After Dark

I feel like I get my best work done when I am slightly delirious and running on nothing but adrenaline, junk food, and coffee. However, lately I think I'm starting to lose my nocturnal edge. All-nighters just aren't the hyper-productive, mildly hallucinogenic jitterfest they used to be. I guess I'm getting old. Oh well, it was bound to happen eventually.

Listening to:


comma

and


Ugh, I'm such a generic indie bastard.

Oh my it's 5 AM, time to get back to work.

Ancestry.

This might be my great great grand half-uncle, or something. His name was Willie. He was Hopi.

Goals.

I have goals.

Logistics.

Why must people be so difficult?

Exit Signs

Insisting that I compliment your driving as you take the wrong exit is a peculiar definition of "being supportive."

I Practice the Religion of Life

I woke up this morning, sobered up after a short nap and not the least bit hung over. I decided to celebrate my triumph over ethanol with a nice greasy McDonald’s breakfast. I asked if they served McFlurries this early, they did. It was great. There was a girl in a jeep a few cars ahead of me in line. I decided that she was beautiful. I watched her drive off, and noticed that she had an NC State parking sticker. Maybe I’ll run into her on campus. I bought a lottery ticket and went back to my apartment to nap. When I woke again, I fooled around on the internet until I decided to go get coffee. At the coffee shop I sipped my Costa Rican blend and munched on a huge cookie while reading Life of Pi and listening to a couple of older gentlemen discuss politics and pop culture. One of them, a man who reminds me a bit of Bukowski, looked at me from time to time. Perhaps he wanted to invite me into the conversation, but I was perfectly content listening and reading. Perhaps he was not content with my listening. It went on like this for a few hours. Sip, munch, read, listen. I didn’t finish the cookie, but I decided it was time to move on.

I went to Reader’s Circle and found a book for my Contemp. Lit. class: The Road. It was 7 dollars. There was a yard sale going on next door, I checked it out. She was selling off various knickknacks, little Buddha statues, framed photographs of Marilyn Monroe. A lesser individual would probably call her an idolater, but I think she just fancies knickknacks. She had some albums for sale, mostly classic rock. I felt silly wearing my Rolling Stones t-shirt and leafing through this girl’s collection of classic rock. I suppose her parents were hippies like mine. She asked 1 dollar in trade for a Procol Harum LP. Why not? I left. Destination: Art Museum.

I grabbed my book from my backpack and didn’t have to wander around the art trail long before I found a man sitting on a folding stool by the pond with a watercolor set. He was painting, of course. I asked if I could look and he invited me. I ended up sitting with him for hours talking. His name is Dick Wayne. He is a skinny man of 76 (at least I think that’s what he said) and from New York City. He moved here not too long ago just to get away from the hustle and bustle. He wore a purple baseball cap that said Palm Beach. He had glasses and a white handlebar mustache. We talked about many things. He asked if I was in school, so we talked about that. He asked what I wanted to do with my degrees, so we talked about that. I told him I wanted to write and teach. “Writing, like all the arts, is really hard,” he said. We talked about Philosophy, he asked me about my favorite philosophies or –phers. We talked about Transcendentalism. He told me that he thinks life is mostly just random, but he didn’t want to sound like an Existentialist. “I wouldn’t want to be Camus… or Sartre,” he said.

 We talked about Walden, and Emerson, and practical philosophies. He made the logical connection to religion. “I’m not a believer… in God,” he said, “it’s silly to think about some man… or woman… sitting in the sky… micromanaging the lives of 6.5 billion…” he trailed off as a few people walked by, “Make sure to get the color of my hair right,” a man in sunglasses said. “I’m working on the eyes right now,” Mr. Wayne replied.

We talked about Gliese 581 g. A man like him has probably been expecting news like this for ever: a certain kind of faith that is actually rewarded. Somehow we got onto the subject of sports, “I don’t really care for sports,” he said. “Neither do I,” I said. I told him about my journalism class, how the teacher asks us every day about our favorite news story. I told the class about Gliese, they blinked a few times and somebody started talking about football. Mr. Wayne made a disappointed sound. We talked for a while about how generally stupid sports are. Snowboarding certainly seemed to be the biggest offender in Mr. Wayne’s mind. Truly a kindred spirit. We got back to talking about school and careers. He told me about his son who floundered around in life before deciding on becoming psychologist, then a researcher, then a nurse, and finally a P.A. We talked about NYU, where he went to school. He was surprised to learn about their top-ranked Philosophy Ph.D. program. I said if I ever decided to pursue a Ph.D. in Philosophy, that is where I would go. He said that everybody should live in NYC at some point in their life. How nice that would be if it were possible.  Some woman interrupted us and talked to him way too long about his paint set. I suspect she was worried that I was some hooligan who was going to mug Mr. Wayne. Why would I do such a thing? She’s a terrible person for suspecting that of me. She buggered off after a while, I was relieved. It’s not often I get to really talk to somebody, so to be interrupted is to waste valuable talking time. Not long before the sun disappeared behind the tree line, Mr. Wayne decided it was time to leave. “It was really nice to talk to you, Mr. Wayne,” I said. “Everybody I know calls me Dick, why shouldn’t you?” he asked. “Okay, Dick,” I said, “it was a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

I read by the pond for a bit longer, called home to check in, and finally came back to my apartment to write.

A monologue.

"Oh great. Good job. Are you as impressed with yourself as I am with you? Are you proud? Do you feel accomplished? Feel like you've done something meaningful with your life? Like you have a purpose, a reason for being, a cause? Do you love that feeling you get, so much, that you must keep doing it and doing it and doing it--infinitely prolonged? Will this gain you the approval you so desperately seek: From everyone? From the ones you love? From me? Will this gain you the respect, the fear, from those: You hate? You don't even know?  When you lay in bed, do you think, "I deserve this sleep," or, "I deserve to sleep forever."? Because, if you ask me, not that you ever would, I think it should be the latter. Harsh? Yes, but fair. I wouldn't expect much more from you, so why should I fight the law of diminishing returns? You'll never know, anyway, anything. If you were wise, you would have timed this better. Most people don't crack eggs when they're right above their own head. You certainly proved them right, didn't you? Didn't you? I'd tell you you shouldn't show your face around here anymore, but it's not like you can leave, is it? You're stuck. Good fucking job. You didn't only bite the hand that fed you, you bit it clean off, and swallowed it, and digested it, and shat it out. You just don't know when you stop. You'll never stop, you can't stop. The truth is, I feel bad for you, even though I shouldn't. I should feel vindicated, pleased. I should wallow in your self-pity, but I can't. Isn't that a shame? I bet you'd feel better if I could take pleasure in your pain, but I can't. I just can't. Isn't that pathetic? Well, not as pathetic as you, but that would be difficult to do, anyway. You're worthless, really. Nothing you'll ever do will ever amount to anything. You're stuck in Limbo and you haven't even died yet. You've been reincarnated as a lesser being and you haven't even died yet. You're dead, and you haven't even died yet. I could say that you're the worst person I've ever met, but you're worse than that, because you're not actually the worst person I've ever met. I've met much worse people than you, but it's almost as if you want to be the worst, but you just don't have the cunning to achieve it. You're like a record player with a shitty record spinning round and round, but the needle isn't even on it. You're just mass. You're a weight dragging behind everybody's ship, slowing them down, making them less maneuverable. Other people aren't here to drag you through life, you've got to pick up your own shit and live your own life. ... I'm done. You're done. We're done. Again, I'd tell you to leave and never come back, but you can't, can you? You're like a prisoner who set his own cell on fire. Yeah, you always liked to talk about how fucking wise you are. Well, how wise of you was that? How fucking wise of you was it to throw stones in your own glass house? I'm done. I'm just. Done."
-TQW 2010

Wonko the Sane.

I just can't get over how mind-bendingly insane people can be.
There is simply no explaining their actions.
Nobody knows what is going on in their heads, not even them.

But I'm thankful for them, because they'll make good characters for stories. 

Until then, straight jackets for everyone!

Entitlement.

G.E. Moore says, here is a hand, and here is another hand, therefore, hands exist.
I have two hands. They are capable of grasping and pointing and manipulating things around me. Genetically, humans have hands. However, other organisms have hands. I have two eyes that point forward and give me three dimensional sight. They are capable of perceiving colors between infrared and ultraviolet. Genetically, humans have eyes, however, other organisms have eyes, and some organisms have much better eyes than humans. I have this body capable of bipedal locomotion. Genetically speaking, humans have bodies that are capable of bipedal locomotion, other organisms are capable of bipedal locomotion but very few use it as their primary method of transportation. However, not all humans are capable of bipedal locomotion, due to any number of factors. This goes for the previous two things as well. I have these emotions and perceptions and ideas. I believe in concepts and I think about things. I have the ability to make choices and understand the risks and outcomes. As far as I know, genetically, humans have these things. This is not something I can directly perceive, but it is something I have inferred. However, it seems that most animals are capable of these things as well, based on the same perceptions I use to judge the presence of these features in humans. Granted, other organisms don't seem to possess the same complexity of mental faculties, but I can't know for sure.

I have this idea about what being "human" means. And it seems that I possess whatever qualities make one human, and thus I think that I am human, and I think that those organisms with similar traits I interact with are also human. Through my interactions with humans, I have observed that there are certain behaviors that seem to be preferred. By preferred, I mean that some feelings occur as a result of an action that would be chosen over other feelings if such a choice is possible. Universally, humans seem to choose pleasure over pain. Even those known in human society as masochists, who choose to have pain inflicted on themselves, do so because it gives them pleasure. When I interact with the world, I prefer to have interactions that result in pleasurable feelings. For instance, when I hold a conversation with a fellow human, I would like to leave this conversation feeling happy rather than angry.

When human A interacts with human B, both participants would prefer to leave the interaction with feelings of pleasure. They both have the option to behave in a way, P, that invokes pleasure, or a way, Q, that invokes pain. It can be understood that if A behaves P and B behaves P, then P will be mutually invoked, therefore, both participants leave the interaction with feelings of pleasure. The converse is true, if A behaves Q and B behaves Q, then both participants will leave the interaction with feelings of pain. (Keep in mind, this is true even of masochists, because masochists still ultimately seek pleasure.) If all humans prefer pleasure over pain, then it makes no sense for A and B to both behave Q. It makes perfect sense for both to behave P, as it is mutually pleasurable. However, if A behaves P and B behaves Q, then B still gets pleasure out of the interaction, even if A does not. So, what is B's motivation for behaving P, if he can receive pleasure even if he behaves Q? The short answer is that eventually, A will cease behaving P towards B, so that a pointless QQ interaction will occur and the participants cease the interaction. So, in order to continue receiving pleasure, the best course of action is to behave P, so that mutually beneficial PP interactions can continue to occur.

Treat others how you want to be treated? Not exactly. Treat others in a way that invokes a pleasurable experience, so that mutually pleasurable experiences may continue to happen in an effort to maximize pleasure and minimize pain.

Why, then, do some people insist on behaving Q?

Because they're dicks.

Phone.

I program things I don't want to forget into my phone's calendar. I ask it to remind me to pay the bills, when I'm supposed to have dinner and with whom. I ask it to remind me to do homework and laundry, usually at the same time. Sometimes, though, I ask it to remind me to do the remembering for once. Sometimes, when something important happens, I will jump a week or a month or a year ahead in the calendar and ask it to remind me, "Do you remember what happened a week or a month or a year ago, today?"

My phone just asked me if I remember what happened a year ago today.

I do.

Some people don't understand symbolism.

And some people think they do.

                         

Mirrors.

frustration discussion understanding confusion clarity distraction indecision

Today in Haiku

 

Took final exam.
Installed new car stereo.
Subwoofer is dead.

"We'll Make One Out of Concrete."

 Today's blog brought to you by quotation marks.

"As for me, all I know is that I know nothing, for when I don't know what justice is, I'll hardly know whether it is a kind of virtue or not, or whether a person who has it is happy or unhappy." - Socrates

Thank you, Socrates.

Wires.

I like fixing things. I like how my fingers ache after hours of twisting nuts and bolts. I like the smell of grease that is so hard to wash off. I like when fixing something is a challenge. I like learning a new way to fix a thing. I like taking things apart and trying to remember how to put them back together. Entropy. I like making 10 trips to the hardware store to find the right part. I love trying for hours to get one small part to cooperate, and then finally getting it in line with dumb luck or brute force.

I like fixing things. Things. The key word.


Non-things cannot be fixed.

Fire Alarm.

I heard the fire alarm sound a few floors below me. I peaked my head into the hallway and a man passing by said "It'll be up here soon. If you go now you can catch the elevators before they cut off." I dug my backpack from underneath a towel and packed three things; my laptop, my cash, and

The Great Ohio Desert.

Your eyesight can be fixed with prescription lenses, but you cannot change how you see.

An Encounter With a Coccinellidae of Unknown Genus or Species

I sat in my car at a red light, music and windows down, listening to the hum and screech of the mechanical beasts on the hot pavement around me. A tickling sensation on the cuticle of my index finger brought attention to my left arm resting on the sill. I watched as the orange ladybug crawled listlessly up my giant finger. The green light beamed, forcing me to follow the heard of roaring beasts as they raced to the next red light. I held my left hand at my chest, not wanting the ladybug to be blown away by the turbulence of my open windows. The light tickle on my finger let me know she was still there until I came to rest at the next intersection and was able to observe her some more. She sat on my knuckle rubbing her face like her distant taxonomic cousin the Mantis. Her wing covers were a pale orange, and the four black dots on her back were pathetically shaped and unevenly distributed towards her right side, like they were painted on by a child. Traffic stampeded once more and she withdrew her legs inside her shell as the wind picked up and we moved towards the next intersection. At the next red light, I watched as she sniffed around on my finger like a blood hound on a trail. I'd never known a ladybug to bite, but I'm no stranger to betrayal. It was my hope that she wouldn't deem my flesh appetizing, though I knew it would not hurt if she did. She did not bite me, and her feet did not dig into my skin. She settled down near a freckle and continued to rub her face.

In the parking lot, the act of stepping out of my car seemed to agitate her. She crawled around my finger as I rotated my hand to keep her right side up. I walked over to a tree and bent down to pick up a pine leaf. With some coaxing, I got her to transfer to the leaf. I counted her dots once more and sat her down at the base of the tree. I noticed a line of marching ants on the tree trunk. I watched as she left the pine leaf I picked for her and climbed across the tops of the grass. As I walked away, I worried about that row of marching ants.

Energy.

I don't have the energy to deal with everything right now. For the first time in my life, I really feel overwhelmed.
I don't have the energy to deal with people. I don't have the energy to deal with studying. I don't have the energy to deal with money. I don't even have the energy to sleep.

Every day the urge grows.

Unnamed Psychological Thriller.

Hey, it's summer. Not any normal summer. Oh, no. First summer of my life where I'm actually busy. Summer classes are eating up my spare time nicely, preventing me from going crazy, but not taking up too much time that I can't enjoy my spare time. I'm writing a lot, currently working on three whole stories. One of them is going to be a psychological thriller about a horror writer (in the vein [or is it vain? (in the sense of a pun)] of Stephen King but less creepy and more likable) who is arrested for the murder of one of the characters he kills off in one of his books. I won't spoil the ending for you, but it's pretty predictable anyway. I feel like it's been done before, probably has. I'll look into it. Vaguely reminds me of "House on the Lake" or whatever that Johnny Depp movie was. I don't like the idea of straying away from predictability for the sake of being unpredictable. Life is pretty predictable at times, and if art imitates life then stories should be predictable every now and then. I find that the most powerful stories are the ones where you see the ending coming the entire time. Like Hemingway's Up In Michigan. Such a sad story. It's so real, and you see the ending coming from a mile away. It's so life-like, and the writing is so simplistic and raw (just like all of Hemingway's stuff, of course) and it plays in perfectly with the effect of the ending.

Chinese is interesting. I need to do homework now, but I will probably just end up watching Craig Ferguson. That is all. Good evening.

EDIT: I would like to further reinforce my belief that life is very predictable almost all of the time. It is often very disappointing. 

Perspective distortion.

I'm cleaning my camera which I haven't used in nearly a year and has been sitting on the top shelf of my desk here at home gathering dust since the last time I cleaned it. It's not digital because I have a soul. It's film, SLR. Canon EOS Rebel 2000 to be exact. I don't remember when I got it, but I remember it was a Christmas present back when I did photography. Back in High School, when everyone was totally into photography. But I didn't take pictures of my dog, or a flower, or an old chair in my back yard, because I have a soul. I took photography classes in high school. There were 3 levels of photography classes: I, II, and III (in roman numerals, not arabic numerals). I took all three. They put us all in one class room with one teacher. In Photo II and III we could pretty much do whatever the hell we wanted. Sometimes the teacher would ask us to help the Photo I kids in the dark room. In Photo II the class was taught by a teacher who primarily taught ceramics and sculpture. I guess the school figured art was art. She asked me to teach the class when she got in over her head. My favorite picture I took was of the belly of the Cape Fear bridge. I was apparently trespassing (I guess that's what all those signs meant) on the grounds of an electrical substation and I got hassled by some cops. They threatened to take my camera, I laughed. They changed their tactics, "Son, you could've been electrocuted." I pointed out that I was wearing rubber-soled shoes. They told me to get lost. I did. In 2003 or 2004, not long after I got my camera, my mom and I went to visit my grandmother in the hospital. She was having chemotherapy. Mom encouraged me to go walk around the hospital and "play with [my] camera." I walked around the parking deck and took a few shots of the main building from some sort of back street that only employees of the hospital used--or something. It wasn't long before I was surrounded by hospital cops (one step above mall cops) asking for my ID and why I was taking pictures of the hospital. I explained that I didn't have any ID, because I was like 14, and that I was taking pictures because I was bored. They called in backup. I guess I looked like a terrorist in my Orange County Choppers t-shirt. I explained that my grandma was having chemotherapy and my mom was with her. All 4 of them escorted me to my grandma's room in the cancer ward. They checked my mom's ID (can you believe the nerve?) and told her not to develop the pictures I took without a release form from the hospital (a ridiculous bastardization of photography laws).

I won a mountain bike.

Falling. A famous misanthrope. Objective. Subjective. This is an insignificant part of your life. I wish I could ~care. A twitching eyelid. A sore back. Finish painting, remove the tape. It cracks. Leave it. (Today is the day.) Ebb and flow.

By the lake:
"Do you think I use you?"
"A little bit."

At her door:
"Don't do anything stupid."
"It's about to happen."
"Goodbye."
"Bye."

The bathroom smells like smoke. 

A twitching eyelid.
A sore back.

Zzzzz.

I would like to sleep now.

Couldn't sleep last night. Dozed off for maybe 2-3 hours. Now I'm being kept awake by heartburn. Damnit Sylvio, why must your pastas be so delicious?

Blarg.

Actually.

I need a primer. Not like the primer on the walls of my apartment, like a primer for a pump.

I've learned quite a few valuable life lessons this year, but here is the most important one I've learned: People love being pandered to. I've reached this conclusion by re-reading the comments on my stories from this semester. I swear, like 90% of them were "I don't like this," or "I do like this, give me more of it."  Man, I don't care what you do or don't like. People don't like to be challenged, or made to think in ways that is contrary to their modus operandi. But that's what I do. I don't know why I take it upon myself to try to force people out of their intellectual comfort zone. But I do. Whenever I can. Usually I get flack for it, but sometimes... sometimes it turns out completely worth it. Those times are when somebody shines a light on my own rational shortcomings. I need that, I don't get it often enough. I want to grow as a person and a thinker and an artist. I don't want to stagnate, I need a challenge. It doesn't matter what I do or don't like. It doesn't matter what you do or don't like. Get over it.

What a disappointment this semester has been. In the future when I reflect on my college days, I will look back on this semester and think, "Hmm, that kind of sucked."

Okay, I'm primed. Time to write. 

Construction.

Sorry folks no blog today. Gotta be productive and whatnot. Instead, here's a couple pictures of a pretty boat that I want to steal. Pirate style.

Soft City Condescension.

I don't know how to describe last night. Normally I would attempt to do so, flipping through a thesaurus, juggling words and metaphors in my head, but I'm simply at a loss.

I missed my cousin's soccer game because of last night. 

I moved in to my apartment today. Well, I didn't "move in" but I got my keys and the apartment is now officially my apartment. I rearranged the furniture a bit.

I made a mix tape the other day. It's quite good. It's so good I'm going to burn myself a copy and listen to it while driving home today. I'm going home to pick up some stuff for the apartment. Spare dishes and sheets and whatnot we've had in the attic for a long time.

Still don't know how to describe last night.

Bullet Proof... I Wish I Was.

Last night I went to bed depressed and emotionally/physically drained. I don't know why I was so depressed, I had a pretty damn good day. I feel like a dick for being so grumpy around the few people who actually make me happy. So, to those people, even those not reading this blog, I'm sorry. When I went dorm (not when I went home-- when I went dorm) I passed out and had a dream where the faces of all the people who meant something to me appeared in fractals that grew and shrank with a sense of awareness of the dream. It was sort of a lucid dream, where if I focused on the dream it sort of faded away, but when I let it do its thing it was vivid and clear.

I'm still on my Radiohead kick. I've been listening to them almost exclusively for almost a month now.  I've only briefly listened to some Pink Floyd or Albert Hammond Jr. when I felt like it. I usually don't pay much attention to the lyrics in music, but the lyrical stylings of Thom Yorke are really speaking to me for whatever reason (not like in a schizophrenic way; no need for a psychological intervention, at least not yet). It's weird, I'll get a tune stuck in my head and when I get dorm I look at the lyrics and they're completely relevant to the happenings of the day.

There are difficult things going on in my life that I can't talk about on this blog. Perhaps I should start a real journal. 

I need a vacation.

I think perhaps my life plans are a little more specific than I gave them credit.

Saturday I move into my apartment. I'm scared.

Good morning.

This song has been stuck in my head for a while.

Cough Syrup.

I'm unsure about something, but I'm not sure what.

The end of this semester has really caught me off guard. I keep thinking that I have plenty of time for things. I thought I had enough time to raise my grades, but I never really got around to it. I thought I had plenty of time to hang out with people, to build relationships, but I haven't spent as much time doing that as I'd like. I thought I had plenty of time, and I guess I did, what did I do with all of it? I remember what I wasted my time on last semester: a string of failed attempts at relationships. But it seems like I still got a lot more done. I made a load of friends whose company I have frequently enjoyed this semester (so I guess I did spend a fair amount of time building relationships this semester, but that's something I should be able to do on top of everything else), I read a lot of books, I did well in all of my classes. What have I got to show for my time this semester, and where is my excuse? I feel like I've really failed myself, and I am disappointed. In a couple of weeks I will be exactly half way through my undergraduate college career, assuming I don't end up going into an extra semester or two. It's scary, I remember the first week of freshman year and how much fucking fun it was. I remember all the friends I made that first semester, and I haven't spent more than a few hours with a single one of them this year. I have a nasty habit of shedding all of my friends and making new ones every once in a while. It's a habit I picked up as a kid, as I switched schools every few years. But then I got into high school and I kept doing it every year, sometimes multiple times in a year. This is not something I'm going to let myself continue to do. If you are reading this, I'm sorry, you're stuck with me. I'm going to make an effort to be a better friend. What do we have in this world beside our friends? Family? I don't have siblings. I don't like thinking about it, but my parents were pretty old when I was born. In twenty years they're going to start going downhill like their parents did. I hate my extended family. They all suck except for a few choice cousins and an aunt and uncle or two, but even then I hardly ever talk to them. In fact, my "uncles" and "aunts" that I value most dearly aren't actually related to me. They're really good friends of my parents. So, family is great if you have a big one full of people you actually like, but I am not lucky enough to have one of those.

More after the jump.

Ivy Mike.

In 1914, James Joyce references early 18th century Friar Pacificus Baker's "The Devout Communicant" in his short story "Araby." Just 5 years later, Franz Kafka publishes a story called "Ein Landzart" (English: "A Country Doctor"). On November 1st 1952, the United States detonates its first nuclear fusion bomb codenamed "Ivy Mike" which vaporizes the island of Elugelab in the Enewetak Atoll in the Republic of the Marshall Islands. In 1998, the Mars Climate Orbiter disappears in flight. NASA claims that the probe disintegrated in the Martian atmosphere due to a "navigation error." On April 14th, 2010, a volcano near the Eyjafjallajökull glacier in Iceland erupts, spreading a cloud of volcanic ash over most of Northern Europe, including James Joyce's birthplace of Dublin, Ireland.

The evidence is irrefutable: Pacificus is a badass name. 

How to disappear completely.

What is the last wish of a dying man?

My life (our lives) is (are) full of desire. Even those few hopeful philosophers who spend their days meditating and attempting to rid themselves of all earthly desires, still desire to rid themselves of desire. Nobody really knows what goes through the head of a person on their death bed. They may see a light at the end of a tunnel, but what do they think about it? How does it make them feel? What does it remind them of? Science tells us it's our failing visual cortex. Religion tells us it's heaven. What do you think it is? It doesn't matter what you think it is, you're not dying.

What final thought does our entire life culminate in? Do each of us have our own unique thought? So few of us even have unique thoughts when we're alive, I doubt that can be it. Maybe everyone thinks the same thing just before they die. One final desire to trump all previous desires. More powerful than the desire to eat, to sleep, to fuck. A desire that perhaps we are all familiar with long before we die. A desire that perhaps any child expresses perfectly by crying out, "I want go to home!"

I am home.

I want to go home.

921 Acres! Riverfront! Golf Community Opportunity!

Today was awful.

Aesthetics.

I can't sleep. So I will blog.

How are you, blog? I know, it's been about a week. I've been neglecting you. In the beginning of our relationship it was all about, posts posts posts, almost once a day. But I think we've matured to the point where we really don't have to post more than once a week or so. Hey, that's more than other people with blogs post! Besides, the posts will be better if it's not a daily thing. Let me tell you about my week.

So, what's been going on since the last post? Well, that evening I hung out with people and went to a poetry reading. The poetry was... alright. I probably would have liked it even less if I wasn't enjoying the company. All of her poems were about wells and springs in Scotland. I just don't know how I feel about that. The poetry was well-written and all, but in the end who cares about a poem about water? Maybe it's just my tastes. I like poetry that tells me a meaningful little story. Like "Richard Cory" by Edwin Arlington Robinson.  If I remember correctly all of her poems were free verse, and I have a certain distaste for free verse. I believe there's something to be said for meter and rhyme. If it doesn't have meter or rhyme, if it's not lyrical, why write it in line form? Write it in paragraph form and call it a really short story. Doesn't need to be a poem. Maybe I don't know enough about poetry, but I think Robert Frost does, and he said: "Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down."

I'm going to put the break in right about here. So, more after the jump! Woo!

Milestones.

Four days without a blog post? What can I say; it's a hard habit to keep up. Guess I haven't had anything significant to say, if I ever did. I've barely had any time to think the last few days. Finalizing the paperwork for my double major, hunting for apartments, reading shitty books, writing papers on shitty books; all very time consuming.

I was forced to read this book called The Hadj by Michael Wolfe for my Religion class. It was complete, utter, crap. What should have been a deep and thoughtful reflection on a man's personal religious journey turned into an Anthony Bourdain-wannabe travelogue.

In one scene the author recounts his first visit to a mosque in Morocco after converting to Islam and traveling there to learn about the Muslim lifestyle. The mosque has a pole set up about waist high across the entrance. The pole is symbolic; meant to keep non-believers out of the mosque, but has about a 3-foot gap on either side of the pole to let believers into the mosque for prayer. While everybody funnels themselves through the gaps around the pole, the author goes into this really bizarre stream of consciousness you would expect from somebody with the intellect of a middle schooler, in which he "weighs his options" for getting around the pole:

... I weighed my options for getting past it and very nearly made a foolish move. At home I had lived for a time on a cattle ranch. Being used to gates and wooden fences, my first impulse to beat the crowd was simply to duck the pole and take a shortcut. 
No one ducked under. They hugged the sidelines, they shrank to patient groups of two or three, they slipped around the bar at either end, but they took no shortcuts. I managed to pull up in the knick of time, physically pull up and back, saving myself from a serious social blunder. I conformed to the flow of the crowd around the pole.

Wow. Seriously, dude? You have so little respect for the religion you decided to convert  to, and you take it with such a lack of seriousness, that you would even consider that for a split second; going so far as to start to physically duck down and prepare for the jump before you catch yourself? You know, I think I'm going to convert to Christianity. Yep, first thing I'm going to do is go to a church and jump the pews like hurdles in order to get to the front row before everybody else. What a douche.

That's all I've got for you today, my dear little blog.

Jazzing Around.

It seems as though this little blogging habit of mine is picking up steam. I am not entirely sure whether or not this is a good thing, but there is one thing I am certain of: Sagan is responsible for all of this. So if it turns out bad, blame her. I'm willing to take all credit if it turns out good, though. 

Since this is becoming a daily occurrence, I'm going to take advantage of the jump break feature. So, from now on, if I have a particularly lengthy post to write on you, my humble blog, I'm going to break it up into two to keep up with aesthetics. I can't wait to use the phrase "more after the jump." Oh, it's so exciting. 

I finished Part 1 of The Art of Fiction today. I can't express how fucking brilliant John Gardner is. If you're reading this, first take a moment to reflect on how wonderfully voyeuristic this experience is: peering into my thoughts. Then take a moment to consider how fucking stupid this all is, typing away our lives in a little HTML box. Then, if you are interested in writing (like my "followers" which have now racked up to a grand total of 3), pick up a copy of The Art of Fiction. Seriously. Do it. You won't regret it. I could blog about it all day and still completely fail to do it any justice. I am legitimately looking forward to seeing how my writing improves after reading this. Learning about writing has so far just been entirely guesswork on my part. I've only ever had one person (who knows anything) give me any advice about writing (namely, how to skip the guesswork) and that advice was, "Read The Art of Fiction by John Gardner."

More after the jump. (Oh god that was so satisfying.)

The Outlaw.

 

Shown: Jane Russell

(So much hotter than Marilyn Monroe)

(I mean seriously, why do people care about Marilyn so much?)

 

I talked to the mayor of Raleigh today. Friend of mine and I are sort of trying to start a student movement to get Google to bring their fiber-optic internet thing to Raleigh (info below in convenient youtube video format, if you haven't heard about it.) I got a voicemail but he returned my call within 5 minutes. I think he thought I was a representative from Google so it was a bit awkward. But, it turns out the mayor already has people on it. Good to know. I really do think Raleigh would be a great candidate. After all, we've been named both the most educated and most "wired" city in America. We already have all of these technology companies here. Red Hat, Sprint, IBM, etc. Apparently the competition is in Topeka, Kansas. They renamed their city Google, Kansas for a week or something. What the fuck does Kansas need with 1gbps internet? Do they really need 1gpbs internet to access cornandpotatoes.com? (insert Wizard of Oz joke here). 

Went to Sylvia's again today. Sylvio made me a custom dish with ravioli and chicken with a nice alfredo sauce and red lettuce and all sorts of neat stuff. It was amazing. Sex on a plate, really. 

Got my books from Amazon. Three books on writing by John Gardner. The man is a genius. I love the preface to The Art of Fiction: 

"This is a book designed to teach the serious beginning writer the art of fiction. I assume from the outset that the would-be writer using this book can become a successful writer if he wants to, since most of the people I've known who wanted to become writers, knowing what it meant, did become writers. About all that is required is that the would-be writer understand clearly what it is that he wants to become and what he must do to become it. If no matter how hard he tries he simply cannot do what he must do, this book will help him understand why he was not sent into this world to be a writer but for some other noble purpose."

Yeah, I know, oh snap. I really hope I don't fall into that latter category he speaks of. If I do, then I guess I'll have to find something else to fall back on. C'est la vie.

In other news, the apartment hunt continues. In other other news, I have two books to read by Monday. Fuck.

That's all for now.

Goodnight, kittens.

Goodnight, mittens.
Goodnight, house.

Goodnight, mouse.

Goodnight, blog.

Sly Devil.

(I'm still getting used to this whole blog thing, so if for some reason treating it like a diary is uncouth, bear with me.)

Dear Diary, Blog,

Today was good, and I hold this truth to be self evident. The snow was beautiful last night. Thick flakes floating to the ground. They were so heavy you could hear them smacking into the pavement just like if they were regular raindrops. I took a nap before work, but woke up a few minutes before my alarm clock went off. It's kind of a pet peeve of mine, I feel like I wasted a few perfectly good minutes of sleep. I was sad to see that even by 4 am most of the snow had melted, since it had started raining. Oh well. There were people doing yoga in the lobby. It was bizarre. I seriously considered the possibility that I might be dreaming. I still think that I might be. But that's kind of normal.

History sucked. As usual. But that's okay. I was too tired and out of it to really notice. I skipped Literature (I know, I'm such a badass: skipping classes). Fiction Writing was also kind of boring. I just was not into the stories we discussed today. Just not my cup of tea. Or even my cup of water, for that matter (I know that doesn't make sense, shut up). But a bunch of us went out to dinner at Mitch's afterward, and that was pretty great. Our teacher joined us. I was kind of concerned that he was going to bring his teacherly attitude, and he kind of did, but it didn't take much to get him to drop his guard. I thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with one of the people in the group...


There are many different kinds of genius in this world, I think. And I believe I discovered that a good friend of mine is a certain kind of genius I was previously unaware of. I'm not quite sure how to describe it. Perhaps she is a social genius or an interpersonal genius, something along those lines. But I can't go into it right now. Maybe I will tell you about it, my humble blog, at some point in the future (when you're older).

That's it for now. I leave you with a cool music video I ran into yesterday.

Cobbles.

What the hell am I supposed to write in a blog, anyway? Do you want me to tell you about my day? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? YOU DON'T CONTROL ME.

You know what? Fine. I'll do it.
I couldn't sleep for shit last night. Probably this bullshit weather. 'Wintry mix'? It's a euphemism for 'bullshit.' I went to work at 8. Read some Wuthering Heights (for my Literature class, I would never read it without being forced to). That brings us to the word of the day: COBBLES. How did that bring us to the word of the day? I don't know. Don't worry about it, it's not important. Like this blog.

God damnit. I just spilled ice water all over myself. Okay, where was I? Oh, yes, cobbles. So, after work I did things and then met a friend of mine for lunch. We went to Waba. I had kimchi fried rice, she nibbled at an orange she brought with her. What the hell is that? There's a word for that: 'argablarga', feel free to use it if you wish, but make sure to use it properly. After lunch I did some other things, don't remember what, whatever it was it probably involved the internet. Went to class, Religion. We talked about Islam. It was mildly interesting. Somehow the topic turned to the gestation period of camels. I still have no idea what was going on there. Went to dinner at Sylvia's (again), ravioli alfredo, delicious.

So now, here I am. My crotch is wet and cold, and I'm writing my first real blog entry. But, why? Who am I talking to? Am I talking to myself? Am I talking to Kathleen (my one follower at the moment and thus my only friend in the world)? Am I telling Google about my day because they already know everything about me anyway? What about this blog is making me open up about my day that having a journal never did for me? I was just never a journal person. My relatives used to buy me nice notebooks for christmas because "hey I guess he writes, what else do we get him? Legos?" YES, LEGOS. I fucking love legos. I went to the Lego store at the mall a couple months or weeks ago, it was amazing. It felt similar to how I imagine extremely religious people feel about going to church.

What the hell? Why am I doing this? Why are you reading this? Who are you? What are you? What do you see? Do you see into my head? Into my heart? Do you see into me - into us - clearly or darkly?

Am I cool now?

Today, at dinner, somebody convinced me to make a blog.