It's not referring to anything in particular, I just felt like writing it.

Gone.

Gone. It was there, just a moment ago. And now, it's not. Gone. I...I ... it's gone. It was right here. I saw it. I swear, I can remember it. But now... Now there's no trace. It's just... gone.

Lost. I had it. I remember distinctly, I had it. And then, I lost it. Where did it go? Did I really lose it? Or did it lose itself? Surely not. I had it. It was right here. And now, I've lost it.

Now it's gone. But not forgotten. Never forgotten. I remember it. Just a moment ago, just a minute, infinitesimal portion of a microscopic measurement of time ago I had it. It was mine. It was so thoroughly mine, I didn't even recognize I had it. It was accepted. I had it, it was right there.

Was it? I... forget. No, surely it was there. I can recall quite clearly it was right here. Or there. But it was definetly somewhere, I know that for certain. Beyond the darkest shadow of a doubt. And yet...

Maybe it wasn't. Perhaps, I just think I took it for granted. It's not here now, how do I know it was there then? Did it ever really exist? No, I remember. It was there. I could have positively sworn I had it right here a moment ago. Well, awhile ago at least. Recently. It was here recently. A few moments ago, it was right here. Right here.

Or there. There ... yes, it could have just as easily been there. My memory's a tad fuzzy, I could have some misconceptions. It was around here somewhere recently. It had to exist, that's obvious. The point is, it's gone now. Gone, but not forgotten. That's the key, right? If I remember it, it's never really gone. It's just not here. It's... away. But it was here a moment ago. Or there. Recently. Or maybe it was nearby lately... Whatever. The specifics don't matter. It's gone now, I can't get it back. I lost it. Or it lost me. It's not here, though. It's not there, it's not around, it's not nearby. It's just gone.

It's gone. I can't find it. I look for it, and it's gone. Vanished. Absconded. Evaporated. Lost. Just plain gone. I had it, now I don't. I had it. It was mine. M-I-N-E. Mine. I had it. I. Had. It. Now I don't. I don't have it, it's gone. But I remember having it. As clearly as the sun is bright, I remember having it. At least I know that. I remember having it, it was here, it's gone. Simple. 1, 2, 3. That's it. Yes, it. Wait, "it"? What was "it"? Ah yes, "it" is gone.

Gone.

One Leg at a Time

6PM: Go time. I go to look for my various "necessities" including but not limited to: white band pants, white band shoes, white, pure, quintessential Dylan "misconception" moment. So... pants, check. They're in good condition, considering I haven't worn them in a year or two. Good, good...

Then, the shoes. A flash: Dear Sweet Mother of Pearl, I don't know where they are! Whew, they're right where I would be if I was a pair of Dylan's unused shoes... Drat. It now occurs to me that in the two years since I'd last used them, they hadn't been washed. So not only were they dirty from the last time I marched, but they had also collected dust. I rush to the kitchen and start scrubbing. I scrub, I rinse, I scrub, I glance at the clock, 6:11, I scrub the next shoe, I rinse, I scrub more, scrub, rinse, 6:19, mother comes home, scrub a bit, time to...WHAH!? 6:19! I'm supposed to be in band in ten minutes! But it takes 15minutes to get to school... Time for overdrive.

Well, overdrive wasn't as successful as desired. I started on the road and gradually undressed (while driving). I still had on jeans and tennis shoes, so the shoes came off first. It's a complex process because one foot has to be on the brakes at all times. So one shoe off. I drive. Next shoe. Drive some. (Did you know there's a cushionish like thing on the brake pedal? Strange...). Now the hard part, the pants. Drive some. Stop, pull half a leg off. I get them all off, get one leg of my whites on, then I have to go. My underwear is visible from the right angle, how...uh...flattering. I drive into the parking lot, still half a pair of pants on and.... Oh. Joy. Rapture. Bliss. Guess who's in front of me? The Bearden Band Bus. I hunker down, hoping they don't notice something's awry. I make it into the parking lot, plop my pants on... Oh, yes, I forgot my belt too. I was able to call my mother though, hopefully she'll make it in time or my pants will fall down in a move reminiscent of Powell so many years ago. I make it into the band room, 3 or so minutes late. Hoorah. 0/100 for Dylan for the day! Ah well, I made it didn't I?

Otherwise, not too shabby. Not much time left, tryouts tomorrow, more later. Ta-ta!

Concentrated for your Protection

Not much time; it's great to be so busy, and yet a bit taxing. I felt misanthropic today, but I think I'm pulling out of it. I also developed a wonderful idea for my novel, but I won't spoil it for you since it's great comedy. You'll just have to read to find out hehe. Hope you're all doing well, I've got homework to do. Ta-ta!

(Oh, and thanks to everyone who came to Cardboard. Hopefully you'll keep on dropping by, I'm certainly enjoying it!)

Salt

A wound has been reopened that I was sure had healed over. Questions I considered answered no longer appear to have the previously accepted doctrines I had pushed into the void I knew couldn't be filled, just temporarily dammed. I can't ignore the cascading waters at the moment, but I'd better learn to float because I'm sure not going to drown this time.

They say it's your birthday...

As I've been reminded a few times today, it's my 18th birthday. No more angsty existential quandires, no more childish irresponsibility, no more dull perpetual nonsense on a melodramatic epic scale. Haha! You and me both, sister.

But today I thought I'd try something different. I'll tell you a harrowing tale so loosely based in fiction you won't even know a minute fraction is true. Yes, you read right. Here is my life story as it has never been told before...

I was born a poor Austrian mountainman(boy) living in the Rockies due to a mishap in customs. It was all very confusing. My mother was so concerned that I was being born early, she forgot to include postage and when you only weigh 3lbs, 15ounces you can get lost in the mail pretty easily. Nevertheless, Henrietta I was named.

Ah the scarring memories. It didn't occur to me until 6 years later that I was named after a girl. By then I had a firmly ingrained love for dresses and all things pink. My parents were eventually swayed by my daily brutal beatings at the hands of school administrators to have my name altered to the more popular "Dylan", a warping of "Dillon", the man who devised "Dillon's Rule" as a method of dramatically limiting municipal governments. No one got the reference, but that was fine; it was better than Glenda or Gladice the Gregarious Garden Centipede.

Thus christened "Dylan" (and by "christened" I mean to say annointed in the unholy blood of 99 dead virgins and one skank who decided to repent but got lost on the way to the STD clinic) I embarked on my quest to overcome all opposition in all areas of academia. Then I realized I had the brain capacity of a frog in heat; a rather irrate frog, but a frog nonetheless. Thus I had to be content pounding my head against the wall in a futile attempt to recall why, exactly, I had to "remember that bathrooms are for waste, not taste." I should have known that the curtains didn't match the interior; oh what I fool I was in my youth.

I graduated Kindergarten with the Honor of being top in my disability. That disability being lack of amibition and, I suspect, lack of money shoved down a gyrating 50 year old's shinguards at the local roller skating S&M ring. It wasn't a pretty place, but you're all too young to remember it.

My earliest memory was shoving my arm into a blender. The smoothie was worth the immense pain, but I think the reconstructive surgery on my cybornetic replacement was a bit overpriced. It's a good thing I always only sold 90% of my soul because in that way you can never truly lose it all. Well, you can, but the spiritial "lost and found" department is in desperate need of visitors (they work off commission). So I'm fine.

Then I remember numerous punishments including but not limited to doing taxes, reading modern poetry, tangoing with the elderly without their knowledge, and the dreaded pipe organ of DOOM. Oh how I loathed that repetition. "DOOM DOOM DOOM KARL Ra-ra- ra- ROVE." It would have been like a verbatim prediction of my future, if it wasn't completely wrong and misguided.

Speaking of wrong and misguided, this is about the time I first encountered Muhammed. He was getting high in the attic I no longer ever had, and I had the gallbladder to ask him why he bothered shaving. He responded in a trill of supersonic proportions, lacerating my almost perfectly disfigured face.

The next few years were uneventful as all epic wars deciding the fate of existence often are, though I did knit a nifty sweater in the interim. A very nifty sweater. It was rather colorful and had some beautiful patterns of sheep and raccoons and at least one machete, but I had to sell it to make bail. Now THAT was a funny story. If only I wasn't drunk...

Long story short, I'm addicted to orange jello. I need your help. Please send me a self addressed, stamped envelope full of tacks and silly putty to hurl at squirrels. Thank you.

And now, part of a poem I thought onto a screen so mean as to portray my play on words. Possession is an ambivalent present for one's adult birthday. Hooray.

The days have treaded down the path and now I delight under time's wrath;
I feel so old, but still I'm new, and I'm now certain I have no clue.
I peer into the murky deep, afraid to jump but still I leap;
A hop, a jump, a skip away, and soon I arrive at my last day.
A coffin decked in silken pearls of spider lace and cobweb curls,
Forgotten, lampooned, loathed, and worse: training wheels bedeck my hearse.
It totters to the cliff and then I'm thrown into the abyss I "yen."

You old stiff fool, with bumbling polls; you look at parts, I perceive wholes.
Wholes of lives not yet fulfilled, for fulfillment is all but killed.
Death becomes the dieing yet we all sneeze love as years we fret.
These meters, rhymes, and steady march dry joy from life and souls do parch.

Bouncing along, up, down, up, down, down, plummetting, falling, calling, calling "Help!"but no one hears my yelp in time to save the one who's lost the flock of dawns never to come from boring yawns. Yawning, tired, yet hungry still for piles of mundane holes to fill. Joy, yes, joy, oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy I do love joy, though it plays coy as I try to catch its fickle whims it plays with girls on torn dress hems
I shall not see.

The young laugh and boast, the middle coast, and the old only lament the host
Of folly this life never was, for folly implies fault because
One cannot be a fool and succeed and rule a modest tool
To hammer in the nails of fate and build a house of tarnished plate-
Mail the letters, hear the plea, answer the call from you to me,
Follow not the preferred path, taunt the Gods, enjoy the wrath
Of time that blindmen cannot see, nor deaf can't hear, nor dreamers be
Uncomfortable silences of madmen saner than their peers for years whose seers know
Me.

Say "Yes" my love, my hope, my fate, let's make-up on our final date.
Joy her name, footsie her game, I don't play around til married, yet I'm harried to be buried
In the Southern way of loathing play all live long, sing song dieing day.
Why taunt with nettles, burrs, and playful titterings of hems and hearse.

So I dance my merry dirge, I binge and purge on life in joys and strife of epic magnitude to paltry offerings I dare not throw into the air without a care on a dare of conscience deluded into thinking it does not exist. "Persist!" I scream for in this dream of things that seem to never beam light into the darkness of the end I merrily defend that never ceases
to amaze the craze of cycles.

18, 19, 23, how much larger can you be? 30, 40, 50 hence I straddle the chain-link fence.
60, 70, 85 clapping along I jive and fall into useless 90's, 99 is fine to be a vegetable of a man that never was because what is a man but a can of peas opened and thrown into a recycling bin reused and used again by cans and can nots who never know you have no clue of who or whom the "you" could ever was, is, will not be.

Stop. Breathe. A man, a plan, you don't understand my cries for guidance you can't give except to point out the directions with flashlights I provide you in a slight of hand. Find them, point them, use them until the batteries fall out, empty shells of hells I look and laugh at time's wrath
Full fury of a meek whimper.

Dance! Dance! I may can-could to Orpheus's wood
In groves of trees guiding but not directing.
I leave with "hooey", all I began with and shall end in a triumphant salute.

Musings...

After reading 1.5chapters in Grendel, I thought it necessary to post my anti-existentialist nihilist theory so I won't forget it again.

Basically, I exist. I know this to be true. As Descartes put it, "I think therefore I am." Regardless of the validity of anything else, I exist. The specifics of my existence are very likely entirely false, but the grand picture that I do exist is there, albeit fuzzy.

Now, existentialist nihilists (henceforth just "existentialists) believe existence is meaningless, stressing the individual's plight against an uncaring, futile world. But here's the thing that bugs me: if this is all there is, why do I remember myself? The way I'd imagine memory works is that if you forget something happened, it's as if it never did happen in the first place. However I'm well aware of my existence. That would imply some long term ability to remember, because if we did die and that is "it", we would never be able to realize our existence. It's hard to explain. I dunno, in a coma you often don't remember your previous life. It's like being "born again" in a secular sense. Yet your life gradually returns to your memory and you really did experience it, even though you can't remember it. Awareness is more powerful than a simple chemical reaction. If it wasn't, it surely wouldn't be so strong. Anyway, why am I confined to myself? Why do I only experience my own feelings? Either none of the rest exists, or there's something else out there.

Basically, I think existence must loop. There's an explosion, energy is hurled outward, eventually it becomes spread too thin, it reverts to a ball of energy, and explodes again. My life, somewhere infinitely down the line, must be repeated verbatim. And who better to experience it than myself? So perhaps our lives are just the same thing over and over we just can't remember our infinitely previous experiences. With the way probability works, it's rather feasible. Why does the equation of time have to be linear? It could be circular. It actually makes more sense than the way it is now because circles have no beginnings and ends. It solves both questions. The only problem is the origin of the circle, but perhaps it simply has always existed. It's not too farfetched. So there you are.

Shock and Awe

I should have seen the signs. Why was I so blind? They were everywhere. Inconsistencies that didn't make any sense. I could have asked, I could have done something! Something to stop it, something to prevent it... It was all so obvious, in retrospect. All the pieces fall into the puzzle once the answer's revealed. But what can be done now? It's done, over, gone. And I just watched it happen, oblivious to it all...

Kinda gripping, eh? Fortunately it was something wonderful that happened, and I'd like to thank yall for participating. But it does make one wonder. What if it had been something horrible? Undetected love, a suicide, a Columbine... I'm too oblivious for my own good! There's that nihilism, not caring enough to ask questions. Heh, it's rather humorous. Ah well.

Some signs I should have noticed:
1. Ellen takes command of Rachel's house and states we'll have a movie night seemingly on the fly. It's almost like it was planned in advance... But it was "forgotten about" and all was normal.
2. Rachel speaks of said night as if Ellen hadn't said anything, though it seems proposterous.
3. My grandfather doesn't do things Saturday night. It was all too convenient.
4. My mother doesn't mend. EVER. And yet, she up and decides to have me change shirts because the one I had on had a hole in it. Crazy moms...
5. My mother also tries to put make-up on my nose. It was insane. She seemed so intent on doing it, I didn't bother to ask why. She didn't succeed though...
6. Mother and Carrie went out but never said where they were going.
7. Rachel's car was pulled into the top of the driveway, making it so I could only park at the top.
8. All the lights were turned out, even though it was clear others were home.

I never asked about any of these things. Thus, it was a success. I certainly enjoyed it, it was beautifully done. The attention to detail, the planning ahead. They even told you not to bring presents since I do dislike them so... Besides a few comments by my father in drunken stupors and hitting the tree, I'd say that's the most surprised I can remember being. It was completely unexpected, but in a pleasant way.

Loaded Questions was entertaining, but I hope no one's feelings were hurt. Ellen had the unfortunate privilege of being the butt of a running joke, but I still think she's a great gal. Sarah's responses were certainly "interesting." I didn't realize calling people gay as an insult was still "in" but there you are. I did rather like her response to the question of what you'd change about high school: "Well, Zack has herpes. So..." I like dark humor as long as there's no real ill will behind it. With Sarah I can't really tell... At any rate, hopefully we can play it again without so many people sometime.

So thanks again everybody. Now I get to focus on how old I am. In a few more days, I can't rationalize all my mistakes as youthful indiscretions anymore. Now they're just regular discretions with a youthful flair. Hoo-rah.

Trashcan Dreams

(Quoted from an Elton John song; 5pts to the correct guesser!) Well, something rather disturbing happened today. I actually realistically considered going to UT (and not the Honors program), staying at home, and reverting to the social hermit stage I was before my Junior year. It wouldn't be too hard, I dare say, and there's only two real detriments to that plan. One is that I'd actually be living at home, with my sister and father either of which I could burst into a homicidal rage upon fueled by pent up rage so compact and dangerous it's been simmering for years. But surely I could repress more. I mean, I've gone three years with no attempts at the life of my dear sweet sister, why would I break the streak after... six....more........years? Yeah.... The second is that after all the progress I've made I'd end up just throwing it to the wind and regressing into the small ball of solitude I was before that oh so fateful Junior year.

The reason the thought had occurred to me is two-fold (yet again). One reason is that the thought of going to Maryville and actually being forced to be in close confines with other people I may or may not like for extended periods of time is a tad disturbing. I mean, what happens if I get there and they're all the type of people I loathe? (For those keeping track, those people are (in order of annoyance) sadistic, pervicacious, hypocritical, superficial, gossiping, missionary, born again Christians.) I just have nightmarish visions of hordes clones wandering about getting drunk and acting in that wretchedly stupid/sadistic way many boys do. Surely this would not be the case. Right? Right?!? Right.

At UT, I could avoid confrontation and interaction the entire time, outside of class. I could go home, not do homework, get on the computer, do homework, sleep, and return the next morning. No "talk", no "activities", no "other people." Essentially what I do now, except even now I see a few of you outside of class. I don't think I'd get involved in much of anything at UT. So, basically, it's a choice of shallow and easy vs. deeper and hard. I don't know... My main goal at college is to get out, and Maryville is one year shorter for Education than UT. But Maryville's fees (of which I would have little to none if I was to go there) keep quite a few people out. It's also only 1000 or so people strong, so that's a tad scary. I'm not much of a gambler...

It's ironic, though, that I'm becoming somewhat of a "selectively outgoing" person, and now I ponder reverting to a recluse. I don't like being cold, impassive, and quiet. It's rather boring. Monotones (unless they're needed, Ellen (who, by the way, did a great job after much coercing on our skit even if it didn't get many laughs)) are just not exciting. I want to be erratic, needlessly excited, and overly exuberant. When I feel like it. And gradually I am. I want to be a teacher whose class is like a relief/reprieve in a stressful day because I'm not serious, sorta like a Petko/Combs hybrid without the religion, seriousness, and difficulty. I've seen too many miserable teenagers, I want to make some of them happy. At the very least I'd like to be an understanding, approachable person. It's a factor that seems to be in favor of Maryville because I'd actually get to know more people and hopefully obtain a further understanding of them. Meh...

I guess it's about the only goal I have left. I'll never date unless something pretty monumentous happens to change my mentality. I've no more dreams and aspirations. I've discarded any semi-ambitious notions I may have had at one point. Writing, performing, changing the world, all have been pretty much turned into pipedreams. I don't really care about much except to make my life and those around me better and more interesting, and to certain extents I achieve it. I don't know how far successful I am, only so many people have blogs... Ah well. I guess it's a good enough goal, albeit a simple one. If only I had some form of ambition. Or confidence. But that's ok. Just gotta keep the mantra in mind. You ought to as well.

So...

Big day today. Now I finally know what a full day is like! I can't believe it...

Let's see... Mr. Ross is slowly moving up in my eyes, but I still don't trust him. He's... interesting. Has a sense of humor, but he also seems to be dangerously fickle, so one must tread lightly. So the subject of our parodies of the school officials came up today. Now I'm torn. On the one hand, I don't like personal insults unless I know the person can take it and knows I'm joking. On the other hand, how can we not do the "Donna Fieldon Dance Party?" I've a vested interest in Coach Lindsay as an evangelist preacher because I distinctly remember a certain school-led prayer being led around 9/11 that, if it was legal, it was barely. Still, they and any other spoofs we do (Mr. Rogers reading an economic report during the apocalypse or something), could be seen as quite insulting. Maybe I could do an accordion number, that would be entertaining and would show everyone I'm silly too... oooo Ellen and I can do a duet while I play the accordion and she sings... something. There's comedy in there, I swear! We could do a parody of Gallo's award, maybe a mafia racket... So many ideas. Perhaps I'll ask the faculty's pardon before we do them.

Next up... I had four things to say, what were they? Well, Coach Roberts is annoying me a bit. He asks these discussion questions, we answer them, but he then repeats the question as if our answers weren't good enough/the ones he wanted. Ah well.

Card-board Club went well today, thanks to all who came. Stratego's Tuesday, hopefully bridge will be Thursday if special guest Andrew Campbell can show up. 14 people for the second day's a great number. I think it went pretty well; even Ben (the errant freshman who wandered in) behaved relatively well. I felt bad about Mr. Petko having to stay so often, but he said he probably would do it anyway and seemed pretty receptive to the entire idea. I guess in some ways he's what I want to become, minus the religion and seriousness.

There's the subject, seriousness. Something else I remembered in Ross's class is that it's remarkably easy to be negative and deride everything. I mean, any subject at all can be made insignificant and foolish. That's why there's a thin line between that sort of nihilism and romanticism. On the one hand, if things are taken seriously more might be accomplished, but often it's not entertaining and it makes people seem foolish. But if everything's a joke, well, it seems almost demeaning to life itself. I dunno. I need to remember to lighten up, remain positive, be facetious, but not let the inherent negativity of comedy get to me. I think that's the way I want to be. I'd like to be a true romantic, but I can't handle it. I get too upset, too virulent and it just gets ridiculous and ugly. But I have to remember not to deride everything and try to keep up good spirits. My mantra should be "Be happy, do happy, make happy." If only I was a warm, caring person... Ah well. I'll probably still revert to a pithy state eventually, but hopefully I can pull out. In other words, don't expect much progress here. You people ought to get blogs yourselves. I'm sure you've wonderful insights and opinions that could be of use to someone. Heh, if ya get bored sometime.

Alright, enough rambling. Tis Calculus time!

If only...

It'd be great if I could have been born a late 19th, early 20th century composer. Those guys kick rear. Especially Eastern European. Ah, dreams...

Constantly Forgotten Note to Self:

It's easier to be negative than positive. Don't fall in the trap!

Holdem

To call, or not to call- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to fold
To the great uncertainties of outrageous fortune
Or to check the bluff of fools
And by opposing end them. To play, to win-
No more- and by win to say we end
The poverty, and the thousand debts
That gamblers are heir to. 'Tis a windfall
Devoutly to be wished. To play, to call-
To call- perchance to win: ay, there's the flop,
For in that deal what cards may come
When we have shuffled out this fatal hand,
We must give pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of such hopeful bets.
For who would bear the flop, turn, and river,
Th' dealers wrongs, the proud men's arrogance,
The pangs of cards useful for naught,
When he himself might the pot gain
With just a steady face? To bet, to win,
To gloat. Ah, tis a goal worthy of kings.

Auspicious Start

Well, Cardboard Club didn't go too badly. We had 9 people all told, although Mr. Petko didn't play and "Ben" the freshman who randomly showed up was a bit of, how shall we say, "social outcast." It's sadly reassuring that I don't really fit into that group anymore. Odd, actually talking to people in a less than perpetually annoying manner leads to their continual interaction with you. Not that it's superfluous or even relatively much at all, but considering my past, any contact, however minimal, outside of school can be equated to "above social outcast." Hoo-rah.

Anyway, it wasn't very ordered, but I think people had fun and that's what's important. Thursday (which we have the ok for) will be Clue, so if you have it please bring it. Hopefully it won't wear on Mr. P's nerves, but it seemed he didn't mind. Good, good. Now for the posters...

Finally, Mr. Ross seems to find it quite amusing to annoy me. Not on purpose and not even directed at me, but his admissions to dishonesty and lack of any real positive feelings seems to indicate deadness insideness. Maybe. I don't like deception... Or maybe I just don't like English majors. Their double standards (This is new and original, it must be good! This is useless emotion, I must deride it secretly for I cannot sympathize with the folly of man.), their elitism (if you can't understand that the couch is symbolic of society and the loose change is the eccentric, non-conformist valuable but lost in obscurity, then you are a complete moron), and thier lack-of-funness (they all seem so... prim and proper; differing senses of humor I suppose). That's not to say I dislike them all, nor are people of other areas of study particularly better, but English people tend to go towards the above noted folly. I dunno, maybe I'm like a Bill O'Reilly of subjects, saying I'm independent and like Math and English the same while secretly always leaning towards Math. Or maybe it's just a confidence thing since in Math you know if you can do it or not, whereas in English every essay is up in the air until you get your grade. Sour grapes ya know heh.

So my goal now is to show that it is possible to write a piece of literature that has meaningful symbolism with real, viable issues and themes that can switch between humorous and serious all the while being entertaining. Catch-22 in reverse with a bit of Agee and "Modest Proposal" thrown in. Quite a task, maybe I'll pull it off. Maybe. And this from a person who votes Math more than he'd theoretically like to. Heh, Mrs. Jackson will probably pull a Mr. Ross and say "Yes, it's nice. Publish it." "What did you like?" "All of it." "Any criticism." "You were a tad vague in places and rambled a bit." "Anywhere particular?" "No." "Great!" Cruisin' for a bruisin'.

Today's Word

Pervicacious. I loathe it and sadism. Strange, how I just found out its meaning and it fits exactly what I was looking for. Ah well. I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite in loathing it, but such is the way of man.

A Trick from Bonnie

(Heh, if bonnie copies my conversations, I'll do the same thing :). Props to Kelly for the prompt.)

violinest88: can YOU tell me how to get to sesame street?
IndubitablyDyl: Take a left at Weigel's, drive down Bob Dole Blvd
IndubitablyDyl: Now, you're gonna turn right, but you'll think you want to go straight
IndubitablyDyl: DON'T GO STRAIGHT!
IndubitablyDyl: Heaven help ya if you go straight
IndubitablyDyl: So you're gonna turn left
IndubitablyDyl: I mean right
IndubitablyDyl: And after that, there's a U-turn
IndubitablyDyl: Now, you only want to make it an L turn
IndubitablyDyl: Because there's a barely discernible road halfway through
IndubitablyDyl: It's tight, you'll be going 50mph, but you can make it with a bit of grease and luck
IndubitablyDyl: So then you'll drive for, oh say, 3days and find a magical wishing well
IndubitablyDyl: Jump in the well.
IndubitablyDyl: Whatever you do, though, don't drink the water!
IndubitablyDyl: So you're in the well, now you wait for it to rain
IndubitablyDyl: It'll rain, you'll drown, but it's a magic well
violinest88: hahahahaha, the song was just stuck in my head, but thank you for this, i'll make sure to use it when i'm driving to sesame street.
IndubitablyDyl: So your body will get thrown about the underground channels until you turn up in the sewer
violinest88: ...a magical sewer??
IndubitablyDyl: No.
IndubitablyDyl: A dirty, needle ridden sewer
violinest88: that''s too bad.
violinest88: eww icky.
IndubitablyDyl: So you'll end up in a putrid filth hole, or "The City Capital"
IndubitablyDyl: Eventually scavengers will take your clothes and jewelry
IndubitablyDyl: finally, your entire body will be taken for "science"
IndubitablyDyl: After they desecrate it at the local university and post the pictures on their website
IndubitablyDyl: You'll get plopped in the trash
IndubitablyDyl: BAM
IndubitablyDyl: You're with Oscar.
violinest88: oh well that's exciting
IndubitablyDyl: Sesame Street is just in the rich part of Sin City.

First Day

If I don't have a doctor's appointment, the first day will be this Tuesday 3:30-5 in Mr. P's room #98. We'll be playing Gin Rummy since it's relatively easy to learn and assemble, and we won't have use of the entire times because I've got to do openning instructions etc.

Requirements:
Roll Sheet (Name, Grade, Favorite Game, abbreviations of days that work the best for you, in case we extend, would you be interested in game tournaments for spades/bridge etc.?)

10 packs of cards (Bring a few if you have any; better to have more than not enough)

Placemats if you don't like sitting on the ground

Set of Rules for the club and game

Tentative schedule for the next weeks; maybe an intro letter

Just Sayin'

Joe: So... I heard a rumor that you've come into some money? I'm in a bit of a tight spot myself...
Me: Well, I heard a rumor I kill people.
Joe: ... I've not heard that.
Me: I know. There's no basis for it. Yet.
Joe: Look, a giraffe riding a lawnmower! *runs away*
Me: Watch out for the land...mines. Well, rumors always have some kernel of truth.

It's all a bunch of Hooey.

You know, I've been thinking about my SOSE project (the quasi-novel) quite a bit, and if you go to my "Novel Ideas" post, you'll find quite a few spoilers I continually update so I don't forget them. The strangest part is, I had some preliminary ideas that were just a jumble, not interrconnected really, but I'd make them minorly so. Then I had an idea today and all of a sudden, I've got at three three themes and some pretty nice symbolism going on. There are some good ethical questions, some philosophy, conflicting messages, the works.

Unfortunately, it brings up three issues: One, can I pull it off? I think it's got some good, quality ideas. I'm familiar with the emotional parts (misanthropy, despair, idle curiosity, jealousy), and some arguments behind the philosophy and ethical sides. If my writing "skills" are up to the challenge, it might actually turn out pretty good. But, the second issue is that if I can't pull it off, the idea's largely destroyed. Perhaps if I saved it a few years and came back it might be better. Or perhaps I'd have lost interest by then. I don't know. So the final issue arises, what do I want out of this? To even dream of "publication" is pretentious and ludicrous in and of itself. So do I write it, turn it in, burn it out of self-loathing, and think "Yeah, I wrote a novel. It was terrible. That's why I've lost all ambition for anything better than contentment. Spiffy, eh?" Sounds good to me...

Vague Generalities just won't cut the thing.

Heh, you want a specific rant instead of the same general, meaningless complaints? You got it!

Well, today in English apparently Mr. Ross didn't want to do anything very productive. Not that I blame him, but his choice of an "alternative" wasn't exactly what I'd call "pleasant." First off, the activity was rather flawed because I felt like he focused too much on individuals (me) and not enough on everyone else. Now, I'm not bitter about the "spotlight." It's fine, I can handle it (Ellen smiling really helped, though; I was in panic mode). I suppose he called on me first because he had mistaken me for some acting person. I didn't know there were that many emaciated wretches out there; someone ought to feed them more. Anywho, first question was "What are you passionate about?" Well, being a Romantic-Nihilist, the only thing that comes out of the tolerable mean is a way to keep the average alive. When it fluctates in either way, I just can't function properly. Of course, that wasn't good enough for Mr. Ross. Apparently it's a part of my "personality." One of the benefits to such extensive self-introspection is that I'm rather familiar with my ways and manners. And Nirvana help me if I try to make my paltry existence tolerable instead of constantly maneuvering between opposite sides that somehow both manage to convince me I was as well kill myself. The thought occurs entirely too many times, but it passes much more frequently than it used to. Progress. The sort of progress that apparently shouldn't exist because my fickle emotions and philosophies are a part of my nature. No, my wayward preferences are due to the whole "opposite spectrum philosophies" thing, and, of course, the omnipresent fact that I simply don't care. When you don't care about so many things to a significant extent, you find that changing your mind about it really isn't that hard. Bleh.

Then he asks me what are my "hobbies." "Dyl old man," I think to myself, "your only hobby is self-denial and stress. That's not acceptable. You don't really spend much time doing anything that can be labelled with something like a 'name' or 'purpose.' I know, I'll say 'writing'!" Of course, then it occurs to me that I'm ashamed to call myself a writer because in some way it debases the entire profession. Anyway, I really had nothing else to say, so that was it. I immediately felt bad. Poor me. He asks me if I read. Of course I don't read! At my stage it's blatant escapism, and I don't want to steal ideas. For some reason, me not reading other people means I can't plagarize. That's one character for my novel-ish thing: the writer who never reads. You can imagine the parodies that ensue.

He then asks me what I dislike. So, of course, I say "sadism." It defiles both parties, especially physical torment, and you can't prevent it. It's a horrible but all too frequent motivator. But that's not good enough. It sounds too "idealistic." What does he want, "Republicans", "hippies", "Jews"? It's like he held me in contempt for not being truthful, even though I was being honest. What else could I do? It's not possible to despise ideas and behaviors instead of behav...yees?

Meh, I don't really care. It just annoys me when people have presumptive attitudes. I'll take constructive criticism, (it'd be nice if you people would try it sometime), but when you say it with the idea that you are right and no one else can be...

Other classes, beginning to become less frightening. In calculus my brain wouldn't work for the life of me. Better study I guess.

But... it's not entirely grim. We'll see. Goodnight!

"All the lonely people"

I've mentioned it before, but have you ever scanned the archives of someone's journal? It tells a veritable story itself. It's fragmented and you only get snippets of continuing "storylines" here and there, but that sort of adds to the charm. There's also a feeling of "forbidden fruit" to reading a journal uninvited. I suppose, in many ways, it's perverse. But most of the time, if you want privacy it's easily attainable. So my rationale is "it's asking to be read." It's an interesting experience, following the mental paths of others. You gain more insight into their character, their true thoughts and feelings. It often seems to me that I don't know other people too well; their likes, dislikes, character, philosophies etc. Yet, if you've followed their journal, you feel better connected. Especially if they go past the mundane. Once there is something considered "personal", the bond truly begins. What you did today isn't all that worthy of a journal. What you thought and felt, though, that's something. Real emotion is the goal. And when outsiders view that emotion, your character becomes more defined. In a way, it's like mind-reading. Except controlled.

When you really see other people, not their shells with faces slapped on coming out the door (two references to the song, 10 nihilist points for the one who gets it right first), you realize how similiar your feelings are. How many times has suicide occurred to the people you know? How close did their insecurity and depression bring them all the way to the brink? Aren't they as lonely and wayward as yourself? The answer is quite surprising. Sometimes it can give you comfort, to see that you aren't alone. Sometimes that very fact is even more depressing. I think it's evidence that we should get to know each other more. Perhaps not to be afraid of our peers and really see who they are in all their dynamic complexity. It's hard, at first, to let down your shields and expose your soul to the prying, unseen, greedy eyes of your peers. But after awhile, it sort of instills a better feeling of bravery. It's helped me, this journal, to become more confident. I can actually go crazy, know everyone thinks I'm a fool, and think "I may be, but at least I'm not bored or boring." And, for me, I like things to be spiced up. For instance, the other Dillan was alone during the "icebreakers" activity today, and I went up and talked to him. He didn't strike me as the brightest toupee in the wig bin, but he wasn't too bad a guy. People are people. Try to love em all, and really mean it. Maybe I'll learn how too.

Well, first day of school. Even after 13 times, I'm still scared of new classes with new people. Maybe it's the fear of being shown for the sciolist, the pretentious charalatan that I might be. I dunno, I hope I don't come across as supercilious or elitist. I certainly don't feel it. English just sort of brings out the inner egotist in you, as Mr. Ross rather demonstrated (his assessment, not mine). It's sort of odd, add "egotist/low self-esteem" to the list of my personal paradox I suppose. It would appear I can only be one of the other. Maybe I need work on it. If I can average Nihilism and Romanticism, surely that can't be too bad.

Heh, speaking of which, it was rather amusing today when Mr. Ross made a comment about the "dark" nature of the works we'd read. Believe it or not, the thought hadn't occurred to me. I've gone into the depths of nihilism and dark romanticism myself, so maybe everything seems at least a bit light by comparison. Despite my tenuous hold on "good" mental health, I feel as if there are few concepts that could really shock me. What could be worse than "everything is meaningless" and "everything is dark, gloomy, and hopeless?" Indeed, nihilism is very dangerous, but only when it's a result of determinism. Otherwise, it's not too bad. At least, it's easily defeated in the epic war of the philosophies.

Heh, I suppose we'll find out, won't we? Farewell!

Hiding in the Blood...

Heh, I've mentioned this before, but I have a great liking for religious music. None of that "popular Christian rock" junk. But the folk songs, or at least the music the more ... "aged" tend to sing. It's almost perverse, coming from one with the beliefs I hold, but they're just nice tunes. I guess I like the hope, joy, and generally uplifting themes. We won't go into criticism, we've all this semester in English for that.

Speaking of English, I'm gathering up ideas for my SOSE project. I figure it'll be a chain of short stories, related by insiginificant connecting events. Should be interesting, if I get motivated.

Well, all my books are done. One journal entry, three paragraphs of my essay, and I'm done! Hopefully this semester won't be too difficult. Ideally I'll get the board game club roarin' and rippin' up a quiet, serene storm. It will just depend on schedules. Hopefully I can extend to two days if I've interest. We'll have to see.

Right Under my Unsmelling Nose...

Well, it finally occurred to me that I can be a successful failure. It has quite a bit of tragic Romantic charm, but not only that, I can spite tragedy and actually be happy all the while being an utter failure. It'll be splendid.

So, I'm 336/940 pages through Karamazov. I read about 250pages yesterday and I need to get through 300 pages today to stay "on schedule." I dunno if I'll be able to do it, we'll just have to cross our fingers. I'd assume you're all in similiar straits, perhaps to a lesser extent than my own. Ah well. All this anti-Christian rhetoric really frustrates me. I'm not looking forward to the debating that may or may not occur. With God being such a popular theme in these books, hopefully people will know to keep an open mind. Heh, sure. Good luck in your reading, farewell!

Power

Today, in lieu of reading my much needed, but rather tedious summer reading, I watched two powerful movies about power figures. The first was the great "Citizen Kane", often lauded as the best movie made. The other was "The Lion in Winter." The former was a story of a man's life, his ups and downs, triumphs and tragedies, loves and losses set in the early 20th century. The latter was about a few days spent by King Henry II over Christmas during which his three sons fought for the right to be his successor. The interesting thing about both movies is that the main characters were, more often than not, miserable. Kane was a sort of "materialist" but, ironically, it was not for riches but approval that he lusted after. Henry II deals with his ever increasing age and the realization that none of his heirs is worthy, all the while plotting, scheming, and enduring barbs by the wife he had forsaken and locked away for years. The irony is that his three sons intensely desire to be King, when it's obvious it's more of a burden than a boon.

Now, this leads to a few interesting points. One is that to be called truly great, something must be powerful, moving, and there has to be conflict of dramatic proportions. Another is that even the great achievers, men looked up to, written in the history books, remembered for accomplishments the masses could never dream of suffered the entire time. Of course, both are fiction, both were manipulated stories to make the viewer intrigued and draw them inside the plot, and both cannot be taken as accurate representations of reality. Still, there's a great deal of truth to their points; "story truth", I suppose O'Brien would call it. Look at Mark Twain. A great man, a pioneer in American satire and literature, took on all institutions and went back for more. But was he ever content? Was he ever happy? Did that happiness last? If his last works are any indication, he possessed a rather bleak mindset. He had little hope for the present, future, or past. This is at once a lesson in the "benefits" of cynicism and the futility of perceived success.

(Cont. Sunday since I was kicked off on Saturday night)

So now I arrive at the same impasse I'm constantly plagued with. It would appear that I will be presented with three options: I can kill any irrational dreams I have and essentially be through with life, physically living but mentally dead, resting in a blissful but mundane peace of idle thoughts and resignation until I'm finally whisked away from this temporal existence; I can follow my laughable fool's errand, struggling all the while whether I be doomed to failure or some perverse definition of "success", living to the greatest extent I would theoretically allow myself but in the process suffering defeat after defeat in a long, heartbreaking stream; or I could skip the pleasantries and forgo this charade of experiences. The first is quite appealing as peace and happiness could be considered the one true measure of success, the second has a Romantic charm and is considered the "acceptable" way of attempting to live one's life in the mutual service to self and mankind, and the third is considered repugnant and despicable.

For those who are a tad lost, and I would hope it's all of you, the first choice is simply being content with teaching at a high school or lower tier college where there's little pressure, and I can essentially do whatever I want in a quasi-carefree environment. I'm fairly certain I could obtain peace and some measure of contentment if not even happiness there. The second would be to teach, but to also struggle, most likely in vain, to write something of some measure of entertainment and value to someone. In this route, I would constantly be under pressure to try to improve upon a qualitative skill with millions of competitors and a lottery's chance of becoming "published." My inferiority would constantly be shoved in my face by others or myself and there is a distinct possibility that I would never be able to amount to anything but a perpetual failure. The third is an option I constantly find myself having to reject, for it is the refuge of a tormented soul. It is an option that will fulfill itself eventually regardless of my path, and yet I'm loathe to even consider it for the stigma, pain, and futility of the action itself.

Given those choices, it would seem a rather simple decision to make. The first option practically guarantees a measure of contentment and peace which one of my stressful and self-conscious disposition would greatly value and benefit from. Yet, it would practically constitute spiritual suicide for I would have given up pushing myself and trying to accomplish. I would go through the motions of life with the sole purpose of existing for lack of a viable alternative until it would be acceptable to "shove off this mortal coil." If I killed my spirit, why not take my soul with it? But that too is unconscionable, for even though the pain and suffering would be futile and illogical, it would still exist and the ripple effect would be devastating. The actual act takes an amount of confidence and willpower I doubt I possess, at any rate, but the option constantly resurfaces.

Yet, there are three choices. Why even entertain the second if it is essentially certain to be agony? No one wants to sacrifice their mental health in a failure of no benefit to any entity. But why does anyone try to achieve anything? Deep down, we all know that all accomplishment will be eroded by the sands of time until we cease to exist. I feel the desire to create. I want to effect people the way fiction effects me, for it would seem that only by escaping can I transcend apathy and actually experience some level of meaningful emotion. I want to entertain, to better, to excel in a field of uncertainty so I can say I accomplished something of merit. Something that wasn't certain, that had a visible impact, and that I could, dare I say it, be proud of. A testament to my efforts, an active choice I made, and a goal, nay a dream, I fulfilled. But the actual accomplishment is of little consequence. No, I want to change people. I want to demonstrate diverse ways of looking at life. I want to show how every soul has an impact and meaning, how we have so many flaws we can cure but don't even realize we're inflicted of. But in the process, I would have created an engaging, moving, resonating work of art. Something powerful.

Yet, I still maintain that happiness is the only accurate measure of success. Would I not be a hypocrite if I gave up a chance at such an acme to pursue an uncertain dream, rolling loaded dice? How can I say to pursue happiness when I'm not even doing it myself? As you may have noticed, Nihilism has only corrupted part of me. The other, as demonstrated above, really does care. Romanticism, I suppose you could call it. Thus the problem: I don't care enough to give life meaning, but I do care enough to want to.

It is quite easy to label this is as teenage melodrama. A romanticized struggle over exaggerated issues with deluded results. There is no epic battle here. I can easily choose choice two and not suffer anything, for I would be prepared. Yet, if one's future is degraded to melodrama, what aspect of life isn't melodramatic? What is the point of pursuing a goal if you don't really care if you succeed? If I don't care about this decision, should I care about anything? No, life is as dramatic as you wish it. The question is, do you want to sleep, live, or die? At the moment, I'd rather not die. So I can live or sleep. Perhaps I could pursue option two and not care if I advanced or not, just enjoy the process. But I rather doubt I'd be able to accomplish much if I didn't care about it. I've got time to decide. I just can't wait forever.

Short Breakdown

Well, band camp is still hot. We're talkin' hot, hot, hot (do-dooo). Humid, if you will, but regardless it's rather unpleasant. It is rather nice to get to see these people more; other than my car getting keyed things have gone well (I'll pay for any information relating to a reason that's based, rooted, and thrives in truth at the suggestion of Caitlin. If there's anyone who knows about the recesses of the criminal/deviant mind, it's her.) My summer reading is quite behind, and Mrs. Jackson felt it imperative I go home at once and get cracking (not her words). Suffice it to say I haven't picked the book up. I'm a binger when it comes to work and food. I can't wait!

I tried to find Mr. Petko about the Gaming Club, but he must have already left. How are Tuesdays and Thursdays? I'd really appreciate some sort of commitment or reassurance that I won't be playing solitaire by my lonesome. You know what to do. See most of ya... uh... tonight, and for the rest, enjoy your illgotten freedom, jerks! Hehe, farewell!

Atrabilious but not lugubrious

The End.

(A line from Cheers; an idea for later.)

Lean on Me because I'm got crutches.

Heh, I think the title about sums it up. As I mentioned yesterday, I don't feel close to many people because I've little that's sacred that I entrust to an elite few who I trust and who are sort of initiated into a "Upper Dylan Circle." My "secrets" are pretty much all in plain view, right here, advertised on my AIM profile, open to any casual glance or intense scrutiny that you may care to toss my way. So I guess this is my "crutch." It's sort of an interesting little phenomena, this blog. I'm nearing a year (in two months) which really is an accomplishment for me because as you may have noticed, it's hard for me to stick with these things.

I suppose its enduring quality is related to its myriad of uses. It's a good place to vent, as anyone who has a journal/has read a few can see. Little positive feelings are worked out because generally it's advisable to leave them alone and let them be. You've no reason to talk about them, they don't need fixing. You feel good, everything's peachy. It's the negativity that needs to be ejected or at least lamented, and that's what happens. So, unfortunately, that's most of what you read. The bad. It sort of presents an unbalanced view of my psyche. But there you are.

Another benefit is that I can look back and notice changes or past frames of thought. I do it so often, writing it all down isn't such a bad idea. It's rather interesting, to go back and look so closely at yourself about a year ago. Oftentimes you think "How could I have been so silly?" or frivilous or vain or prideful or whathaveyou. But I can do that just by looking at yesterday hehe. It's sort of a log of your life, or in my case my mental states, that you can learn from.

But you also learn things while writing. Most of the time after I've written things, I go over it in my mind, and suddenly I see all these flaws. False rationale, contradictions, whatever that violate what I had thought was true a few moments ago. Part of that is I like absolutes when it comes to these things, but unfortunately one cannot place labels on a changing, complex personality and expect them to be the rule, not just the theme. It's the same for every person, we're not robots with programs and set limitations, but it bothers me nonetheless. Of course, I'm also quite malleable (occasionally verging on manic-depressive), so I can change to fit whatever contradictions I imagine up. I need to be more ignorantly stubborn. Too bad I loathe obstinacy.

Basically, this thing is a crutch. Instead of picking a few people to moan about my troubles, I use this medium. On the one hand, it reaches more than one person, but the reader also has the discretion of what they want to read. So I don't bother you unless you bring it on yourself, and you give me at the very least an illusion that I'm being heard and thought about.

Speaking of the readers, this new site-counter thing is quite interesting. I can actually see how many visit and how often every day. I can't see the exact people, but sometimes I can make educated guesses (depending on who's on AIM, or, for instance, David uses Firefox so I know when he's looked; if I knew who used Windows ME and Windows 98 instead of just XP I might get a better idea. It's amazing what technology can do nowadays). It sort of appeases me instead of getting upset when you don't post. After I get another vote on the poll, I'll make a new one. So you've got a mission. Hopefully you won't drop the ball like last time! Ta-ta!

Note to Self

Remind me to write something when I'm not being quasi-introspective. You might end up with something entertaining!