writing anyway) is an emetic. It is as if putting down the words is removing something that actually has weight from the mind itself.
At the time it feels very good to be rid of the poison, but unfortunately when one looks over the expenditure the next day it looks exactly like its nature: a waste dump. One flushes their vomit because it generally invokes revulsion, and sometimes these words appear just like that material.
But these words I can't seem to flush. I can't get rid of it because unlike vomit there remains these semantics in the words that are somehow sticking together and building up and sometimes when I feel I am losing my mind I look over it again and it fills in those missing pieces and puts me level again and re-coalesces this patchwork belief system that I am starting to acquire. I lose it sometimes, as if it is sliding back into the murk, but upon refreshing it, the system re-suspends, however fragile, and that is something I cannot do without.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
It Takes Time
We all have these protrusions that are sharp and disagreeable and they rub against others' protrusions and this generates friction and conflict and all the conflict and friction eventually sand down the protrusions through reflection until we are smooth stones that are deposited off to the side to live in peace like those on a riverbank.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Here We Go Again
The wind makes for beautiful mornings. The light from the rising sun changes into a softer, warmer, orange hue from the debris in the air and the streets get swept clean and the trees all sway to the side, but goddammit, these goddamn fires.
California needs that high speed train, that train that might even change the traffic patterns, it doesn't need all these goddamn expensive fires being spread around by the hands of the wind.
It's like that big awesome sound system you were saving up for keeps getting put on hold because your goddamn car keeps breaking down. I haven't even mentioned the people who are basically losing everything they have. I imagine it is getting a little bit tiresome around here.
Bummer, man.
California needs that high speed train, that train that might even change the traffic patterns, it doesn't need all these goddamn expensive fires being spread around by the hands of the wind.
It's like that big awesome sound system you were saving up for keeps getting put on hold because your goddamn car keeps breaking down. I haven't even mentioned the people who are basically losing everything they have. I imagine it is getting a little bit tiresome around here.
Bummer, man.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Worst One Yet
It happened after a strange series of vaguely connected events and scene changes in the dream world. There was a woman being kept somewhere by some natives due to some strange beliefs and we could not free her from them and so we walked out to a ridge that was overlooking the ocean. I had wanted her, but there was a man I was with who had rights to her and wanted her as well, but now we both weren't getting her and she was trapped. Then the scene changed. I was staying at some old woman's house (I think it was Father's Day, we were with my Dad and we were wishing it to him). We were walking out of this house, down the steps outside and the woman was talking about these victims, seemingly warning us about them. She was talking about a woman who had had her legs over a man's neck at the bottom of a room with five rows of benches, and she was saying that was the last thing the woman was doing, whatever that means. And then she said, "You know after finding 5 victims what you are in for, you must act right away."
There began this emergence of an ominous story of how to stop a psychopathic killer after you have found a certain number of victims. And then she stops for a minute and then says, "But you have to start making your judgments after 4 victims."
There was something sinister in the delayed information she gave about the 4 victims after the 5, something delayed in the structure itself of her own expenditure of information, and then it all snapped into place and the warning was complete.
I awoke in bed gasping and she had my wrists. She was hard to see, a sort of ghastly apparition. I fought for a bit (she was inhumanely strong), and through yellowed teeth, she asked me, "What do you care?" She had a lighter in her hand (Oh god she burns people alive).
She set fire to my sheets.
I awoke for real paralyzed on my back in terror. My mouth felt burnt to cinders and I had wild racing thoughts. "Get the gun, it is not over yet" kept racing through my head. Eventually the paralysis wore off and my heart slowed down and I rolled over in bed to try to go back to sleep. But I was spooked.
"Goddamn you", I said to myself in the dark, the tears burning in their ducts, "That was the worst one yet."
There began this emergence of an ominous story of how to stop a psychopathic killer after you have found a certain number of victims. And then she stops for a minute and then says, "But you have to start making your judgments after 4 victims."
There was something sinister in the delayed information she gave about the 4 victims after the 5, something delayed in the structure itself of her own expenditure of information, and then it all snapped into place and the warning was complete.
I awoke in bed gasping and she had my wrists. She was hard to see, a sort of ghastly apparition. I fought for a bit (she was inhumanely strong), and through yellowed teeth, she asked me, "What do you care?" She had a lighter in her hand (Oh god she burns people alive).
She set fire to my sheets.
I awoke for real paralyzed on my back in terror. My mouth felt burnt to cinders and I had wild racing thoughts. "Get the gun, it is not over yet" kept racing through my head. Eventually the paralysis wore off and my heart slowed down and I rolled over in bed to try to go back to sleep. But I was spooked.
"Goddamn you", I said to myself in the dark, the tears burning in their ducts, "That was the worst one yet."
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Cooling
I like the cold. I like the feel of it, the way noise is carried on it. And the way it smells. I like the bright blue cold sky, and the silver blue cold sky as the season grows colder. I like what happens to the trees, and the night seems more profound in the cold. I like cold weather clothes. I like being bundled up. It is for these reasons I like the Fall and Winter seasons.
I also grow more melancholy in the cold. More sullen. Eventually worse than just sullen, as it cools. I also write more, as if the thoughts themselves are choosing the indoors of the mind and sticking together in a smaller space so that I can retrieve them link by link, in cohesion.
Just yesterday there were several thoughts that were connected to actions and all these actions pointed in all different directions and they all mobilized at once and I became stuck.
And I just didn't know what to do with myself. Still don't.
Here's someone who I want to apologize to, but I shouldn't because I did nothing wrong. Here's someone who I should have visited in the hills near LA but I didn't. Here's something I should go do and here's another thing I should go do but I don't want to. Here's something that I should be doing right now and I'm not.
I put the phone down for a second thinking, "Oh it won't come", and then it came and I missed it.
And ah, it's all a load of crap.
I also grow more melancholy in the cold. More sullen. Eventually worse than just sullen, as it cools. I also write more, as if the thoughts themselves are choosing the indoors of the mind and sticking together in a smaller space so that I can retrieve them link by link, in cohesion.
Just yesterday there were several thoughts that were connected to actions and all these actions pointed in all different directions and they all mobilized at once and I became stuck.
And I just didn't know what to do with myself. Still don't.
Here's someone who I want to apologize to, but I shouldn't because I did nothing wrong. Here's someone who I should have visited in the hills near LA but I didn't. Here's something I should go do and here's another thing I should go do but I don't want to. Here's something that I should be doing right now and I'm not.
I put the phone down for a second thinking, "Oh it won't come", and then it came and I missed it.
And ah, it's all a load of crap.
Friday, October 10, 2008
I Just Voted 2008
I was actually excited this time when the absentee ballot came in.
I voted.
My sense of political efficacy has gone up several notches from nothing to 2.
Now is the waiting, the waiting to see whether this country will collapse or not. Or rather waiting to see the glimmer of the beginning of a series of events that eventually determines whether the country collapses or not.
Well, collapse...maybe that is a bit harsh.
But hell, it is too hard to tell these things. Some people are worrying.
So I figure I'll do some worrying as well.
And if the country collapses? Well, I do have a gun, and I do have an axe. I figure I'll shoot some trees and chop some people down. Nothing a little of that can't fix.
I voted.
My sense of political efficacy has gone up several notches from nothing to 2.
Now is the waiting, the waiting to see whether this country will collapse or not. Or rather waiting to see the glimmer of the beginning of a series of events that eventually determines whether the country collapses or not.
Well, collapse...maybe that is a bit harsh.
But hell, it is too hard to tell these things. Some people are worrying.
So I figure I'll do some worrying as well.
And if the country collapses? Well, I do have a gun, and I do have an axe. I figure I'll shoot some trees and chop some people down. Nothing a little of that can't fix.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Temporary Madness at 3 PM
It must have been a combination of fatigue, hunger, and Acid Mothers Temple, or maybe it was all Acid Mothers Temple, as it can have extreme effects by itself, but I was sitting on a bench at school at 3 (I had waited 3 hours, and I had less than an hour for the discussion class to start) and my mind was a complete...I don't even know, a tilt fuck. It was like an actual bad trip. There were the birds above dashing from tree to tree, and the bees buzzing under them, and the spider webs glinting in the sun, and random bugs and flower buds falling on me, and there were all these groups of people gathering for something on the other benches and they had name tags and big smiles and clipboards and along with the oscillating noise music it was complete madness. So I spontaneously got up from the bench and started walking for class. Class was far from starting, but I had to move. No matter what. I was halfway to the building, and there was the open parking lot, and I thought, jesus I should just leave, this is bullshit. I can't sit through that class for an hour in this state, much less wait another hour to get to it. I won't hear a word the guy says, and then there's rush hour and hell it's not worth it. So I just kept walking out and out and out.
I got to the car park and I thought, holy shit what am I doing? I had waited 3 hours and now I was leaving. I didn't even remember walking there. And I'm only in Week 2 of school, I can't be doing this...this early. And then I drop to my knees and shout to the heavens, "I can't do this anymore!" and begin weeping and beg a higher power to give me strength and however else that goes. But I did get to my car and it was quiet inside and the madness shut off like a light.
And I just realized that if those guys never urged people not to take God's and Jesus' name in vain then nobody would have ever thought to do it. Why even use it as a curse word? It's not even practical for communicative purposes. Someone must have started it precisely because of its taboo.
Who the hell yells "Buddha!" or, ah "Muhammed!" Maybe its a sort of culture curtain and they really do somewhere. But I don't know. I don't see any rules those guys have that take using a name in vain into account. Maybe there are these rules. Where did that even come from? Who thought to do that? Maybe I'm wrong and making a fool of myself. But it did occur to me based on an absence of evidence.
This post had deteriorated.
I got to the car park and I thought, holy shit what am I doing? I had waited 3 hours and now I was leaving. I didn't even remember walking there. And I'm only in Week 2 of school, I can't be doing this...this early. And then I drop to my knees and shout to the heavens, "I can't do this anymore!" and begin weeping and beg a higher power to give me strength and however else that goes. But I did get to my car and it was quiet inside and the madness shut off like a light.
And I just realized that if those guys never urged people not to take God's and Jesus' name in vain then nobody would have ever thought to do it. Why even use it as a curse word? It's not even practical for communicative purposes. Someone must have started it precisely because of its taboo.
Who the hell yells "Buddha!" or, ah "Muhammed!" Maybe its a sort of culture curtain and they really do somewhere. But I don't know. I don't see any rules those guys have that take using a name in vain into account. Maybe there are these rules. Where did that even come from? Who thought to do that? Maybe I'm wrong and making a fool of myself. But it did occur to me based on an absence of evidence.
This post had deteriorated.
Morning Run 1
His was a dense cloud of cologne that fit him like an aura. I disturbed it running past and it swirled after me and lingered under my nose for a block. My "good morning" was not returned. I don't expect it to be. It is always nice but I don't expect it.
The sky was very blue and the sun was bright on the trees and when one stepped out of the shade one felt it. It feels good to get to the top of the hill.
That's all I know about these runs. That's all there is to know. When I get back to my door step it all comes back with a sinking feeling and a dull roar that gets continually louder that drifts up from the street.
The sky was very blue and the sun was bright on the trees and when one stepped out of the shade one felt it. It feels good to get to the top of the hill.
That's all I know about these runs. That's all there is to know. When I get back to my door step it all comes back with a sinking feeling and a dull roar that gets continually louder that drifts up from the street.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Libras And The Ant Kingdom
I crushed an ant a minute ago. It makes me feel very sorry. A minute thing like that. I just felt an itch and I itched and there he was on my finger, and I said to myself, "Sorry, friend."
I try not to kill anything. It is very difficult sometimes. I turn on the shower and they all scurry out from under the sponge and into the pouring water and I think, god, sorry friends. Really.
I sometimes wonder why I even have these tendencies towards extreme compassion in the midst of those who readily dispense bug spray and wash them down the drain and step on them and whatever else. I wonder if the compassion is ill-conceived, if it is really just foolish, that the ants and the other bugs don't experience like we do and don't feel the kind of pain we do. But then I see them squirm and I see them scurry from dangers, which would seem to indicate some sort of aversion to death. And all living things share it.
And this is how I am in the social sphere. This sort of delicate forest of interconnected life that I try so hard not to trample, but to move through you must trample, and it happens, and it is all so painful, I don't understand why I wasn't better equipped to do what everyone else seems OK with doing.
These Libras...I read that they can be over-compassionate and lose themselves and find themselves torn asunder among the others' interests and conflicts. They desire harmony with their surroundings most in life, and perhaps for them the greatest sorrow is to see the failure of this harmony, which is constantly occurring due to the vast number of contradicting interests that cross one's path in life. I am of these Libras. A slice of this cyclical structure they envision as the Zodiac. It is not a literal metaphysical reality, but a beautiful metaphor that may just work in its abstract form.
Perhaps we are born in time and our places in this great machine are defined at birth according to spacial and temporal circumstances and we interlock with the others in specific ways in this unfolding grind and all these sentiments are just the experience of being a part of it.
And what of those who say, "I do not want to be a part of it"? And they die by suicide or broken hearts or they simply leave to live in solitude? What of them? Broken pieces? Further complications of this strange life? I wonder if I could join them (by way of solitude of course), but then I would be useless to a lot of others, and there is so much more to do before that.
Maybe later.
There is always lying drunk on a roof, watching the multi-layered clouds (the highest layer cracked like a dehydrated desert floor), at moments thinking much and then spontaneously thinking of nothing, and then later watching the cars go by. And few, if none of those people ever looked up.
I try not to kill anything. It is very difficult sometimes. I turn on the shower and they all scurry out from under the sponge and into the pouring water and I think, god, sorry friends. Really.
I sometimes wonder why I even have these tendencies towards extreme compassion in the midst of those who readily dispense bug spray and wash them down the drain and step on them and whatever else. I wonder if the compassion is ill-conceived, if it is really just foolish, that the ants and the other bugs don't experience like we do and don't feel the kind of pain we do. But then I see them squirm and I see them scurry from dangers, which would seem to indicate some sort of aversion to death. And all living things share it.
And this is how I am in the social sphere. This sort of delicate forest of interconnected life that I try so hard not to trample, but to move through you must trample, and it happens, and it is all so painful, I don't understand why I wasn't better equipped to do what everyone else seems OK with doing.
These Libras...I read that they can be over-compassionate and lose themselves and find themselves torn asunder among the others' interests and conflicts. They desire harmony with their surroundings most in life, and perhaps for them the greatest sorrow is to see the failure of this harmony, which is constantly occurring due to the vast number of contradicting interests that cross one's path in life. I am of these Libras. A slice of this cyclical structure they envision as the Zodiac. It is not a literal metaphysical reality, but a beautiful metaphor that may just work in its abstract form.
Perhaps we are born in time and our places in this great machine are defined at birth according to spacial and temporal circumstances and we interlock with the others in specific ways in this unfolding grind and all these sentiments are just the experience of being a part of it.
And what of those who say, "I do not want to be a part of it"? And they die by suicide or broken hearts or they simply leave to live in solitude? What of them? Broken pieces? Further complications of this strange life? I wonder if I could join them (by way of solitude of course), but then I would be useless to a lot of others, and there is so much more to do before that.
Maybe later.
There is always lying drunk on a roof, watching the multi-layered clouds (the highest layer cracked like a dehydrated desert floor), at moments thinking much and then spontaneously thinking of nothing, and then later watching the cars go by. And few, if none of those people ever looked up.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Alcohol: The Brain's Light Fuzz Pedal
I say light fuzz because there are substances out there that offer more distortion and alteration and I have to allow for that.
But it seems like 80% or more of my posts in the last two years have been written when I was drunk or relatively buzzed, and I don't know if good can come of that or not. Maybe that is why there has been so much nonsense lately.
And it is always when I'm drunk. It is like something you are inclined to do at the moment. If you are horny, you think, goddammit, some bumpin' sounds pretty good right now (strange euphemism yes, but it just came to mind). Some people, when they are hungry, think, goddammit, some eatin' sounds pretty good right now. Well when I am drunk, I think, goddammit, some writin' sounds pretty good right now. This is not the most optimal correlation, as posts like this tend to get written.
I don't do a lot of writing when I am high, because I am past that point where a sort of minimal attention span suffices for a complete sentence. And I just don't feel like it either. I feel like making music. And that is another topic altogether.
But speaking of being high, a short note on the drug question. It seems these drugs are analogous to simply turning up that fuzz, and a lot of people in the world ascribe these sort of evil, monstrous qualities to drugs in general, and fear them and persecute those who use them, when in fact they are unaware that they are simply a part of a group that fears that further ascension (or descent) into realms of consciousness that aren't quite understood yet. Yes, a fear of the unknown, it always comes up. How many people have I had a conversation with that say pretty confidently: "Oh marijuana, I don't touch that stuff", all the while holding a beer or coctail in their hand. And I think, yes, you have the stuff right in your hand, its just a different composition of chemicals that doesn't take you as far. And that attitude itself is waning in California at least. Sort of.
It was hot and heavy today. September and early October are strange months for weather. You think, oh lord finally the coolness, and then the next day you find yourself in a broiler. All this expanding and contracting is mushing up my already alcohol-fuzzed brain.
I told my Moral Philosophy class today that I was interested in many things but I was lost. I said it lightly, with a sort of chuckle, but I don't know how it was received.
To hell with it. Most of those philosophy majors miss the point of philosophy. They find a line of thought that they like and then they adhere to it and use it to argue and sound crafty but in the end it is word sorcery and not really questioning. But I suppose they do have something to be envied if they aren't lost. Even if they have wayward convictions. It still seems to bring a sort of power, whether earned or not, and I guess that counts for something.
But it seems like 80% or more of my posts in the last two years have been written when I was drunk or relatively buzzed, and I don't know if good can come of that or not. Maybe that is why there has been so much nonsense lately.
And it is always when I'm drunk. It is like something you are inclined to do at the moment. If you are horny, you think, goddammit, some bumpin' sounds pretty good right now (strange euphemism yes, but it just came to mind). Some people, when they are hungry, think, goddammit, some eatin' sounds pretty good right now. Well when I am drunk, I think, goddammit, some writin' sounds pretty good right now. This is not the most optimal correlation, as posts like this tend to get written.
I don't do a lot of writing when I am high, because I am past that point where a sort of minimal attention span suffices for a complete sentence. And I just don't feel like it either. I feel like making music. And that is another topic altogether.
But speaking of being high, a short note on the drug question. It seems these drugs are analogous to simply turning up that fuzz, and a lot of people in the world ascribe these sort of evil, monstrous qualities to drugs in general, and fear them and persecute those who use them, when in fact they are unaware that they are simply a part of a group that fears that further ascension (or descent) into realms of consciousness that aren't quite understood yet. Yes, a fear of the unknown, it always comes up. How many people have I had a conversation with that say pretty confidently: "Oh marijuana, I don't touch that stuff", all the while holding a beer or coctail in their hand. And I think, yes, you have the stuff right in your hand, its just a different composition of chemicals that doesn't take you as far. And that attitude itself is waning in California at least. Sort of.
It was hot and heavy today. September and early October are strange months for weather. You think, oh lord finally the coolness, and then the next day you find yourself in a broiler. All this expanding and contracting is mushing up my already alcohol-fuzzed brain.
I told my Moral Philosophy class today that I was interested in many things but I was lost. I said it lightly, with a sort of chuckle, but I don't know how it was received.
To hell with it. Most of those philosophy majors miss the point of philosophy. They find a line of thought that they like and then they adhere to it and use it to argue and sound crafty but in the end it is word sorcery and not really questioning. But I suppose they do have something to be envied if they aren't lost. Even if they have wayward convictions. It still seems to bring a sort of power, whether earned or not, and I guess that counts for something.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Clean And Cold
The clouds were like frozen violet-gray explosions this morning and the air was cold and clear and it is that time in the year that everything starts to feel slightly different.
There was a strange thunderstorm this morning that seemed out of place, but welcome.
All this new philosophy pouring into my head sends it spinning and spreading until I forget where I am or what I am doing.
I'm empty again but I'll take it for now.
There was a strange thunderstorm this morning that seemed out of place, but welcome.
All this new philosophy pouring into my head sends it spinning and spreading until I forget where I am or what I am doing.
I'm empty again but I'll take it for now.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Why
I was standing in the bathroom taking aspirin for a throbbing headache I had from a few glasses of cheap wine and I as I leaned back to drink down some water to wash down the pills I caught sight of a huge fly sticking there on the ceiling.
It was at that moment that it all froze and hung together and there I was, bent back from this antidote to spot the ugliness from this new viewing angle. The scene stood there like some grotesque 3d painting, or a combination of 2d paintings in the memory's eye, and I realized with all those years of the same recurring feeling snapping back together across so many isolated events what a fool I had been, and what a fool I still was, following those lines of thought and sentiment straight through like arrows to be stuck into the bales.
A sentimental fool still chasing that fairy tale stuff that we were made to believe in. And can you blame him? Like a bow was made to fire those arrows, straight and true and with deliberation, we were made to chase these happy endings, ignoring the digressions and warning signs, to land and stick in those unmoving bales.
It was at that moment that it all froze and hung together and there I was, bent back from this antidote to spot the ugliness from this new viewing angle. The scene stood there like some grotesque 3d painting, or a combination of 2d paintings in the memory's eye, and I realized with all those years of the same recurring feeling snapping back together across so many isolated events what a fool I had been, and what a fool I still was, following those lines of thought and sentiment straight through like arrows to be stuck into the bales.
A sentimental fool still chasing that fairy tale stuff that we were made to believe in. And can you blame him? Like a bow was made to fire those arrows, straight and true and with deliberation, we were made to chase these happy endings, ignoring the digressions and warning signs, to land and stick in those unmoving bales.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Archipelago Travel
When one sinks, it is a good idea to hop to the next, which holds true for all iterations of this abstracted concept.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Cockfasting
A multi-semantic word, the meaning of "Cockfasting" can change with intonation and user.
One can say, "Cock (space of time) fasting", as in one is fasting not with food, but with cock. Both sexes of both sexual preferences can use the term: males can fast their own cock, and choose not to have intercourse for whatever period of time, for whatever reason, or fast from having other cock, or vice versa, or both at the same time, and females can fast from having cock , and I suppose lesbians are on an indefinitely prolonged cock fast, in terms of organic cock anyway.
There is also the use of the term that can be seen as similar to "Breakfast", pronounced in the same way...where...no, that needn't be explained.
And finally there is the use of the word very rapidly in that insolent "proper" English pronunciation, of which I cannot demonstrate because I am much too coarse, that sounds like something fancy you would do while fencing or riding a race horse, that really has nothing to do with cocks and serves to confuse everyone who isn't aware of its correct use.
The reason for this post I am not quite sure of, and am becoming more and more shocked of its own content the longer I sit to take it in. And the longer I sit and take it in, the more unaware I become of the origin of this concept, until I realize that a post such as this could look quite strange on one's blog, and then I once again realize the function of this blog: to exercise the writing muscle and vent and write about gloomy and strange things, these things not primarily meant for the entertainment of others, which can sometimes happen, if I dare say so.
But nevertheless, when I look upon my own uneasiness during the survey of certain disturbing things that I realize have originated within myself, it only serves to amplify the unease because I not only contemplate the disturbing content but the fact that it has in fact come from me and the effect is compounded.
At least talking in this way about this subject seems to help work it out a little. Silly outlet, this writing.
Maybe I should write a guitar solo that would evoke images of "Cockfasting" in the listener's head.
One can say, "Cock (space of time) fasting", as in one is fasting not with food, but with cock. Both sexes of both sexual preferences can use the term: males can fast their own cock, and choose not to have intercourse for whatever period of time, for whatever reason, or fast from having other cock, or vice versa, or both at the same time, and females can fast from having cock , and I suppose lesbians are on an indefinitely prolonged cock fast, in terms of organic cock anyway.
There is also the use of the term that can be seen as similar to "Breakfast", pronounced in the same way...where...no, that needn't be explained.
And finally there is the use of the word very rapidly in that insolent "proper" English pronunciation, of which I cannot demonstrate because I am much too coarse, that sounds like something fancy you would do while fencing or riding a race horse, that really has nothing to do with cocks and serves to confuse everyone who isn't aware of its correct use.
The reason for this post I am not quite sure of, and am becoming more and more shocked of its own content the longer I sit to take it in. And the longer I sit and take it in, the more unaware I become of the origin of this concept, until I realize that a post such as this could look quite strange on one's blog, and then I once again realize the function of this blog: to exercise the writing muscle and vent and write about gloomy and strange things, these things not primarily meant for the entertainment of others, which can sometimes happen, if I dare say so.
But nevertheless, when I look upon my own uneasiness during the survey of certain disturbing things that I realize have originated within myself, it only serves to amplify the unease because I not only contemplate the disturbing content but the fact that it has in fact come from me and the effect is compounded.
At least talking in this way about this subject seems to help work it out a little. Silly outlet, this writing.
Maybe I should write a guitar solo that would evoke images of "Cockfasting" in the listener's head.
To The End Of Summer, '08
It was something. It hurt, and it felt great. And many other things that writing about would cheapen.
It hurts right now.
But later it will feel great.
And so on.
Now: The last year of my academic career.
Strange.
It hurts right now.
But later it will feel great.
And so on.
Now: The last year of my academic career.
Strange.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
So It Goes
It is solitude and those subsequent heavy silences that allow the thoughts to begin to creep back in until they are swimming densely in my head. I put on music and tinker around with various logic games to dull the thoughts, or at least put something between me and them, but they still manage to leak in. I mean, a lot of the time I enjoy those sprawling, interconnected trains of thought and I love following them but sometimes it can be mentally draining, especially if the thoughts are heavy with certain emotions and you are suddenly put through that rollercoaster of changing emotions, emotions that are supposed to be saved for those dramatic events where the pent up tension in the parties involved finally breaks loose and we are left to ride out the ensuing events, feeling all there is to feel in the duration.
But the thoughts. What about the thoughts? There are too many. And when it begins to set in heavier and heavier (this large body of invading thoughts) a man begins to lose himself. Frightfully so sometimes.
I try to think of my newly cleaned guitar...with the fresh strings that slide and pull so well and you can navigate all over them nice and smooth...and I try to think of the music being piped in my ears, and of what foot is keeping the beat, usually my right, but it can vary...but oh you can only do that for so long, and those things in themselves can lead into whole other avenues of thought...for better or worse.
But the thoughts. What about the thoughts? There are too many. And when it begins to set in heavier and heavier (this large body of invading thoughts) a man begins to lose himself. Frightfully so sometimes.
I try to think of my newly cleaned guitar...with the fresh strings that slide and pull so well and you can navigate all over them nice and smooth...and I try to think of the music being piped in my ears, and of what foot is keeping the beat, usually my right, but it can vary...but oh you can only do that for so long, and those things in themselves can lead into whole other avenues of thought...for better or worse.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Oh Distractions, Another Suspended Life
Those sounds the guitar make produce images of trailing fires in my head, changing through a spectrum of colors depending on the intensity, and there is a story told that has a texture that's soothing and scathing at the same time.
And bass produces images of warm, crackling semi-solids that suddenly materialize like fireworks and swirl with a lava-like fluidity and move and dissipate and another story is told of a different type, of rhythm and texture, and this story interacts with the guitar's story and the two mix like paints and produce new fascinating colors.
And the drums shake up the images with that old primary beat.
Yeah, music tells a story of sound and rhythm and induced imagery and it feels great to get lost in it.
And white wine tastes great outside with the low afternoon sun lighting up the trees and the gnats and flies are buzzing in the grass and mixing with the dust and there is so much texture to behold with a buzzing head.
And sometimes they all combine and it is as if there is another life layered on top that one can climb to in order to escape that tangled undergrowth of maddened creatures fighting one another for some prize that I don't yet understand.
It all makes me forget that we are running out of money.
And bass produces images of warm, crackling semi-solids that suddenly materialize like fireworks and swirl with a lava-like fluidity and move and dissipate and another story is told of a different type, of rhythm and texture, and this story interacts with the guitar's story and the two mix like paints and produce new fascinating colors.
And the drums shake up the images with that old primary beat.
Yeah, music tells a story of sound and rhythm and induced imagery and it feels great to get lost in it.
And white wine tastes great outside with the low afternoon sun lighting up the trees and the gnats and flies are buzzing in the grass and mixing with the dust and there is so much texture to behold with a buzzing head.
And sometimes they all combine and it is as if there is another life layered on top that one can climb to in order to escape that tangled undergrowth of maddened creatures fighting one another for some prize that I don't yet understand.
It all makes me forget that we are running out of money.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Another Complaint
I'm not good at this people thing. The social thing.
Whereas the social animal breathes on its own by automation, I have to think about the breathing itself, and the expenditure of energy doubles, and it becomes a tiring game...a tiring game with great rewards yes, but tiring nevertheless.
The most I can hope for is keeping the fatigue internal, and concealing the difficulties so that there is as little collateral damage as possible.
You see, even the language I am using to explain this is completely unnecessary and over-calculated.
Whereas the social animal breathes on its own by automation, I have to think about the breathing itself, and the expenditure of energy doubles, and it becomes a tiring game...a tiring game with great rewards yes, but tiring nevertheless.
The most I can hope for is keeping the fatigue internal, and concealing the difficulties so that there is as little collateral damage as possible.
You see, even the language I am using to explain this is completely unnecessary and over-calculated.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Just Another String Of Thoughts (Pertaining to Original Works)
There's certain instances when listening to music or watching a film or looking over a piece of art or reading a piece of literature or even playing a video game - usually when any of the mentioned items are accomplishing something new, or exercising some obscure concept - when a strange mixture of emotions comes over oneself, those emotions being awe and rapture and even a little bit of fear, and some may describe this feeling with the word "haunting" - though this feeling is not limited to the conventional use of the word - and the individual may realize he or she is experiencing something oddly familiar, yet new and strange, or alien altogether, and there comes the amazement at the capabilities of mankind to occasionally transcend itself with these feats of the novel and original, and though it is all built on past achievements, there is still a freshness in the rearrangement and utilization of the old.
Yes, it is these rare times when in the presence of the birth of something new (the beauty of which is already guaranteed) an individual can feel that ancient pulse of fear and excitement and wonder in the face of the unknown. The excitement and wonder guides us cautiously forward to experience the unknown, and the fear keeps us from tumbling right in. It is how we can push forward without toppling over the precipice. It is prudent progress. We project our future to ourselves in our art and music and we contemplate and this projection becomes a mirror.
It is how we extend ourselves.
Yes, it is these rare times when in the presence of the birth of something new (the beauty of which is already guaranteed) an individual can feel that ancient pulse of fear and excitement and wonder in the face of the unknown. The excitement and wonder guides us cautiously forward to experience the unknown, and the fear keeps us from tumbling right in. It is how we can push forward without toppling over the precipice. It is prudent progress. We project our future to ourselves in our art and music and we contemplate and this projection becomes a mirror.
It is how we extend ourselves.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Symmetry
When two intelligences meet and become more intimate it seems like they approach a state of synchronicity. Eventually they then separate and return to their self and when they part there are certain aspects from each that rub off on each other and color their separate experiences...perhaps for the rest of their lives, and maybe this is how we slowly forge into unique characters in the social sphere.
I don't yet have words to describe the past few days. Maybe it isn't really necessary. But let us say there was much synchronization and I already feel that shade of difference.
And it is good.
I don't yet have words to describe the past few days. Maybe it isn't really necessary. But let us say there was much synchronization and I already feel that shade of difference.
And it is good.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Drunk Again. Something Else To Say
The bass fades along with the dying brain cells, to keep them company with a mellow hum perhaps.
Why kill them, at night while talking to animated silhouettes?
Strange constellations of happy creatures, killing the cells to keep from experiencing the agony of existence. Maybe it should be so. It is so.
The swan song of the dying is more beautiful. Why?
Jotting these things down late at night. I don't know where they come from. I won't remember how. I think of all the groups of people laughing or swaying or slowing down or whatever it was they were doing, all black outlines with white glowing edges. But the most interesting person there was the solitary one grabbing his face in the dark.
What went on in his head that he had to grab it and pull it and push it away?
I answered a call on my cell phone from a number I did not recognize around 3:30 am. Supposedly a missed call from someone who was using my phone earlier in the night. We talked like old friends, both altered, both of our defenses down, friendly and trusting, warm; not like the awkward lapses that chop up conversation between people who have never met and who are in a state of normalcy.
Why kill them, at night while talking to animated silhouettes?
Strange constellations of happy creatures, killing the cells to keep from experiencing the agony of existence. Maybe it should be so. It is so.
The swan song of the dying is more beautiful. Why?
Jotting these things down late at night. I don't know where they come from. I won't remember how. I think of all the groups of people laughing or swaying or slowing down or whatever it was they were doing, all black outlines with white glowing edges. But the most interesting person there was the solitary one grabbing his face in the dark.
What went on in his head that he had to grab it and pull it and push it away?
I answered a call on my cell phone from a number I did not recognize around 3:30 am. Supposedly a missed call from someone who was using my phone earlier in the night. We talked like old friends, both altered, both of our defenses down, friendly and trusting, warm; not like the awkward lapses that chop up conversation between people who have never met and who are in a state of normalcy.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Continue
I've grown tired of writing, but it also seems a shame to let the muscle become emaciated.
A lot has happened in the past two months. Too much to really digest and understand. We've been through a lot so far, haven't we? And there's so much more ahead...theoretically anyway. Life in its violent changes can be very beautiful and painful at the same time, and how many times have I been on the verge of a nervous breakdown and been entranced with the realization that I loved it and loathed it at the same time?
21 years of being a human and I still haven't the slightest idea of what they are.
I guess 21 isn't the sort of age for wisdom anyways, but it is still an uncomfortable feeling.
I'm forgetting things. And there are these lapses in thought or understanding where I fear some sort of mental ailment, but I think I'm just starting to use other parts of the brain more, and then there are the other parts that are being used less.
The experience is more of a glide now. A glide. There is no other way to explain it without images that really couldn't be communicated through a medium anyway. I think others' experiences do share a common-ground, but there are some aspects that differ and there becomes a dramatic change in mode of experience, where someone interprets everything a shade differently than the next person. Oh what it would be to experience those in addition to your own. What revelations would occur? Everything is still so linear with one point of view. Even when entertaining thoughts of relativity and juggling perspectives. There is still a sort of forced linearity. Maybe.
This isn't really going anywhere. But that's how the summer is when you don't have a job and you are not going to school and your mind has a chance to wander and it becomes a little dangerous, and pleasurable.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Well
That's it for a long time again.
I'm tired of this thing. It has grown stale.
It is summer again. Hot and miserable and slow, but constructed of a sprawling chain of strange, significant experiences that can slightly or dramatically alter one's trajectory.
They are always like that.
It is at night that it all happens anyways. And the on the next day you wake up at 1 and think, god, the day is already half wasted. But in the summer, it has barely begun. You'd only be lying around hot and sweating and not wanting to do anything anyways.
It is hard to get used to.
I'm tired of this thing. It has grown stale.
It is summer again. Hot and miserable and slow, but constructed of a sprawling chain of strange, significant experiences that can slightly or dramatically alter one's trajectory.
They are always like that.
It is at night that it all happens anyways. And the on the next day you wake up at 1 and think, god, the day is already half wasted. But in the summer, it has barely begun. You'd only be lying around hot and sweating and not wanting to do anything anyways.
It is hard to get used to.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Don't Breathe
Reconstructing a philosophical argument is like building a stack of cards. It sounds simple enough...regurgitating another's theory on paper, remaining faithful as possible, but when one sets out to actually carry through with the task, things get dicey.
One gust can blow the entire stack down. If the wrong word is used, or an incorrect phrase, or just plain sloppy direction is exercised, the entire argument can be dashed to pieces.
Every word has a very precise meaning when used in context of the argument. The finest distinctions could pass unnoticed and break everything apart.
And that is a major aspect of a philosophical system, or theory. The intricate construction of words and those words' relations and the logical dynamics that are created with the relations between the words.
Everyone is trying to explain the same thing with their own constructions. And others are trying to take down those constructions with their own little gusts of wind.
It seems to be that "me" element that drives this whole progression. Hopefully it means something more than simple vanity.
Ah but it must.
One gust can blow the entire stack down. If the wrong word is used, or an incorrect phrase, or just plain sloppy direction is exercised, the entire argument can be dashed to pieces.
Every word has a very precise meaning when used in context of the argument. The finest distinctions could pass unnoticed and break everything apart.
And that is a major aspect of a philosophical system, or theory. The intricate construction of words and those words' relations and the logical dynamics that are created with the relations between the words.
Everyone is trying to explain the same thing with their own constructions. And others are trying to take down those constructions with their own little gusts of wind.
It seems to be that "me" element that drives this whole progression. Hopefully it means something more than simple vanity.
Ah but it must.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Analysis. Just Four Letters Away From "Anal"
And eight letters away from "anal rape".
Oh, analysis, that eternal tedium. I'm so tired of you. Marking off passages and underlining this and highlighting that and explaining why this is so and that is that and having to get down on paper again and again what is already there!
But maybe it serves some great purpose for humanity. And it does. But leave that to the analyzers. I don't want a part of it. I want to create, not describe what's already there, what already lends itself in the thought train, the imagery, the whatever. We need to get things down on paper, yes, for something, to sustain something. Let those who are interested do so.
But I'm tired. And to think, there's another year of it ahead. Leave me be. There's more to this. And I suppose I am engaged in the very activity that I am criticizing, just of a slightly different nature. So be it. I'm in it for breaking the tedium, and letting off steam at the same time. For myself, I suppose.
Madness
Oh, analysis, that eternal tedium. I'm so tired of you. Marking off passages and underlining this and highlighting that and explaining why this is so and that is that and having to get down on paper again and again what is already there!
But maybe it serves some great purpose for humanity. And it does. But leave that to the analyzers. I don't want a part of it. I want to create, not describe what's already there, what already lends itself in the thought train, the imagery, the whatever. We need to get things down on paper, yes, for something, to sustain something. Let those who are interested do so.
But I'm tired. And to think, there's another year of it ahead. Leave me be. There's more to this. And I suppose I am engaged in the very activity that I am criticizing, just of a slightly different nature. So be it. I'm in it for breaking the tedium, and letting off steam at the same time. For myself, I suppose.
Madness
Monday, May 12, 2008
Another Good Name For A Metal Band
"The Manichaeans and The Iguana"
That's not supposed to be significant or anything.
Hell, it is a cloudy day. And there is an irritating constant drizzle outside.
Downpours aren't as annoying. It's like, ok, here's a downpour. Better stay inside.
But a drizzle is like, well I think I can do this...goddammit this is annoying.
The gardeners are yelling outside. It seems like they are right up to my window.
Well gardener, while you are here, let me ask you a question.
You seem to be an experienced man in judging different aspects of weather.
Isn't this drizzle fuckin' annoying?
Hell, it is a cloudy day. And there is an irritating constant drizzle outside.
Downpours aren't as annoying. It's like, ok, here's a downpour. Better stay inside.
But a drizzle is like, well I think I can do this...goddammit this is annoying.
The gardeners are yelling outside. It seems like they are right up to my window.
Well gardener, while you are here, let me ask you a question.
You seem to be an experienced man in judging different aspects of weather.
Isn't this drizzle fuckin' annoying?
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Those Wretches
Many imaginary creations can be seen as us reflecting upon ourselves. Creating some sort of distant menace to embody those things which we mean to bring out and question.
And as for Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, well...with that double mirror effect seen when man reflects upon the ghastliness of the monster, and then upon himself, and at the same time, the monster reflects upon the ghastliness of man and then upon himself as well...there becomes a symmetric cry of agony from both sides, amplifying the misery. And the redeeming qualities inherent in both sides don't seem like enough.
In this case...it seems man doesn't care too much for what he has become.
I know there is more to this than that. This is supposed to be the modern Prometheus. A tale of a creature overstepping its boundaries, and the creator/creation relationship as well.
But this is what I'm reading in it so far. What with my gloomy outlook on things. There's a lot to be said about the novel, that's for sure.
These things and more go through my coffee crash-rotted head at 11:30 at night.
And as for Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, well...with that double mirror effect seen when man reflects upon the ghastliness of the monster, and then upon himself, and at the same time, the monster reflects upon the ghastliness of man and then upon himself as well...there becomes a symmetric cry of agony from both sides, amplifying the misery. And the redeeming qualities inherent in both sides don't seem like enough.
In this case...it seems man doesn't care too much for what he has become.
I know there is more to this than that. This is supposed to be the modern Prometheus. A tale of a creature overstepping its boundaries, and the creator/creation relationship as well.
But this is what I'm reading in it so far. What with my gloomy outlook on things. There's a lot to be said about the novel, that's for sure.
These things and more go through my coffee crash-rotted head at 11:30 at night.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Don't Rain
I've got this panel that ripped off the inside of the back wheel well on my car, and supposedly if it rains...the pipes that it was protecting could get damaged. I haven't quite gotten around to correcting the ah...panel problem. And the skies are growing darker.
Strange people in a familiar town. There's always been this sort of surface tension that the social world rests on, and beneath that, whatever goes on in ourselves that we don't care to let out. I've seen strange things bubble up to the surface given the right circumstances. Jung has got this whole persona/anima thing going on that is sort of like this. Along with his archetype ideas the man is on to something. Was. It seems sort of obvious after all these advances in psychology and sociology and whatnot. But when you begin to experience it for yourself, three dimensionally, in all its vividness, and not just reading about it in a book, it begins to become a little unsettling. Like starting to concentrate on your own breathing. Oh, yes, we've been over this.
Bad writing on this blog. Half baked ideas. Well, its not like I'm sending it all out in a package. Stop worrying.
I never was good at expressing these things. I try to tell my philosopher friends this, here and there. Makes for strange pauses in dialogue. Well, onward into maturity then. With time. We're still just kids. Learning to drive, or something like that. Mastery is when it becomes a lower function (or higher, depending on how you look at it). In the background. You don't even have to think about it. Free to express. Must be how those guitar virtuosos feel. Or any virtuoso.
Here I am again delaying going to bed. I need the sleep. But to wake up to tomorrow seems very unappealing. Always does when you miss school. Had to stay home today. And it was good. But its gone. And I'm getting behind all the time. I don't know how I make it through all this. I can't remember any of it. But it must be sticking. Things pop up here and there.
Something better be sticking.
Fluff. Pile up the fluff. Oh well. At least it makes one of us feel better. For the time being.
Strange people in a familiar town. There's always been this sort of surface tension that the social world rests on, and beneath that, whatever goes on in ourselves that we don't care to let out. I've seen strange things bubble up to the surface given the right circumstances. Jung has got this whole persona/anima thing going on that is sort of like this. Along with his archetype ideas the man is on to something. Was. It seems sort of obvious after all these advances in psychology and sociology and whatnot. But when you begin to experience it for yourself, three dimensionally, in all its vividness, and not just reading about it in a book, it begins to become a little unsettling. Like starting to concentrate on your own breathing. Oh, yes, we've been over this.
Bad writing on this blog. Half baked ideas. Well, its not like I'm sending it all out in a package. Stop worrying.
I never was good at expressing these things. I try to tell my philosopher friends this, here and there. Makes for strange pauses in dialogue. Well, onward into maturity then. With time. We're still just kids. Learning to drive, or something like that. Mastery is when it becomes a lower function (or higher, depending on how you look at it). In the background. You don't even have to think about it. Free to express. Must be how those guitar virtuosos feel. Or any virtuoso.
Here I am again delaying going to bed. I need the sleep. But to wake up to tomorrow seems very unappealing. Always does when you miss school. Had to stay home today. And it was good. But its gone. And I'm getting behind all the time. I don't know how I make it through all this. I can't remember any of it. But it must be sticking. Things pop up here and there.
Something better be sticking.
Fluff. Pile up the fluff. Oh well. At least it makes one of us feel better. For the time being.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Dreams Again
There are these strange mornings when someone calls you and wakes you up, and it happens to be right at that moment of waking where all of your dreams come swimming back to the top as you are waking, and then it seems there was a deeper narrative going on before you awoke, and it was all leading to this phone call that startled you out of bed.
I wish I had a better grasp of how to describe it. But I can't. It's almost recursive.
From what I remember there was a hostage horse, and they were all on a large wooden arrow on a sort of tension lock. If you threw a spear at the construction in front of them it would snap back and release the arrow and they would all be flung into the sky. This was beneficial because it was a force too large to fight. There was also a towering glittering city sort of like New York but ornate like Rome and there were highways and hills and suspension bridges and we were sorta lost but it was alright.
There are these buildings in the hilly forests and we are always on the run from something and we can fight back but only so far. I have the feeling that this has happened before.
These mornings are strange because it seems your head has been busy with things that you didn't really know about. And we think we know ourselves but there's this huge wealth of machinery that's doing things according to an ancient principle. Maybe the first principle. And it seems the experience is a part of the ride and there's not much else we can do.
So it seems anyways.
I wish I had a better grasp of how to describe it. But I can't. It's almost recursive.
From what I remember there was a hostage horse, and they were all on a large wooden arrow on a sort of tension lock. If you threw a spear at the construction in front of them it would snap back and release the arrow and they would all be flung into the sky. This was beneficial because it was a force too large to fight. There was also a towering glittering city sort of like New York but ornate like Rome and there were highways and hills and suspension bridges and we were sorta lost but it was alright.
There are these buildings in the hilly forests and we are always on the run from something and we can fight back but only so far. I have the feeling that this has happened before.
These mornings are strange because it seems your head has been busy with things that you didn't really know about. And we think we know ourselves but there's this huge wealth of machinery that's doing things according to an ancient principle. Maybe the first principle. And it seems the experience is a part of the ride and there's not much else we can do.
So it seems anyways.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
You Missed Out
I was very drunk and I had decided that I wanted to see this place's patio. Because I just simply like patios. Someone had told me that there was a patio out back so I went.
I passed two girls on the way out; they turned and yelled at me. So I turned back.
"Where are you going?!"
"I'm going to see the patio."
"Come on, come with us! Come party!"
"Hang on I gotta see the patio. I'll be back."
I got to the patio and I thought: what the fuck are you doing.
I passed two girls on the way out; they turned and yelled at me. So I turned back.
"Where are you going?!"
"I'm going to see the patio."
"Come on, come with us! Come party!"
"Hang on I gotta see the patio. I'll be back."
I got to the patio and I thought: what the fuck are you doing.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
On Jeronimo At 5
The drive home from school on Tuesdays and Thursdays is in rush hour, and quite a miserable experience at that. There was a man in a black SUV today that did something that made me think all the way home, almost crashing several times in the distraction.
Well what he did was come up on my right going at least 20 over the speed limit. There was a slow truck in front of him and I suppose he wanted to get in front of me. I was going about 10 over the speed limit and I didn't want him to get past me because just seconds earlier he had tried to wedge his way up the merge lane and get in front of me and I didn't let him. This was just. I was waiting in line. He wasn't. Anyways. He ended up getting past me, and he switched lanes like a madman, his truck jerking to the side, the car movements full of potential violence or some such Dangerous Chases-esque state of being. I let him go, and found that 2 seconds later he switched back in front of the slow truck and turned off into his neighborhood. And I pondered that a long time. That 2 seconds. The trees on that street are right against the sun and at that time of day they glow a green-gold and I almost enjoy coming down that street when I'm not being anal-raped by the maniac behind me. He could have taken that 2 seconds to enjoy the trees. But I doubt he even saw them. I doubt a lot of people on that street see them. Like a cell phone-talker staring straight ahead, looking right at something but not really seeing it. Strange. Those feverish American Power Grabber eyes.
I wondered if this man was poisoned with competition lust. If every day on the road he obsessed over passing everybody he could see before his destination. Maybe it made him feel important or that he was winning some sort of unseen game. Or maybe he was poisoned with the vengeance lust. Maybe he was one of those unhappy souls that has to take vengeance on every action done to them, whether justly or unjustly. Maybe he was sore about me not letting him pass one more car on his little express-asshole merge lane. But this vengeance was not a "just" vengeance, if that is the case. Because yes, as I said, I did wait in line. This was unjust vengeance, certainly. Maybe he is poisoned with a little of both. And there are many denizens like this on the road.
I have this fixation with thoughts on daily driving and the implications of the larger patterns that emerge with vehicle crowds. Nothing could be more illuminating for the Great Struggle than that pulsating river of car bodies. When human selfishness grows embarrassingly visible. And I myself am one of them. I used to be an innocent, magnanimous driver. I wondered how people could become so callous and angry. And now, yes.
I honked at two people today. Probably the two people I will honk at all month. I felt sorry after both. It is survival, but nevertheless, they were caught off guard for just a minute, they made simple mistakes that I too could have made in a second. There is an infinite reflection of hypocrisy within the river. Once you are in it, you are part of it. Whatever that means.
Well what he did was come up on my right going at least 20 over the speed limit. There was a slow truck in front of him and I suppose he wanted to get in front of me. I was going about 10 over the speed limit and I didn't want him to get past me because just seconds earlier he had tried to wedge his way up the merge lane and get in front of me and I didn't let him. This was just. I was waiting in line. He wasn't. Anyways. He ended up getting past me, and he switched lanes like a madman, his truck jerking to the side, the car movements full of potential violence or some such Dangerous Chases-esque state of being. I let him go, and found that 2 seconds later he switched back in front of the slow truck and turned off into his neighborhood. And I pondered that a long time. That 2 seconds. The trees on that street are right against the sun and at that time of day they glow a green-gold and I almost enjoy coming down that street when I'm not being anal-raped by the maniac behind me. He could have taken that 2 seconds to enjoy the trees. But I doubt he even saw them. I doubt a lot of people on that street see them. Like a cell phone-talker staring straight ahead, looking right at something but not really seeing it. Strange. Those feverish American Power Grabber eyes.
I wondered if this man was poisoned with competition lust. If every day on the road he obsessed over passing everybody he could see before his destination. Maybe it made him feel important or that he was winning some sort of unseen game. Or maybe he was poisoned with the vengeance lust. Maybe he was one of those unhappy souls that has to take vengeance on every action done to them, whether justly or unjustly. Maybe he was sore about me not letting him pass one more car on his little express-asshole merge lane. But this vengeance was not a "just" vengeance, if that is the case. Because yes, as I said, I did wait in line. This was unjust vengeance, certainly. Maybe he is poisoned with a little of both. And there are many denizens like this on the road.
I have this fixation with thoughts on daily driving and the implications of the larger patterns that emerge with vehicle crowds. Nothing could be more illuminating for the Great Struggle than that pulsating river of car bodies. When human selfishness grows embarrassingly visible. And I myself am one of them. I used to be an innocent, magnanimous driver. I wondered how people could become so callous and angry. And now, yes.
I honked at two people today. Probably the two people I will honk at all month. I felt sorry after both. It is survival, but nevertheless, they were caught off guard for just a minute, they made simple mistakes that I too could have made in a second. There is an infinite reflection of hypocrisy within the river. Once you are in it, you are part of it. Whatever that means.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
When You Go Through Old Pictures
I remember looking into that deep blue frequently during the trip on that ship. I'd be out on the deck by myself, the only depressive on the entire cruise ship (probably not, but it seemed that way), gazing over that railing into that incredible blue. A perfect blue it was. I'd wondered how deep it was. And what strange things it could hide. I'd thought about suddenly throwing myself over the railing. What the experience would be like. What it would be like to be left behind in that beautiful terrifying sea. It would be cold. I know that much.
And then the last evening we were on the ship, some gathered on the bow of the ship just under the radar tower and watched where the horizon met the sea. I was alone with my thoughts among the few up on the catwalk, and the wind was powerful that evening. I remember gazing after that horizon, thinking how terribly infinite and wonderful the world seemed. Those are rare times, rare feelings, that come and go. I believe everyone else was off having sex or drinking or just hooking up with other people, and I was out on the deck watching the sun go down and feeling the wind and watching the stars start to burn into the dark purple. It was a profound time but also lonely and somewhat regretful. I traded some things for others. I was in a bad way that entire trip for whatever reason. That cruel chemistry at work I suppose.
I looked at all sorts of old pictures. Some colorful, some gray. Those old feelings sure come back easy enough.
I still have pictures of you, K. I often wonder if you are still out there, even on the internet, drifting, seeing what there is to see. You are in a Kafkaesque story now, like I figured you always wanted to be. In my mind anyway. I guess I did too. And in a sense I am there as well. It has been nearly a year, and sometimes something reminds me of you and I miss you very dearly. I suppose there are a lot of things that remind me. Left a strong impression it seems. I wonder if you are out there waiting for me to begin a search for you. And maybe I will when I have the means. I also wonder if that is that and you do not want to be found. I wonder a lot of things a lot of the time. That's alright. A year seems like a very long time with a feeling like this. And it is.
It seems I'm already tired, a little too early. I worry about this. Already tired of the race. And I haven't really started. It only took watching it from afar...to realize its absurdity. Well.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Attempt At A Parody Of Philosophical Dialogue
Pradadicus: Please oh great master, enlighten me with your masterful inquiry.
Daniel:Well yes but we must not be too hasty Pradadicus. But yes I do believe that eternal truths are the most noble and non-changing truths, and that they order the universe in a perfect way, so that temporal truths, to be distinguished from eternal truths, follow from them, and are less immutable and subject to change. And the only things more important than eternal truths are farts.
Pradadicus: Wh...what master? What did you say?
Daniel: I said farts, Pradadicus. Is it so difficult to comprehend?
Pradadicus: It is just that I with my feeble mind am having trouble digesting the overall idea.
Daniel: Well it is quite simple. Farts are very important because they are funny. When rightfully used. It becomes important to distinguish between the different farts and their relative hilarities. But that is for another time, please let us focus on the matter at hand.
Pradadicus: Oh yes I see it now, you have shown me the way quite masterfully I must say. Let me join you in your knowledge.
Without reading a real philosophical dialogue this parody will probably be quite meaningless. I don't know of a lot of people who read philosophical dialogues in their spare time. I suppose this is meaningless. But it is what a dialogue looks like, most of the time. It is meaningless. Meaningless.
Oh I don't know what I'm doing. The freeway was cruel as it always is. The commuter crowd is especially nasty and callous. The most wretched and jaded of all drivers. There is a sickness within the traffic that creates a certain hostile mental atmosphere that takes hold of you and you become one of them if you aren't lost in music or some such thing. A woman cut in front of me and I jerked around her and shot past her in contempt. And the contempt turned into a frenzy and I gazed at my bloodied hands in horror. Or something like that.
Everyone is locked up in their own private spaces and the car exteriors obstruct one another's views of each other and it is dehuminizing and soon everyone is taking hold of one another's necks to get two or three seconds ahead. Look out...allegory.
I guess the economy is in a recession and everyone is cranky and pessimistic and someone kicked their trashcan in anger, or so I heard.
Life in the workplace is rotten. But school stays the same. Interesting and somewhat enjoyable.
Didn't think I'd be saying that. I suppose sitting outside and having a glass of wine and muttering nonsense and complaints to something huge and immovable and already in motion helps the nerves. That and writing parodies on philosophical dialogues. Maybe.
Daniel:Well yes but we must not be too hasty Pradadicus. But yes I do believe that eternal truths are the most noble and non-changing truths, and that they order the universe in a perfect way, so that temporal truths, to be distinguished from eternal truths, follow from them, and are less immutable and subject to change. And the only things more important than eternal truths are farts.
Pradadicus: Wh...what master? What did you say?
Daniel: I said farts, Pradadicus. Is it so difficult to comprehend?
Pradadicus: It is just that I with my feeble mind am having trouble digesting the overall idea.
Daniel: Well it is quite simple. Farts are very important because they are funny. When rightfully used. It becomes important to distinguish between the different farts and their relative hilarities. But that is for another time, please let us focus on the matter at hand.
Pradadicus: Oh yes I see it now, you have shown me the way quite masterfully I must say. Let me join you in your knowledge.
Without reading a real philosophical dialogue this parody will probably be quite meaningless. I don't know of a lot of people who read philosophical dialogues in their spare time. I suppose this is meaningless. But it is what a dialogue looks like, most of the time. It is meaningless. Meaningless.
Oh I don't know what I'm doing. The freeway was cruel as it always is. The commuter crowd is especially nasty and callous. The most wretched and jaded of all drivers. There is a sickness within the traffic that creates a certain hostile mental atmosphere that takes hold of you and you become one of them if you aren't lost in music or some such thing. A woman cut in front of me and I jerked around her and shot past her in contempt. And the contempt turned into a frenzy and I gazed at my bloodied hands in horror. Or something like that.
Everyone is locked up in their own private spaces and the car exteriors obstruct one another's views of each other and it is dehuminizing and soon everyone is taking hold of one another's necks to get two or three seconds ahead. Look out...allegory.
I guess the economy is in a recession and everyone is cranky and pessimistic and someone kicked their trashcan in anger, or so I heard.
Life in the workplace is rotten. But school stays the same. Interesting and somewhat enjoyable.
Didn't think I'd be saying that. I suppose sitting outside and having a glass of wine and muttering nonsense and complaints to something huge and immovable and already in motion helps the nerves. That and writing parodies on philosophical dialogues. Maybe.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Music/Language
I was going through photos from a few months back. Thought this one was interesting. Along with some others.
Lots to say again. But not now. I can feel it bubbling up again though.
For now its just music. The sonic language. Look:
Notes/Chords = Letters/Words (There is an asymmetrical relationship going on here, as notes can be words just as well as chords, and the structural aspect of the two types of languages makes it difficult to compare side to side, but anyway)
Intervals/Licks/Riffs = Simple Sentences/Complex Sentences
Songs = Paragraphs(?)
Albums = Novels(?)/Short Stories(?)
Styles = Dialects/Speaking styles/Prose styles
Solos/Jams = Orgasms(?)
I mean, there's a greater complexity going on here that may take years of analysis to bring out those deeper subtleties. But in the end it can be seen that there is a common form to certain means of communication. There is a universal code of syntax that brings forth semantics and etc etc and these different languages are very different from each other in a way and speak of different things that have their own separate benefits.
It is hard to speak of the musical language. Musical theory tries to do this, but in the end the best way to understand how a language works is to be in it, thus to play and understand within the framework. So far this is the idea. It seems silly now to even be talking about this. But I suppose it is a stimulating contemplation. And it may be somewhat possible to philosophize about the musical language in an abstract way, and maybe further the understanding of the language via bootstrapping.
What the fuck am I talking about.
I have goddamn final studying to be doing.
This so beats final studying. But still. Goddammit. I hate studying.
End.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Auto Pilot
It is nice to arrive home before you realize you were even driving.
It is also very unsettling.
It is also very unsettling.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Where Does It Go
On this stretching luminous freeway there is ample time to think about things and plenty of those things should probably be written down. But I don't have the moment to write them down....driving and all. It would be sorta dangerous.
And all the rest of it is getting put down on paper for some actual productivity for a change. The writing class is turning out to be quite the inspiration.
I'm getting more fluent with the musical language anyway. Well, a little at a time. Sometimes speaking doesn't seem appropriate.
Or articulating words. Such as in writing.
And all the rest of it is getting put down on paper for some actual productivity for a change. The writing class is turning out to be quite the inspiration.
I'm getting more fluent with the musical language anyway. Well, a little at a time. Sometimes speaking doesn't seem appropriate.
Or articulating words. Such as in writing.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Reflections
Gawd what a gloomy blog this has been for several months.
The point...ah, yes yes I'll have to get back to someone on that.
Rodney the BallBlaster stares and the fire flickers in the fireplace. It does not crackle because the logs are fake. But the warmth and the overall charm that a fire has is sufficient.
It is gray and quiet outside, thanks to the after-effects of the cold howling storm last night.
All is not well, nor is it ill. It is there.
The point...ah, yes yes I'll have to get back to someone on that.
Rodney the BallBlaster stares and the fire flickers in the fireplace. It does not crackle because the logs are fake. But the warmth and the overall charm that a fire has is sufficient.
It is gray and quiet outside, thanks to the after-effects of the cold howling storm last night.
All is not well, nor is it ill. It is there.
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