laboratory AIDS

i had the usual tri-monthly meeting with my shrink yesterday. he said i look like i have a lot on my mind. he's probably right.

lately, i've been stressing over my prospective future--how decisions i've made in the past will effect the final outcome--assuming there is a definite, immutable end result. (there probably is).
right now, i'm stuck in the present. in limbo. i'm at that disillusioned phase in my twenties where everything bores me to tears. i realize the pointlessness of everything and it depresses the hell out of me. i know there's nothing to be gained in trying. so i choose not to. though, the voice in the back of my head--that phantom do-gooder--keeps telling me to get out there and find a wife, think about a career, invest in friends/the stock market.
mostly, though, i don't care. it doesn't interest me. or, it does. but in a highly compulsory anxiety-inducing way.
i want to make music. but everything i produce sounds like shit. i've looked at a few local bands. and honestly, it's a disheartening. everyone has their shit together, even if it is highly formulaic indie-rock, in the same vein as all those pop-punk bands from years ago. the thing is, they all have this sound. this sound that appeals to the masses. a sound that is tight and focused. qualities which are lacking in my own music. i don't know. it could be psychological.
i'm kind of sick of rock music. actually, that's an understatement. i'm really sick of rock music. it's fucking boring. i want to start making electronic stuff--nothing too out-there. it just seems like it would be easier to extract all the sounds/sensations in my head via programming them on a laptop (i feel that detached) versus strumming a couple chords slash investing hours into noodling around on distortion-laden melodies in the hopes of achieving something poignant or affecting. i guess it all comes down to which medium i prefer. and lately, i've begun to regret ever picking up the guitar. i could have wasted my time on something more productive--like piano. the guitar cannot express my current mental state and for that i feel a deep-seated grudge against my thirteen year-old self--that impressionable kid with a penchant for vegging out to countless hours of VH1. i can still remember where i was the first time i saw nirvana on t.v. and how that directly influenced my decision to play guitar.
i'm such a fucking cliche.
i haven't been dating recently. stopped going out as much. it's not that i don't want to, it's just never convenient.
life is inconvenient.
oh well.

sub-plot

there is a land, i'm told,
where transgressions
are meaningless
salutations that
dapple conversation
in pirouetted grace

grandfather, more,
pleez, tell us more

it is a land where muvee
screens hold all the truth
and beauty in the world--
like tripwire for the mentally
retarded

oh, grandfather, it sounds
glorious, tell us more

it is a land abolished
like slavery
and picked through
like scraps for the
scoundrels and savages
of democracy

grandfather, you're scaring us--

you had it once,
children,
what happened?

episode

"What I need," he said,"is statistics. Mathematical truth. Numbers." He removed a book from the middle row, a random selection. He blew the dust off the front jacket and sat down at a nearby table.
"Ah! Here we are: '1 and 1 is 2,'" he said, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "This is good. I rather like that."
A woman sitting close by looked up from the magazine she was reading, keeping her face half-hidden behind the thin filmy-pages of some soon-to-be dated volume on fashion or fashionable advice on pleasing one's sex partner. She noticed the camera and the ominous red light which meant that the camera was recording, the man's face casually being documented.
"When the camera is on," he said, glancing over at the onlooker, "that means I am recording. And when I am recording, nothing else matters."
The woman quickly looked away, immediately immersing herself in her magazine.
"Now, this is absolutely vital if we are to understand anything. There is truth. There is truth. Again, I say, there is truth in numbers. Figures. Glorious symbols with universal, timeless meaning. Do you understand what I'm saying?" He looked back over at the woman, now completely absorbed in pretending not to have acknowledged the man in the first place.
"Bah!" he snarled. "You truly are a ghost. Woman, you are mad!"
He continued reading, silently, to himself, as the camera kept recording, everything as it's supposed to be.

perverse

somewhere, there is a place, that is kept well-lit and immaculate, where they can just know exactly what i'm thinking and i don't have to explain anything--extract the impossible: i don't have to bother with trying to figure it out myself. i simply walk up, knock on the door, and they know. already, they know. and they are able to help. like a clinic for the soul. a clinic for the mind--but, unlike the psychiatric offices i've been to before, they know. they really know. and they are ready to help.
the problem, i think, is that i've become too self-aware. of myself, obviously, but, also, my own thinking. i start to question everything. and when this happens, i lose it. i try to turn it off, but to no avail. i am stuck in my own stinking thoughts, in my own stinking brain--that one part of me--of my body--which seems to have failed completely. in some realm, i'm sure, my brain is unsightly and, certainly, crippling. i am held back by own thinking--the essential self. it's not always obvious. my brain is my one, it seems, irreparable physical flaw.
i know i'm crazy. but does knowing still mean i'm crazy?
these are thoughts i can't restrict. the only consolation is to think in terms of gross generalizations and universals: the human mind and how it relates to me.
it's remarkable, really, how we are able to make sense, so automatically, so naturally (it would seem) of symbols--how easy it is to get caught up in that perpetual game of alphabet manipulation.

words: they mean nothing. they mean everything.

i need someone to reinstall, reconfigure my faulty wiring and update me with a more consumer-friendly program; new software, same features.

if i had it my way, i'd do nothing. all the time. i would do nothing at all. but lay in bed and sleep. if only i could sleep forever--to become intellectually comatose. then, i think, i might be o.k.. no bad thinking is better than any bad thinking. and all i do is bad thinking. all the time.

i would kill myself. honestly, i would. but i'm too afraid. not of dying, really. my religious conviction is too strong. i believe in god. i believe there is a devil. and i know that ending one's life prematurely can only result in eternal damnation. i don't want to spend forever engulfed in flames of hellfire. but, sometimes, it doesn't sound so bad, considering the alternative: a life filled with prescription sanity and perpetual loneliness.

something should change around here.

that's the way it went today pt. deux

so...

i somewhat randomly decided to watch "oh, god!" today. it sounded good from the description--god, characteristically played by an old, endearing george burns, arbitrarily intervenes in the life of an ordinary man, an impossibly average assistant manager at a grocery store, played by the impossibly average, late, john denver--and it's a movie i'd always seen around (seems pretty ubiquitous), but never found much reason to watch. thanks to encore! on demand, though, and my inexplicable compulsion to see every movie ever made, despite any real inclination or interest, i had an excuse to sit down and witness what, let's face it, could have been an excellent lifetime film.

it's not the technical aspects, or visual elements, of the film that i found so off-putting, really. that's actually one thing i really liked. films from the nineteen-seventies, as a rule, always get a couple of freebie points from me if, for nothing else, for being so amazingly aesthetically-pleasing. something about the grainy celluloid and groovy sensibilities, which always seem to manifest themselves on film. i love it.

however, my big beef with the film was that i was aware, the whole time, that i was being preached at. "the plums can wait," burns says, in one not-so-thinly-veiled attempt at philosophical profundity, "it's not every day you get to talk to god." it's lines like these, even as a christian, which just scream dishonest christian propaganda. and there are plenty of these insights throughout. i actually had to turn the movie off halfway into it because i got a little queasy. i mean, i get it. a guy hears the voice of god and (i guess) it's lamentable that no one, in our supposedly decadent era, would possibly believe him. like, we're a godless society and anyone, according to the film, who dares exhibit their faith publicly risks being labeled insane. i get it. i really do. and i think that's--whatever. it's fine. but the film really draws away from its integrity by relentlessly pounding this somewhat conniving discourse into our heads every time a character opens his or her mouth.

sample dialogue:

john denver: "god spoke to me--that's the biggest story of the century!--and they won't publish it because they think i'm crazy. boy, what's wrong with the world?"

of course, i'm paraphrasing. but, you get the idea.

it just upsets me, immensely, when christians, who are apparently honest and humble (or should be), use cheap gimmickry like this to rope in converts. for one, it's dishonest. they're trying to make this movie relatable to those they see as worldly. so, they have george burns playing god. and, of course, there's some sexy "adult situations," but, overall, it's a pretty clean-cut experience. i can just imagine the type of guy who goes to the theater, rents the movie, expecting a george burns raunchfest with plenty of intellectual musing on religion and the nature of god and, upon putting the movie in, realizing, "shit...it's john denver."

i mean, you can't trick people into being christians. that's not how it works. it's something people have to decide on their own. and people aren't dumb. they know or they can figure out pretty easily when they're being preached at and it doesn't matter who you cast in your movie, or how it's marketed, people are going to figure out, sooner or later, that they're being baited--and in the worst way possible, by the very people from whom you'd least expect this kind of behavior. i mean, this is, sadly, not unlike some of the tactics used by cigarette companies to get kids hooked on tobacco. right? just like camel and everybody's favorite camel, camel joe, "oh, god!" is not all that it seems to be--it's strategic (and kinda sleazy) marketing. it's george burns saying, "hey, i buy the god thing. so you should, too. you know, god can be pretty hip, too. huh?"


i don't know.

maybe the film's heart is in the right place, but the execution, the way the film presents itself, just reeks of manipulative insincerity.

can you believe how lucky we are?

man is restricted by his own selfishness. one of my goals is to overcome this restriction--to become entirely selfless--to want to help people without, consciously, wanting to help people. it's a selfish pursuit, though, in and of itself, and i'm completely aware of this; how can you not want something, when not wanting to want anything is just another form of wanting?

if i can find a way to overcome this barrier, i think i might be o.k.. but, probably not.

my motivation has to be completely altruistic. i can't want to do it because i think it will benefit me in some, either, direct or indirect way.

sadly, i don't think this is possible.

oh well.

whatever.

bowling for smegma

i was driving home after school today and had to take a bit of a detour through carefree to get to my house. while passing through said neighborhood, a thought occured to me. actually, it's something i've thought about quite a bit. but one look at the ridiculous street signs and i was once again reminded of why i either love or hate the fairly remote suburb where i grew up. all the street names in carefree sound like or, are a reflection of, the times in which they were given.

examples:

dreamy street
never mind
leisure lane
serenity

it's like they paid some half-baked bozo to take a bunch of acid and wander through this new residential area and lazily designate streets as this or that according to some completely moronic and arbitrary whim. never mind that they're complete nonsense. just as long as it "sounds cool."

it's so silly. i like it though. it definitely dates itself--these names. they sound so ridiculous now. like, maybe, back in the seventies, when people were still emulating that bearded convict from the illustrated kama sutra and bowling was a legitimate and new and exciting "sport," they seemed like awesome names. but, now--i don't know.

it's kind of funny.

staircase upon tangled staircase

what should have happened:

teacher: white people are brought up to hate black people. it's ingrained in their heads from birth.
(unanimous approval--jeers of "that's right" and "uh-huh" across the room)
me: wow. is it just me. or was that kind of racist?
teacher: what do you mean?
me: you're saying that all white people are raised to hate black people, right?
teacher: no, but--a majority--.
me: yeah, well, that's a stereotype.
teacher: no, it's not.
me: then it's a generalization?
teacher: yeah. wait--.
me: and what's the difference, in your opinion?
teacher: well, a stereotype is like a generalization, but it's a negative generalization about a large group--.
me: ok. so, saying that all white people hate black people is a good thing?
teacher: no, it's not. not at all. it's a bad thing--.
me: ok. here's the deal. not all white people hate black people. maybe some do. but not all. to lump the haters in with everyone else--you're making a stereotype--a negative generalization about a large group of people. a race of people.
teacher: well, a good majority--.
me: how do you know that?
teacher: look around you--racism is still an issue in this country.
me: we just elected a black man as president. we, as a country, a predominately white country, elected a black man as our leader. true, racism may still be an issue. but, white people make up the majority in this country--so, how can a race of people, who you claim are raised to hate black people, elect a black man into office? how is that possible? you're perpetuating stereotypes and, even worse, perpetuating racism by trying to combat it with even more racism. it's not a logical argument.
teacher: well, i still stand by what i said: most white people hate blacks.
me: really, though? really? most white people? do you have evidence, statistics? where is this coming from? anecdotal authority?
teacher: it's obvious--just look at the programs we watch on television, look at the--
me: you're an idiot.
teacher: because i'm black and proud of it?
me: no. because you're a person--an individual--with some messed up ideas. you say idiot things and you believe in idiot things. you show all the signs of being an idiot. therefore, you're an idiot.
teacher: get out of my classroom.
me: and you're a racist.
teacher: get out.
me: know what i mean, jelly bean?
teacher: now!

how it really went:

teacher: white people are brought up to hate black people.
me:(internal outrage)
class: yeah!

what?

i've come to the conclusion (or maybe just at peace) that there are approximately two types of music listeners in the world. not so surprisingly, they are generic counterparts to one another.

first, there is the latent racist.

this person is usually at odds with their own conflicting desire to, at once, appear "cultured" (i.e. not liking country music) and still express their general distaste for anything related to black people (i.e. rap).

they can often be heard saying something like: "well, i listen to just about everything. you know? well, except for rap and country. i hate rap."

this is usually followed up with what they believe to be an incredibly insightful and profound quip on the devolvement of contemporary music: "you know, they should put a 'c' in front of 'rap.' then it would be 'crap.' and that's what rap sounds like: 'crap.'"

har har har.

they have no idea that this is actually a stock answer and that, furthermore, it stopped being funny seconds before it was first uttered. ok, i take that back. it was never funny.

bands this person typically gravitates towards, ironically, display hints of being vaguely rap and country at the same time, with a dash of white-boy aggression. these bands include: linkin park, kid rock, limp bizkit...basically, if you can imagine a scene in a movie where domestic violence is being glorified, one of these bands is probably responsible for providing the soundtrack.

the second type of generic music listener may seem to many to be the exact opposite of the "crap" guy. but don't be fooled. because he is the "crap" guy. only, he's more honest. he knows he's not cultured and has no wish to pass himself off as such. i guess, in that sense, he's more respectable. basically, though, he's the "crap" guy before he took that big leap laterally towards even more retarded artists (note: i'm not saying that rap and country music are retarded genres of music. i actually like several artists from either field. what i am saying is that--this guy used to listen to billy ray cyrus...in earnest).

this, of course, is the "i-only-listen-to-rap-and-country-exclusively" guy.

popular catchphrase: "i only listen to rap and country."

i have no beef with this guy. he's not putting on any front. he knows what he likes--bad country and bad rap. to him, johnny cash is "old" and, therefore, can't even touch the artistic bravura of a more recent (read: undeniably trendy) artist like --whoever-the-fuck recorded that song "honky tonk badonka donk" (this guy's anthem).

public enemy, jay z?

"did they do the 'can't touch this' song?"

i'll type more later.

an exercise

topic for discussion: is a sinful thought necessarily the same as a sinful deed?

according to the bible, a man who lusts after a woman "in his heart," has already committed adultery.

this is from Jesus' sermon on the mount.
it's something i've wrestled with for a long time. not adultery, but the idea that what you harbor in your heart, as distinguished from the mind, is just as bad as the act, itself.

i'm not sure if the two are the same. maybe, because all sins are the same (according to the scriptures), they are. but, it seems to go without saying that, if you were to go out and do serious bodily harm to someone, your action is going to be more effective--at least, in a physical sense. that is, it's going to effect that person directly vs. some sort of fantasy where you work out your anger, or compulsion, in a healthy and therapeutic hypothetical situation.

jhonen vasquez, in his preface to jthm, defended his titular "homicidal maniac," as nothing more than a healthy manifestation of his (vasquez's) bitter imagination. he makes the case that, it's far better to exercise your malicious thoughts in a constructive manner (i.e. through art or, in his case, a comic book) than to keep it pent up where it may be unleashed through actual physical violence.

like i said, it's a form of therapy.

so, in that sense, i think it's better. i don't know if it's right. but, it's definitely better.

i think it's in our nature, as humans, to feel compelled to express ourselves through violent and physical means when we are directly affected by others. it's how we express our emotions. but, i think, by it's very definition, human nature can often be equated with sin. and your feelings come out, one way or the other. writing something down is just as much a physical act as beating someone up. and who's to say which is more detrimental?

in that sense, i think a sinful thought can be seen as on par with a sinful deed. at some point, a thought become an action. maybe not the action in question, but an action. and one that is, probably, similarly unhealthy.

but, this begs the question: how do you block out a sinful thought? is there any way to suppress human nature or is this an absurd quest in and of itself?

i don't know. i think, it's in our nature to be sinful (as i've already said, the two are very much equatable). and i don't know if it's possible to change what is in our nature to do, but i know that there are some things, innate inclinations, which seem infinitely more harmful, to our mental health, than other natural leanings.

of course, it's important to bear in mind that Jesus uses the word "heart" (read: conviction, passionate belief) where thought could, but doesn't, do. he also uses the verb "lust," which implies an honest longing, an honest desire for something vs. any old thought that just happens to pop in your head. so, in terms of semantics (not intended), it's important to remember, here, that what He is saying is that just thinking of something, sinful in nature, is not an actual sin. it's backing that thought with a natural desire to act upon it. or, to want to act upon it.

what i'm saying is that, you're not going to go to hell because the concept of murder popped into your head. say, you hear about it on the television and immediately a mental image is born in your skull. no, you have to want to commit murder for it to actually be a sin.

then again, like everything else in this entry, this is all speculative. i could be wrong. (but if i believe it to be the truth--that's another story altogether).

that's the way it went today

went to nikki's tonight and had an extensive conversation on sex toys.
determined that facebook is a social dildo.
it satisfies, in a very selfish way, the need to interact with other human beings.
just as a dildo satisfies one's desire for sexual pleasure without ever actually having to leave the house to look for it.

so, there's that.

the boy who questioned everything

well, it's gotten worse.

i went to the pharmacy tonight and picked up some anti-psychotics i was prescribed almost a year ago. we'll see if they work.

it just frightens me to think that at any moment i could just lose it--go absolute bat-shit crazy. and who's to say i haven't already?

i did some research and seems i may have schizophrenia. i have a number of the symptoms associated with the disorder. namely, thought disorder. my growing inability to verbally express myself is what some psychologists would see as an outward manifestation of this symptom.

i can only communicate through writing. or maybe that's a delusion, as well.

i'm really confused right now. i used to have a sort of frame of mind, a concrete perspective, through which i could see things clearly. maybe not clearly, but it made sense to me. now, i seriously question whether anything i think or say makes a lick of sense to anyone.

i feel like my mind has been split--cut in slabs, like meat. it sits on the counter top, occasionally taking in the sting of pepper and spices. but what is it being prepared for? who is it being prepared for?

is there any point to this off-the-map kind of thinking?

it's incredible to me how so many people can harbor such different perspectives and still agree on one universal idea of sanity--the one absolute clear perspective.

i mean, what if i forget and act out my unbridled thoughts?

who's to say i'm wrong? when everyone's wrong.

i've got to stop dwelling on it. it's only making it worse. i need to find a way to block it all out. hopefully, these pills will work.

you know that feeling you get when...

you say something over and over in your head until it doesn't make sense anymore and the words sort of sound silly and not unlike gibberish?

i feel like that most of the time.

there is only you and what you make the truth

i think if i ever make a muvee, it will revolve entirely around a seemingly meaningless incident or innocuous gesture. for instance, the main character is walking down the street (why?) and notices an attractive woman staring at him. she then hands him a twenty dollar bill. or, perhaps, even more mundane. a man is standing in an elevator and thinks twice, visibly hesitates before selecting the floor he wants to get off at. the whole movie would revolve around these characters decisions and explore every facet of how they arrived, why they arrived, etc. at these decisions. it would explore every motivation, factor, etc. concievable and offer no definitive explanations for anything. it would be a mess of random information--sensory and otherwise--just like life. which, actually (this is something i wanted to address), kind of fascinates me: i mean, it's incredible how adept humans are at selectively engaging in their environment. in conversation, for instance, we know the tone and the overall vibe created by this interaction simply because we know what to look for and what to discard as irrelevant. there is so much going on--literally, a myriad of unrecognized phenomena--simultaneously which we actively choose to ignore. yet, people know exactly where they are and exactly what kind of experience they're having at any given moment. or, they like to think so.

sometimes, i think we slip up.
i know i do.

anyway, back to the movie idea. i think tonight would be a good basis for this film. i could literally spend the rest of my days trying to analyze and rationalize the garbage that went on in my head tonight and i wouldn't feel like it was a life wasted. not in the least. i could probably write pages upon pages here, but i won't. because i'm lazy.

really, though, this is what i wanted to write about. i feel like i should get as much of it down as possible before i'm no longer able to communicate it sufficiently to a psychiatrist.


as soon as i arrived at work, i headed for the bus and noticed a rush of blank dullness. a frenzy of gray and a general terror as i realized words and images, experiences, were no longer tangible. i shuddered at the thought of not being able to speak. to be stuck inside my head for the rest of my life--confined to writing my thoughts down, no matter how inefficiently.

it's been a fear of mine for as long as i can remember. a sort of intellectual palsy. not being able to express myself. a vegetable and at the complete mercy of god-only-knows.

in theory, it doesn't sound so bad. but the reality of it is devastating. it only comes in spurts but it's been happening quite a bit lately. i have to shut my eyes, really tight, and concentrate on everything going on around me. sometimes, words lose their bite. and i feel completely drained.

for someone as obsessed with self-expression, via writing or various other forms of art, this is a total nightmare. i can't imagine (or maybe i can and that's what makes it so horrifying) losing my ability to effectively communicate my ideas. most people i know would probably much rather lose their minds than their genitals. in fact, i know a guy who would rather kill his own brother, to whom he is closer than anyone in this whole, wide world, than lose his dick. the thought, alone, is enough to make him shiver. for me, however, it's the other way around. i'd rather create (or have the ability to create) than procreate. the idea of being shut-up completely is enough to make me visibly squirm. it keeps me awake at night, if you want to know the truth. so, when i get little tastes of this, like tonight, i absolutely lose it. i go crazy. it's something akin to a severe panic-attack. i shutdown and sort of retreat into my head which, by then, is a completely unwelcoming entity all to itself. i start sweating. and i can't function. or i think i can't function.

i can't even trust my own thoughts. i think i'm crazy. but it could just be that i think i'm going crazy. so...

basically, it's the worst.

my only option is to try to remain calm, not say anything, and wait for it to pass. though, i have about three definite voices, clearer than the others, telling me conflicting things. this is forever, say. or, it's only temporary. things naturally come and go. or, it's the law of entropy, my friend. all things are destined for disorder. and your sanity is no different.

then again, i don't believe in sanity. so, by my own standards, i'm already a mess.

i don't know if i should embrace it, attempt to tame the wave, or seek psychiatric help as soon as possible--before it gets worse. i'm a big advocate of "going with the flow." and i believe any sort of revolt against the natural order of things, anytime you fail to keep it real, the consequences impact you with just as much force. if not more. but, at the same time, maybe i can learn to adapt. i mean, medicine may be unnatural (whatever) and maybe i'd be better off without consel trying to figure out a combative strategy on my own, but, at this point, i'm not optimistic.

i think i might actually be schizophrenic.

i spout off gibberish sometimes and it doesn't necessarily make sense or possess content but it sounds right in my head. also, like i said before, i go absolutely bat-shit mad whenever i feel like words no longer register as tangible.

my dad would be so disappointed....

confederacy of luncheons

i should stop pretending i'm better than everyone else. because i'm not.

if it's true and i'm really smarter than most of the people i encounter, i should use that distinction to my own advantage.

it's probably not even that i'm "smarter" than most people. that seems kind of dubious. not to mention, arrogant. i think it's just that i feel like i've had more experience than the average person. so i should use that experience, that knowledge, to relate to people.

then again, that's probably not entirely accurate either. i've been around the same relative amount of time as everyone else. obviously, i've been around longer, in a literal sense, as someone younger than me. and i haven't spent as much life as someone older but it's not like i've had twenty-three years plus additional time--time that doesn't count for anything. it's not like i have the exclusive ability to stop the clock and live more life than others. that's not what i'm saying. yet, i feel more experienced than a large percentage of people out there. and i don't know why.

oh well.

no reason to get upset, i suppose. everyone takes in the world--sensory information--differently. maybe i should just appreciate the fact that some people prefer to live their lives in a sort of routine, sheltered fashion--not unlike the owner of that bumper sticker i saw yesterday. familiarity, i guess.

i'm tired of writing, i think. i feel unable to express myself today. it's been a recent dilemma. the cycle has begun all over again. you have it. then, you don't. i need to learn to roll with the punches. accept change.

it's so damn hard.

i wish i was a metronome. a man-made construct which seems to laugh, defiantly, in the face of nature and all its laws--the law of entropy: a consistent pulse in the wake of nature's inclination towards disorder. then, i wouldn't have to reconstruct myself from scratch every time. collect the scraps. and, piece-by-piece, reassemble myself.

bully in a china shop

first day of tuesday class. introductions today. learned that most people--even english majors--consider harry potter, chuck fuck and stephen king among the literary elite.

that's fine. whatever. different strokes for different folks, right?

i mean, not everyone is going to like the same things as you. but, seriously...

since when did skimming the very brim of the bestseller list qualify someone--

i don't even know what i'm trying to say, here.

i guess it saddens me to think that the people i have class with--the people who will most probably be teaching children one day--have no idea nor any desire to learn anything about their supposed area of expertise.

the education system has failed us.
the government has failed us.

i can't say with much certainty that it's a matter of intelligence--taste, that is. but i'd like to think so. i mean, what you like is entirely subjective. but what you profess to know...

it's remarkable how many aspiring scholars we've let slip through the cracks. we've basically given these people--people with no concept of what literature is and how to analyze it--the necessary certification--literally, a licence--to shape and mold our children's young impressionable minds.

maybe a more rigorous system is in order. who knows?

i'm ranting.

anyway, i spotted this bumper sticker on my way back from class:

annoy a liberal: work hard and be happy

there are so many things wrong with this that i can't begin to address them all here in the few minutes i have before i have to get off.

suffice it to say, this is how i interpreted the hauntingly orwellian slogan:

money is happiness. i'm perfectly content with slaving away my life for monetary gain. and anyone who tells you there's a better way to live is a moron.

more to the point:
ignorance is bliss

i'm not even a liberal and this pissed me off. of course, i'm not a conservative, either. but--fucking shit, man. this takes the cake for most shameless boasting of one's own ignorance.

i read an article a few years ago about americans, in particular, generally being more empowered by their own stupidity than any other culture. it's actually become fashionable, cool to remain uninformed about things. i think this sticker is probably the best real world example i've personally witnessed of this concept in action. for all intents and purposes, it could have read:

dumb...and proud of it.

oh well.

i don't care anymore.
i'm done venting.

just like the eighties!

this "indie" rock thing has gotten way out of hand. it used to be about independent thought and independent production. now it's become as rife with contradictions as its predecessor, "pop-punk."

the term itself no longer stands for what it used to. it's now a big, sleazy way for the industry to pander to the uninformed sensibilities of every hipster-kid i know. it's become a genre, for fuck's sake. a genre (!) where, once, it was an irreducible alternative. i guess every major movement in free thought, serious artistry in music (punk, alternative, indie) runs its cycle, becomes corrupted, a small smouldering flicker of what it once was--simplified to its lowest common denominator.

seriously, just because your favorite band gets high praise from that snob-factory known as pitchfork and just because they sound exactly like every other "next big thing" out there trying to sound like some generic synthesis of the cure's entire 80's catalogue, that doesn't mean they're great. the white lies, for fuck's sake? i'm seriously going to unleash all holy hell the next time i read about a band garnering praise for sounding like every other band on the market. honestly, how many times can people be presented with the same formula: four moderately attractive myspace hotties in a joy division-throwback outfit. how many times before someone takes notice?

i wonder if people don't find some kind of immediate comfort in repeating history. oh well. i'd provide evidence but i'm too heated to get into any sort of well-thought-out, level-headed indictment. so, whatever. i'm done fuming.

la femme darger

"i have this recurring dream, see, where, you're still a boy--but you have a vagina."
"umm. o.k."
"i mean, it makes sense within the context of the dream."
"you mean, like, dream logic?"
"well, not in any sort of general sense of the term. but, yeah. it makes sense to me. my own individualized form of dream logic."
"well, what about you?"
"what do you mean?"
"what kind of genitalia do you have in this dream?"
"oh, i'm still a boy, too. except, i have a penis."
"naturally."
"it's not sexual, though. that is, i don't think it means that, on some deeper level, i want to fuck you or something. i mean, i'm not attracted to you."
"thanks."
"well, it's just that--in this dream, boys can have either sexual organs. girls, too. it doesn't matter. you can be a girl with a penis. or a boy with a vagina. and it's just as natural as, say, your eye color."
"interesting. i guess."
"yeah."

who's barry bostwick?

ars musica:

mangled voices from the ether
disembodied whispers
a burglar and his lute.

i've been thinking a lot lately, holed up in my room. i try to keep the light off as much as possible. when i think of it.

lately, i've been wanting to create something permanent--something which ultimately transcends the transitory. i'd like to capture, synthesize, translate all my impressions of the fleeting and invest it, cash in my tickets, in something definite--something i can come back to, like a photograph.

i had this realization after reading narcissus and goldmund. i like the idea that one can be destined to be a thinker or an artist or anything in between. which is exactly where i feel i am: in between. i don't know, if like goldmund, i think in abstractions or images, but i feel torn between both lives. i need an end result.

i've also been meaning to create a list of tenets--a list i can refer to when i need to be reminded of what i believe.

first on the list:

1.) no more dead-end pleasures--the kind that make you feel empty and defeated afterwards. i'd explain, but i think you know what i'm talking about.

anyway, that's all i feel like writing for now. i'll have more later, i'm sure of it.

averbalspankking

one of my most looming--perhaps irrational--fears is one day losing the ability to express myself. not just in writing, but in other ways. all dealing with language and subtext. one day, i feel like i'm just going to be somewhere and suddenly everything will sound like garbled noise. it's frightening, really.

i think it stems from my own highly self-analytical nature. i'm very in touch with who i am and how i think. naturally, this has its benefits--i think--and its drawbacks, as well. i've become so self-aware, it's almost crippling.

when i try to explain this concept to people, i often use an analogy hemingway used to describe f. scott fitzgerald in a moveable feast. he is like a butterfly, heminway says, that has suddenly become aware of its own graceful, effortless beauty--its miraculous ability to fly--and in realizing this, loses this innate gift.

i'm the same way. i realize when things are good and...it's at that exact moment that things start to turn sour. here's an example. i was always a pretty good batter when i played little league baseball. every season, however, without fail, i would go through a slump. i would start the season strong, with a drive to prove myself, my talent to my coaches and teammates, everyone concerned, and then, once i'd garnered enough praise, for some unknown reason, the slump would commence. i had no control over it. it was so frustrating. there really was nothing i could do--other than trick myself into believing it wasn't happening. once i knew or believed i was good at something, this immense pressure to perpetuate that feeling, that praise, would overtake me and, in turn, render me useless--no longer good. it was like having your worst fear played out before you and you have no choice but to just sit back and let it happen.

...

i'll continue this some other time.

immediately

goals:

in order of urgency...

practice, work on refining new and old material

record demo (one which i can live with)

send it out to labels i like

get signed

tour

record album

find soulmate/wife

get famous

fade into obscurity

die, eventually

aeroplane day

i'm just as guilty as the rest
because i haven't made any efforts
to separate myself from the rest

those i can't stomach

i am the homogeneous collective
so. what.

omg. it's killing me. j/k. roflroflrofl.
tenterhooks.
oh well.
ashes to ashes.

lulz aplenty.

"i wanna do coke, get in a fight, then have sex."

"something to keep my mind off"

"i think i'm in luv with harold"

"l e i g hton g a m ble"

when i'm in a bad place and don't give a fuck about myself

cramming bones drifting

totally-not-random (i don't feel like explaining it's origins) random thought:
do you have to be an asshole to get people to respect or, even, like you?
i don't think so. i mean, i don't want to believe that people are that stupid. but, i can't be sure. people like things to be cut and dry--a lot of people anyway. this is why things like top ten lists have become so popular. it appeals to the very human need to make distinctions and organize things. also, this is why the concept of genre--the idea that things can be lumped definitively into fixed categories has become so prevalent. it fulfills this need. it makes things seem absolute. black and white. when it's--really--anything but.
i'd like to believe that everything can just exist--that we don't need to make these distinctions or that these distinctions can exist without requiring further distinctions between what is "good" or what is "bad." it's all circumstantial in my opinion. in the right light, in the right context, anything is "good." anything is "bad." mullets, for instance, may seem "bad" or "uncool" to the wrong group of people. but some people legitimately like mullets. for them, mullets are "cool." they are "good." so, how can we say, ultimately, that mullets are not a good idea. is it popular opinion? what does it matter. why can't people learn to just appreciate that some people are different? i mean, isn't that what we've been taught in school?
it's funny. the same people who criticize racists for hating a group of people for something as arbitrary and pointless as race or skin color commit the same error in analogous circumstances. for instance, plenty of hipsters are active in social affairs. politics, etc.. not because they feel passionately about these things--hot-button issues--but because it's cool to get involved in social issues and politics. furthermore, associating with a certain political group--conservative, liberal, whatever--sets you apart from those who choose to associate with other groups. and they bash each other for this very reason. because both sides have chosen to think or conduct their lives differently. obviously, this is kind of a flawed analogy--when it comes to politics, not all the time, but sometimes it matters--but work with me. it's the same idea. someone shows their "true colors," so to speak (and this is the rationale of these people) and, suddenly, that person is no longer "cool." they're a democrat. or they're a republican. or a commie. and because they are the way they are, because they think the way they do, they're automatically hated. why? because they're different. anti-racists hate racists much in the same way racists hate members of other races. because they're unlike themselves. it's kind of dumb, really, when you think about it. i mean, i'm not condoning racism, by any means. all i'm saying is that, though the act itself may be wrong, it's not right bear a grudge against that person. it's not constructive either. you should want to help them. because, ultimately, this is how racism is going to end. racism is not going to stop because you decide to try to stop racism, as a concept. it's going to stop because you try to stop racists from believing in racism. hating them is only going to incite them--breed even more conflict. two wrongs, etc. the goal should be, not to shut them out, but to open their minds.

i don't know.

whatever. i guess i'm getting kind of tired. it's been weird night. i think i'm going to go to bed.

bluh.

jim & i: gemantics

i've been reading narcissus and goldmund lately. if anyone had it figured it out, it was probably hesse. hesse kept it real.

one thing, among many, that i like about the book is how hesse celebrates the innate differences in people. he suggests that when people, in general, attempt to obliterate these differences, or when they fail to acknowledge their own unique idiosyncrasies--what sets them apart--they become unhappy and, for lack of a better phrase, less than themselves.

i think this is true. i mean, it's possible that some people--and i've always thought this about myself--thrive off mimicking the desirable qualities in others--that, in essence, this is what constitutes their character--this is what makes them unique. i mean, it's vicarious reinforcement, plain and simple. though, i haven't been able to determine whether or not this is a bad thing. it seems like i'm most consistently happy when i'm pretending to be someone else.

but...who knows?

more garbage to ponder, i guess.

speaking of which, i've felt really overwhelmed lately--at select moments, anyway--with my own thoughts. i get so lost in what jim calls "memory worship" and intricate non-dimensional webs of intellectual fodder that it becomes stifling at times to even try and communicate what i'm thinking. and it's not limited to the inexplicable crap which obviously can't be communicated simply. it's the little things, too. simple questions. small talk. i wish i had the ability to stop time and analyze every word spoken, by myself and by others, before arriving at a final response or answer. i mean, if you think about it, something as simple as answering "yes" or "no" bears so much weight. so much weight. it has the ability to forever alter everything. if more people realized this i don't think they'd be as windy and frivolous with their words. they'd be little uncommunicative assholes, like me. brooding ego-maniacs, delusional--convinced that the world spins not on their own axis but their perception of that axis.

for someone who hates themselves and life as much as i do, i don't know why i think i'm so important.

oh well.

weasel words. i guess. plain and simple. thought-terminating cliches.

and this is how i rationalize everything...

nosedive into obscurity

it's become rather difficult, if not impossible, for me lately to see things in terms of right or wrong, black or white--red, white, and/or blue. i take in everything, all at once, objectively. maybe not objectively, but something very close. and the world becomes a mucky, muddled mess of man-made make-beliefs and disenchanting truths.
i don't believe in morals or morality anymore. i can't support a system rooted in ambiguity. it puzzles me, truly, that people can be such staunch advocates for this or that cause or opponents of this or that issue and toss around words like "rights," used in the sense that each person is entitled to or given such and such luxury by nature (or god), without any strong evidence to support their claim. perhaps, if there existed some sort of universal book or document on the matter, i'd be more inclined to join the effort, jump on the bandwagon. sadly, though, and it truly is sad, no such text exists--not one that has managed to transcend religious or cultural disparities anyway. so, i mean, though i desperately want something in which to invest my entire faith, being, support, i know this idea is foolish--despite seeming otherwise.

i believe in nothing. and it breaks my heart.

the truth is, we as humans, are, and always will be, unable to come together on any one issue. there is no one idea that people will unanimously get behind. sure, there will always be a majority, but a majority is not everyone. the majority decides, for everyone, what is and is not acceptable for the entire population or a certain faction. and if someone disagrees, there is a conflict.
there will always be conflict.
ironically, this is harmony.
this is the ever-present dichotomy which i am attempting to see beyond, remedy. surely, it will take a mind far greater than my own to accomplish this feat, but...hey, if it passes the time, keeps me entertained for awhile, why not?
everything is fleeting, i know, but it's the illusion we impose upon ourselves, or accept blindly, that our decisions bear some kind of significant weight in the world, that we have the ability to change things--this is ultimately what makes life seem worth living. it's a day-to-day thing and, as of late, it's become so incredibly boring to me. so exhausting. in my mind, i am able to fully grasp this long series of ups and downs, the constant pleasure and pain i'll be made to encounter in my lifetime, and it depresses me. it really does. i know what's going to happen before it happens. and i know what i may feel is important today, won't be important a few years, days, centuries from now. and that's really disconcerting. nothing i do matters. at all. in any significant way. i'm here. i do this. i do that. and then i'm dead. and that's pretty much it. so, what's the point? i have no ambitions anymore. and if morals are defined by some sort of ultimate goal, then why try to adhere to them when you know it won't matter a few years down the road? why try if you know that, right now, in some other part of the world, your system of morals are the complete antithesis of someone else's system? there is no right or wrong, so why fight to keep these ideas alive?

emo therapy

i hate to sound melodramatic but...

seriously, why am i here? why do i even bother sticking around?

granted, i know life is pointless. all thoughts. all emotions. everything is fleeting. happiness is momentary. boredom, too. so, what's the point?

i can live for myself, but where does that get me? dead.
i can live for other people. i can live for something greater than any individual person--a humanitarian cause, but what does it matter? it doesn't. history repeats itself. things get fixed. broken again. fixed and broken again. just like people. it's all cyclical. it has to be. there has to be a dichotomy. boredom/happiness. sadness/ecstasy. death/life. etc. etc. etc.

i'm just so sick of it. it gets you nowhere, when you really think about it. nothing i do, in my relatively short lifetime, here on earth, is going to matter in any great or significant way. i'm just one more body taking up space, effecting things for the time being.

so what's the point? why don't i just kill myself. why don't i just not kill myself.

why do i do anything at all when i know it's only a temporary fix--short-term, long-term, it's all the same in the end. nothing lasts forever. nothing you do is going to change anything for better or worse. your existence merely serves to satisfy the status-quo. it doesn't have a point. that's just how it is. i mean, that's the ultimate effect (not even a function) your life bears on the world.

suppose i did kill myself. what would happen? i mean, barring any repercussions i could face in the afterlife.

i'll tell you.

first of all, obviously, my parents and friends would probably be pretty upset about it. my mom would be devastated, as would my sister. that's a guarantee. but they'd get over it. just as quickly as if i'd, let's say, done something beneficial or great for them--like, bought them a house or took them on a trip to europe. sure, they'd think about from time to time, but it would become incrementally less significant to them as time went on. europe would be reduced to a vague memory--an impression of how it actually was. my death, my empty room, would evolve into something else--some new feeling. one day, my sister might walk past my room, wishing to tell me something and then realize that i'm not there and i won't be there ever again. she'd probably be pretty heartbroken about it, but pretty soon that room would become filled with other things, it might become an office or a guest room and, thus, something else. and only the memory of the time she walked past my room, looking for me, with no success, would serve as a reminder of my death. and, eventually, that would start to fade out, dwindle in impact.

i don't know, though. i guess what i'm saying is that i'm so fucking bored with everything. living for the moment. i mean, it's a kind of trick--living that way. you have to pretend you don't realize it. live for the simple pleasures--sex, entertainment, money--all the stuff that means shit in the big big scheme of things. i don't even know why i bother sometimes.

friend-rape

today has officially been deemed "the weirdest day of the summer." every year, every summer, there's one day that just blindsides everyone with inexplicable weirdness. today was that day.

first, the king of pop, miko jackson, died. i'm not going to say it was unexpected--i mean, when is death ever expected (maybe in the case of a murder or a suicide)?--but it definitely wasn't anticipated--not by me or most of america anyway.

i woke up and found that i had a text message from amy saying that "mj" was dead. my first thought was magic johnson. i mean, the guy's had AIDS longer than the virus has been around. the fact that he's still alive continues to baffle me--not that i want him to die or anything. it just doesn't make good sense given the life expectancy of someone with AIDS. at the rate he's going, he might outlive his legacy or, at least, become what doctors and medical science define as "immortal."

i texted amy back, asking her if she meant magic or michael, the latter, of course, matching up with her chosen pseudonym, at least when considering that "mj" is the pseudonym most of those in the know--most of us b-ballers--associate with the minor minor-leaguer. she texted me back, saying she meant "michael." i was stunned. immediately, i thought that maybe he'd succumbed to some horrible air crash catastrophe, some wicked jumbo jet disaster, in which he'd fallen asleep with one of his cuban cigars in his mouth, subsequently igniting the interior and vital components of the aircraft--surely to become a cautionary tale used to dissuade kids and warn them of the dangers of smoking.

i got on the internet and did some extensive research. first, i typed michael jordan's name into google, wanting to know (why?) the events surrounding his untimely (again, how often is death ever "timely"?) death. alas, i found no mention of the hoopster's demise.

i did, however, stumble upon an article lamenting the passing of michael jackson, the astronaut (?) and governer (wtf???). realizing that the king of pop's initials incidentally match up with those of mr. jordan, i investigate further and found out that, not only had jackson passed away but farrah fawcett and jeff goldblum, too.

the latter turned out to be a hoax. thankfully, too, because (and i never would have thought i'd have reacted this way)i was pretty shaken up by it. what a terrible day, indeed, when jeff goldblum, the fly, himself, goes.

regardless, the michael jackson/fawcett thing kind of shook me up. if i were a tabloid writer i think i'd refer to the incident as the "fackson tragedy." because, that's what you do when you're a tabloid writer. you blend celeb names together and make up slutty pg-13 gossip-fantasies for the general public. and then you go home and look in the mirror and then look at your wife and kids and then look back at yourself in the mirror and hate yourself.

yay!

so, anyway. after all this shite, i get a text (unexpectedly) from nikki and she wants to hang out. so we go to steak n shake and she has tea while i consume one of my limited number of routine victuals--a big disgusting cookie dough bits n pieces milkshake--and we talk and blah blah blah. everything is good. well, then i get the idea to go over to the local elementary school and swing, which is what i like to do--i don't know why, i just like it. i ask her if she'd like to join me and she agrees and we go and we swing and we talk some more. everything is going fine, it feels great to be in the company of an old friend, someone i genuinely enjoy talking to, but then i mention something about going on an "adventure" to this spot just beyond the trees, which, as innocuous as it seems to me at the time, sounds like this to her feminist ears:

"hey, nikki, see them trees over there? that's where i'm gonna rape you! yeah, that's right. i'm gonna rape you. right in the butt."or, at least, this is what i get from her reaction.

immediately, she gets up from the swing and tells me, "no. i don't think i'll be joining you. i've got to get up early tomorrow morning. so, i'm going to go home." she then, more or less, rushes off to her car, all the while, deliberately (again, this is the way it seems) keeping a safe distance. this catches me completely off guard and i realize suddenly that i've given her the wrong idea. my definition of "adventure" and hers are apparently not the same. i think she thought i was going to put a move on her or something or that i took her to this secluded elementary school playground at two o'clock in the morning, in near-black darkness, just so her and i would be alone or whatever crazy kind of thing you could think of--either way, i was baffled and, i'm not going to lie, i was a little hurt. i didn't know how to address the situation because if i addressed it directly i'd sound defensive and i didn't want her to think i was lying or that i really had some ulterior motive in bringing her there. but i also didn't want to have to play the fool and not say anything--let her continue to believe she had just narrowly escaped some weird sort of friend-rape.

ultimately, though, i left it alone. i mean, i feel really stupid about it, but i know i shouldn't. obviously, she's the one who assumed something that was untrue--and it does kind of bug me that she thinks i have some kind of weird crush on her or that i want to assault her in some way--but, now that i think about it, she was also just being cautious. and you can't argue with that. especially when most guys are the way most guys are.

still...i feel a little betrayed, in some weird way. i mean, it's so incredibly belittling, to have someone just assume they know you and then "deal with you" like some shallow, sex-crazed pervert, when you're anything but. i mean, most people who know me (and this is what really confuses me about nikki--i mean, up until tonight, i really thought we understood each other pretty well) will tell you that i'm a pretty genuinely sensitive (translation: might be gay) and caring guy--i'm the opposite of a frat-boy. but the way she left, it was almost as if she had told me directly, "i'm so above this--you're not even a human being, so you don't deserve an explanation for my sudden shift in temperament--only my excuses." it was almost as if she'd said, "not only do i think you're a rapist but you're also too dumb to understand the way i think and why i'm behaving the way that i am."

basically, what it all boils down to is this: i can't control how she interprets my actions anymore than she's able to read my mind. i can swear up and down that i'm not a rapist but i'm always going to sound like one. because that's what people accused of rape do, whether or not their guilty: they swear up and down that they're not guilty. so, really, it's a fight i can't win. nikki will always remember today as being weird for two reasons:

1. it's the day michael jackson died
2. it's the day she almost got raped by her stupid friend

and the sad thing is...there's not a single thing i can do about it. there is not one single, solitary thing i can do to convince her otherwise. she's been in some pretty messy situations before. unfortunately, with some of her past guy friends, so she knows what to look for and, whatever it is, my suggestion to go on an "adventure" must have triggered some developed fight-or-flight response caused by those former indecencies. then again what if she made all those other incidents up? then what? well, then we're all imaginary rapists.

oh well. it can't get much weirder from here.

quite clearly an aberration, clare quilty

one thing i really value is my privacy. i like to spend a lot of my time alone, reading or thinking about things. i don't really like to write, unless i feel an immediate urge to expel some lingering bit of intellectual excrement--i mean, it's more like a compulsion, really. i do get satisfaction out of it--don't get me wrong--it's just not what i'd prefer to be doing most of the time. if i had my choice between staying in bed all day and doing nothing or taking walks around the neighborhood, doing nothing or actively trying to get somewhere, through more constructive means, like writing, i'd easily take the former two options.

it's just too much at times. it's something like sensory overload. i see all these things, i develop all these great and ambitious ideas and then i feel like i have to retreat, mull them over for a while--though, i never have the energy to act on them when the times comes--when the time comes (though i'm still not sure if it has or what that even means).

i like people. but not all the time. i mean, when i'm ready, i'm a really caring and compassionate person--i'm a really good listener. but it's what i do with that information--anecdotes and moments i share with friends and strangers and family--that puts people off. i mean, it might take me a whole week to decide i'm ready to hang out with someone again after our initial meeting. i just need time to think about everything--and, even then, i never do. there's always this sense that everything is rushed and moving too fast. and then i get put into these little traps, where people can and do take cheap shots at my philosophies and what they imaginie to be my intentions, the significance of all my actions.

there's always drama around. it follows me, oh so quietly.

i've become profoundly skeptical of the media lately. i'm not sure i believe there's some sinister force directly affecting our lives, some sort of man behind the curtain, but i do think there's a definite degree of shadiness surrounding the information we recieve and use to shape our philosophies and ideals on a day-to-day basis. money, obviously, is a guiding force among all major corporations and the major corporations, in turn, fund the news media, adverts, entertainment industries, etc. i'm not saying there's always some evil ulterior motive, but there's undeniably a fair amount of schlock out there, which gets pushed into pressing or publication without any real, substantial intellectual value. take, for instance, the movie, the hangover, which i saw this past weekend. it's a pretty typical american buddy comedy, in the tradition of the dream team or animal house or road trip (yes, same director...i know). mysteriously, though, it's been heralded by the media as a crowning achievement, though it clearly offers nothing new. zack galifianakis, though a personal favorite of mine, is clearly instructed in his role to play the hyper-aloof "crazy" one of the group and, although his performance is enjoyable, it's not anything we haven't seen before. think tom green in road trip or belushi in animal house. yet the movie still gets praised and recognized as something new. and the worst part is...people eat it up. they believe exactly what they are told.
and, alas, the cycle continues...

(to be continued...)

The Overlook Hotel Part I

i need to write a short something-or-other chronicling the inner monologue of a sitcom actor, child star (possibly), while shooting a particularly involving scene, for which he feels no emotional involvement whatsoever. and then...
i'll be happy.

also...

propriety--having to do with what is proper
deciduous--seasonal plants
serried--crowded together

and finally...

clamber--to climb awkwardly (not simply "to climb" as i had previoiusly thought)

the kind of luv that makes you sick

went over to morgan's tonight. watched two really terrific films: minnie and moskowitz and the extended cut of scenes from a marriage. reminded me of every thing i loved and hated about my last long-term relationship--the exhaustive properties of love and affection--the value of honesty, etc. both films, with their jarring ups and downs, made me feel like i was watching something honest, raw, blah blah blah.

i like how neither followed any sort of formula. i really like how both cassavetes and bergman didn't glorify or romanticize the difficult subject matter they were dealing with--i felt like there was an equal balance of good and bad, ups and downs in the films. minnie and seymour, in particular, really fascinated me. there were moments where i was nearly in tears, completely swept off my feet with the film's charm--seymour's bleeding-heart optimism and minnie's inability to open up to anyone, be honest with herself. both characters possessed very human qualities--that is, seymour, for all his charisma, his graceful eloquence and ability to express himself in a very human way and, ultimately, win over minnie, still fucked up. it would have been very easy for cassavetes to just allow minnie to fall completely head-over-heels in love with seymour from the beginning, after the whole knight-in-shining-armour routine at the restaurant. however, i felt like minnie's reluctance, her ambivalence, created the necessary degree of tension needed in the film to make the predictable ending that much more touching.

story short, i liked it.

however...

i'm pretty spent. so, in lieu of anything really expansive or profound...

here are some quotes from both films:

"i think about you so much i forget to use the bathroom!"

"you can say anything about anyone. it will always seem to fit."

yeah. i don't feel like putting them into context or expanding on either one of these ideas. just thought i'd throw them out there before my brain throws them away...forever.

memorial day part III: in space!

here is a quote from the hours by michael cunningham. it sums up my mental state since i was sixteen:

"the headache is always there...they seem sometimes to be conversing, in whispers, among themselves...."

yeah. i know. it sounds really emo. but it's pretty accurate. and it's nothing i can help. sometimes, when i'm on the verge of sleep (there's a name for this, i know) i can hear people, in my head, talking. long after the party is over and the host has gone to bed, they linger. i can hear them, muddled, through the walls. they are talking "among themselves." it's not about me. it's not even directed at me. i'm not involved in any way. i give them life. i think them up (unintentionally) and this is how they behave--completely removed from myself, completely autonomous. it's really bizarre and not altogether disturbing. it's kind of nice--like listening to music before sleep.

also, there's the headaches. which is another thing, altogether. i don't know why i get them, but i do. maybe it's because i smoke as much as i do--like a chimney--or because i have this thinking pattern, this framework i can't escape, no matter how hard i try--mental recitations, which mean a great deal to me--deeply steeped in my own religious ideals--"to pray without ceasing," i guess. everyday, though, i experience these headaches. i've almost gotten used to them. though sometimes they become unbearable and all i can do is shut my eyes and force myself to sleep.

it works. but...then again. i never have the energy to perform for my friends like they want me to--that is, i'm always tired or unconscious. i never have the energy to humor people or entertain friends, even when they expect it of me. i mean, i want to. i have fantasies about living my life to the fullest, realizing every possibility. but then, it's so much easier just to stay at home and daydream, lay in bed all day and stare up at the ceiling, nap, etc.

i don't know.

i've been listening to tiny vipers lately. a lot. they are my new beach house. great music to just feel lazy to--sink your nocturnal teeth into and wallow around in, conquer like a bedset.

i've fallen in love with jesy fortino, who performs under the moniker, and her music (her sense of music?). it reminds me of my own attempts at writing songs--sparse, fragile and never defined. mostly, though, it reminds me of the word "lackadaisically," which is my favorite word of all time.

i guess, despite being moderately successful, she still makes burritos at some crappy mexican restaurant in seattle. this makes me sad. it also makes me wonder about jeff mangum.

what's that guy up to these days?

amy says he's probably living in some crappy house in athens. while his wife is off making documentaries, he's constantly finding new things to fix or repair around the house.

this makes sense. or, at least, it's a good generalization.

like hemingway...

i asked amy about hemingway once--her opinion. she said she liked him. "hemingway wrestled lions," she said.

i asked her if that was true.

she said no. but it makes complete sense. if you were to describe hemingway to someone, someone unfamiliar with the man, the myth, his work, etc., you could probably tell them the facts and that would be OK. or you could just say "he wrestled lions" and it's, basically, the same general idea. both are perfectly acceptable conceptions of the man, though one is a generalization and the other is not.

it's a lie but it couldn't be closer to the truth.

i'm glad no one reads this. well, i'm glad no one who knows me reads this. i'm sure it's been stumbled upon, a detour on the way to some weird kind of porn. i wonder how much that person read before deciding they'd rather look at people naked.

how much of a deterrent are my thoughts and musings compared to fake tits and horse-fucking (hyphen?)? do i even stand a chance?

blah.

oh, before i forget, i've come up with a new turn of phrase:

"...at the cellular level."

no? you don't like it?

here, i'll use it in a sentence:

"man, that bitch is crazy!"

"for real?"

"at the cellular level, dude!"

(i know, really inspired stuff, here. i'm sure that's pretty offensive. oh well.)

it's synonymous with "hardcore," i think. it means "to the extreme."

so, i don't think i'll ever use it. but i like the idea.

underneath the head and horns: memorial day pt. II

"The second head sat atop the main head inverted and simply ended in a neck-like stump. The second head seemed to, at times, function independently from the main head. When the boy cried or smiled the features of the second head did not always match. Yet, when the main head was fed, the second head would produce saliva. Furthermore, if the second head was presented with a breast to suckle – it would attemp to do so. While the main head was well formed the secondary head did posses some irregularities. The eyes and ears were underdeveloped. The tongue was small and the jaw malformed but both were capable of motion. When the Boy slept, the secondary head would often be observed alert and awake – eyes darting about." -author unknown, from a case study on the two-headed boy of bengal (circa 17??)

memorial day pt. I

summer has just begun and i already have way too much on my plate--too, too many summer projects. i'm not that ambitious. i don't know what i was thinking.

i might just make a list of all my summer projects. and not actually accomplish any of them.

if i at least had a list, something i could go to periodically and run my eyes over, i think, then, i'd feel the same as if i'd actually done the things i set out to do in the first place.

i mean, it's kind of the same thing.

it's like lying. i guess. you could tell yourself, tell others, that you can read minds, that your brother died when you were in kindergarten, your mother kept him sick and, as long as the idea is out there, it doesn't really matter if it's true or not. what's important is that it's out there. execution is shit. good ideas should remain theoretical. always. dreams realized are rarely satisfying.

or maybe i'm just lazy.

summer project #271: make a list of all my summer projects and don't actually follow through on a single one.

summer project #272: relax. you've earned it.

i talked to amy last night. we went on one of our epic walks. it was really sort of gratifying, masturbatory in nature--a perfectly acceptable waste of time.

we came to the conclusion that most of the things we, and other people, enjoy are masturbatory in nature--that is, most of the things we do on a day-to-day basis are generally unconstructive, soul-sucking and perfectly acceptable ways to waste one's time.

like t.v. on dvd.

who stops after just one episode? who has that kind of will-power, patience anymore?

it's like consuming an entire box of cheez-its. or milk and oreos.

one episode of dexter turns into the entire first season. no one watches television on television anymore. it's not as instantly gratifying. we need things to be fast and sleazy. this is probably why we don't talk on the phone anymore. i mean, the telephone. that thing that plugs into your wall and doesn't have texting capabilities.

we express ourselves in blurbs. twitters.

america needs to take its riddlin.

helicopter trees

"you know how sometimes, when people see a little kid, they say 'oh, i just want to eat it or it's so cute, i just want to squeeze it to death--it's just so adorable?' well, when i see matt, i just want to fix him."

i almost killed someone yesterday. i was driving home from the bar. it was late--dark. i was on the phone with matt at the time. i asked him to call me when he got home--just to make sure he made it home OK. he was kind of drunk.

i was driving down bluff and suddenly, in the headlights, i see a dark figure. it took me a moment to register that it was an actual human being and not an animal. i mean, it would have been bad enough if it were an animal. i'm not saying that. hitting either would have been traumatizing, perhaps equally so, but the shock of seeing an actual human being--it was akin to accidentally seeing someone naked.

luckily, i collected myself in time to swerve. i looked back and the guy didn't even flinch. he was walking purposefully, staring straight ahead, stomping his feet as if prepared to march defiantly into death--not fearing the consequences. he probably wasn't religious. can you imagine a life worse than the prospect of hell?

like i said, he seemed defiant--maybe he'd had it with the world.

i'd like to think he was smart. dumb people don't commit suicide. i mean, they do. but it's always the smart ones that seem so tragic. maybe it's just something we attach to people who choose to end their own lives--something we assume, after the fact. that there's inherent wisdom in following through with such an act--maybe we've just got everything ass-backwards and it's just really easy to mistake abstractions, concepts like courage, determination and nihilism for genuine understanding.

probably he was drunk and mad at his girlfriend. his mother. his boss. who the fuck knows what drives people to act so childish.

"oh, fuck. fuck. fuck," i said. matt asked me what was wrong. "i almost hit someone. i think i need to call somebody."

i was really freaking out. matt didn't seem to care. that or he was just really tired--intoxicated. at some point the two become hard to separate. "dude, let him get hit."

"no, man. that's not cool. that's not right," i said. "i need to call someone."

"it's not your problem," he said. "let someone else deal with it."

"yeah. the police. i need to call the police and let them deal with it."

"whatever, dude."

i hung up and dialed 911. the possibility of the man actually getting hit became more and more plausible with each passing second. i knew i should do something. i mean, i didn't want to feel responsible--in the chance that something did happen. i don't think i could handle that. it amazes me that some people can--they deal with that kind of thing everyday. i don't know what that says about them, exactly. i didn't want to have to babysit this complete stranger, though. i'd done enough that night--babysitting matt. making sure he got home in one piece. why should i have to deal with someone else's bullshit?

i kind of wish it were that easy. if you ever felt overwhelmed or depressed or lonely, you could just stand somewhere, in the middle of a road, in the dark, and wait for someone to hit you. or, maybe, they wouldn't. maybe someone would care enough and attempt to save you. the ultimate trust game. i wish i could be so reckless. throw myself and all my bullshit to the wind and rely on someone else, someone with a less murky sense of morality, to go and fetch the scattered pieces. put me back together, again.

god, i sound like a moron.

i called 911 and they said they'd dispatch an officer--they'd be there shortly. the operator didn't seem at all concerned. i guess, looking back, i don't blame her. i'm not even sure, myself, if it was that big of a deal. i mean, maybe the guy was just being melodramatic. maybe he knew no one would hit him. or he would jump at the last minute. i don't know.

i went back five minutes later, just to check on him--see if the cops had arrived. on my way back, he had switched lanes. now, he was waiting to get hit on the other side. i didn't see any cops and i didn't want to turn around again--keep at this game any longer. i mean, after a while, he might have gotten wise and tried something. i don't know. if you're crazy enough to kill yourself, you're probably crazy enough to kill someone else.

also, i knew that, even if i tried to stop and talk to him, there's nothing i could really say that would change his mind. i mean, he seemed pretty sure of himself and his decision. how do you talk someone out of that? especially, if you're me? he probably would have just gotten irritated. who knows, he could have become violent towards me. and then what?

i'm probably just a coward who scatters at the first sign of conflict.

yeah. that's probably more accurate.

i finally forced myself to drive home, in complete silence--i needed to think. i took an alternative route. i didn't want to pass by him anymore. i resolved to lay all my trust in the apathetic dispatcher i spoke to earlier. and the cops. it was easier that way.