Today on the way home from eating I had one of my first real conversations with my mother. It's rather odd; I've lived with her my entire 18 years, I've never really been intimidated by her and there are qualities within her and her father that I greatly admire and would love to emulate. But never have I asked in depth about some of her personal life. So tonight as we were coming home, I asked her. Mainly times and dates to try to get a feel for things. For instance, my grandmother met my grandfather when she was 19 and he was 25 in the 1940s. They went on only a few dates before they were married (my grandfather was in the Merchant Marines so he had to travel a lot). She was organized, worried about money, and a tad stern. He was amiable, threw money away like trash (he still does, as anyone who has seen my room may notice), and quite easy-going. Yet they remained married until she died in the late 70s. My mother met my father when she came back to our beloved K-town because her mother was ill. They dated for half a year before moving in together. A year after that they were married.
Here's where that whole "hindsight is 20/20" thing comes in. Apparently, my father was quite the Romantic. He sent her two dozen roses the first week they were dating. He wrote her love notes, poems, read poems, and was generally one of "those" fellows (somewhat to my chagrin). She was quite overwhelmed. The strangest thing of all was that he was quite the partier in his day (I just can't imagine it now. He seems to hardly ever do anything like that nowadays). He already had a bit of an alcohol problem, a factor that to this day causes some problems and is possibly the biggest contributing factor to my Puritanism (through things he's done and said, most not fit for the mixed company that views this crazy little journal).
Then my mother had some insight into marriage. Money seemed to be a big source of conflict. It would seem in many relationships that one person is a spender and one a saver. For instance, my grandmother was thrifty, my grandfather could care less. My mother doesn't worry about it too much, and at times my father either seems obsessed with not spending or the exact same way. Also, child rearing would appear to be where you really learn about a person, especially their upbringing. Attention is focused on the child and parents can have quite different views on how the process should go. My father is pervicacious in much of the area, my mother devoted but passive, so he had quite an effect on the way I'd treat my children. I think. Much can change in a few years, heck even a few days about a person so who knows?
I know it's not that interesting to you (unless you're into psychology in which case you're probably alerting the FBI to stop me from slowly poisoning my father with arsenic and cloning a younger version of my mother, you sick Freudos you...), but to me it provides a good perspective on their actions and backgrounds. So here it is, just for my records. I wonder if I'll be the same in 30 years. I know I won't. But I'd like to maintain my humor, my compassion (hopefully more defined and overt by that time), and my willingness to listen. If I can keep those three things, I'll be pretty well off. It also makes me wonder if I'll get married. It doesn't seem so far out there, now that I'm not so afraid of falling victim to my parents' fate. I know a bit more of what to look for and what to prevent. Ah, the future. So close, yet so far. And as soon as it's here, it's flung into the past. Heh, I wonder if my kids, if I even have kids, will read this. It's almost surreal... If you do, sorry about the poetry. Your mom probably has a lot more, unless I've convinced her to burn them yet. Oh, yeah, I also know what you did last Thursday. I'll forgive you, but please don't do it again. I can only pay bail so many times. Love ya!
Wednesday, September 29
Monday, September 27
To God
Dear God (or Fate, or Vishnu, or The Holy Whateverinator),
I'd like to say thanks. I ask, and boy do you deliver! Sure, the package isn't appropriate nor is the time, place, or price of postage, but that's all a technicality to you, isn't it? I mean really. Who writes this stuff? I could churn out a better soap opera in a coma with half my head missing. The good half too! In the future, I'd like you to leave me out of afterschool specials, dramas, and generally anything of a negative consistency altogether. It's comedies or bust from here on out Mister! I mean, you're not even paying me for syndication, much less the original role. It's rude and bad business. You Sir, are an A-Grade JERK! J-E-R-Q-W! JERK! And it's that I'm bitter. I'm actually feeling rather better. I'm just a tad tee-ed that you saw fit to fill my Senior year with irony instead of jolly, good, intoxicated fun like everyone else. Except Ellen, she only gets college applications. But everybody else gets better! Alright, I know, I know, I've got it good. I ought to be thankful I have it this good. It could be worse to a much larger degree than I can imagine. But I can still complain, can't I? Yes, I can. For I am and I have yet to be smitten. So, to sum things up, when I ask for something either deliver it specifically to my expectations or don't at all. And if you do, let me get some compensation. $$$, fame, power, influence, the betterment of all mankind even. Something. Thank you for your time.
-Dylan
(Ok, I was tired of being serious and needed some irreverence at the expense of Your Lord and Creator. Always keep sight of the humor throughout the drama. Even if there's none to be seen.)
I'd like to say thanks. I ask, and boy do you deliver! Sure, the package isn't appropriate nor is the time, place, or price of postage, but that's all a technicality to you, isn't it? I mean really. Who writes this stuff? I could churn out a better soap opera in a coma with half my head missing. The good half too! In the future, I'd like you to leave me out of afterschool specials, dramas, and generally anything of a negative consistency altogether. It's comedies or bust from here on out Mister! I mean, you're not even paying me for syndication, much less the original role. It's rude and bad business. You Sir, are an A-Grade JERK! J-E-R-Q-W! JERK! And it's that I'm bitter. I'm actually feeling rather better. I'm just a tad tee-ed that you saw fit to fill my Senior year with irony instead of jolly, good, intoxicated fun like everyone else. Except Ellen, she only gets college applications. But everybody else gets better! Alright, I know, I know, I've got it good. I ought to be thankful I have it this good. It could be worse to a much larger degree than I can imagine. But I can still complain, can't I? Yes, I can. For I am and I have yet to be smitten. So, to sum things up, when I ask for something either deliver it specifically to my expectations or don't at all. And if you do, let me get some compensation. $$$, fame, power, influence, the betterment of all mankind even. Something. Thank you for your time.
-Dylan
(Ok, I was tired of being serious and needed some irreverence at the expense of Your Lord and Creator. Always keep sight of the humor throughout the drama. Even if there's none to be seen.)
Chronic Bouts of Insanity
I broke the cardinal rule to the "Guidelines for Maintaining Dylan's Continued Existence": I thought. Nights like last night are the sort you look back at last night and laugh a cold, mirthless, bitter laugh simply because it's the only suitable emotion. Zero = Zero is the best I can come up with. It's true, and yet zero doesn't exist. It's a redundant fact, accomplishing nothing, and therefore stating that no real answer exists. I actually looked at the foundations to my tenuous hold on reality and found them lacking. So I tried to rebuild and once again I destroyed any semblance of “truth” I could find. There is no right answer, only varying degrees of wrong ones. If there is a clear, right answer then there never was a question in the first place. Such is the nature of mankind’s philosophical predicaments.
It essentially comes down to a matter of complexity. All issues can be made simple, cut and dry with easy answers. But that in itself is a deception for nothing is really that simple. Thus you can weave immense webs of complexity, find the contradictions, the half-truths, the lurking lies that hide in the shadows of your mind. You might actually get a minute degree closer to the answer. But in the end you get caught, and that dreaded specter of reality and fantasy creeps closer to ensnare you in its midnight silk, trapping you forever in an introverted sleep.
What’s to be done? Stop thinking? I’ve tried it, and it works to some degree. But I have to live by something. Is happiness really the end goal? I don’t know. I have a path I’ve chosen. Perhaps I’ll be enticed or forced to another, perhaps not. My only wish is that I can help you. Any of you. And now I have inspiration for a poem, so let’s see if that works out better than the rest of my pitiful little existence. Here’s hoping!
It essentially comes down to a matter of complexity. All issues can be made simple, cut and dry with easy answers. But that in itself is a deception for nothing is really that simple. Thus you can weave immense webs of complexity, find the contradictions, the half-truths, the lurking lies that hide in the shadows of your mind. You might actually get a minute degree closer to the answer. But in the end you get caught, and that dreaded specter of reality and fantasy creeps closer to ensnare you in its midnight silk, trapping you forever in an introverted sleep.
What’s to be done? Stop thinking? I’ve tried it, and it works to some degree. But I have to live by something. Is happiness really the end goal? I don’t know. I have a path I’ve chosen. Perhaps I’ll be enticed or forced to another, perhaps not. My only wish is that I can help you. Any of you. And now I have inspiration for a poem, so let’s see if that works out better than the rest of my pitiful little existence. Here’s hoping!
Forgive Me
Forgive my sins, my beloved and cherished, forgive my mistakes, my fatal thought.
Forgive my sins, my muse and jubilation, forgive my slights, and hints not caught.
Forgive me please, I never mean it, I never mean to pain or harm.
Forgive me, for I really want to aid you and lend a hand or ear or arm.
Forgive my sins for I’m so sorry every time I might hurt you, I didn’t mean it, didn’t want it, and didn’t mean to be untrue.
Forgive my sins, my dear and darling, forgive me for my faults and flaws.
Forgive my sins, my friend and family, forgive me for the broken laws.
Forgive my trespasses, forgive my comments, forgive my errant harmful quips.
Forgive the lies, forgive the rends, forgive my careless, callous rips.
Forgive my sins for I don’t realize til the time is much too late, that I might have saved the story if I had but challenged Fate.
I never meant to hurt you, so forgive my blasted sin.
I never wish to cause you pain, but I’m not perfect like all men.
I never intended for this wretched action, but I forgot the Golden Rule.
I never thought to change my path, and for that I am a fool.
I never will remember to stop or change or bend.
I never like to harm you; deep down I want to mend.
I never wish to hurt you, believe me for it’s true.
I never want to harm you, for the truth is I love you.
Forgive my sins, my muse and jubilation, forgive my slights, and hints not caught.
Forgive me please, I never mean it, I never mean to pain or harm.
Forgive me, for I really want to aid you and lend a hand or ear or arm.
Forgive my sins for I’m so sorry every time I might hurt you, I didn’t mean it, didn’t want it, and didn’t mean to be untrue.
Forgive my sins, my dear and darling, forgive me for my faults and flaws.
Forgive my sins, my friend and family, forgive me for the broken laws.
Forgive my trespasses, forgive my comments, forgive my errant harmful quips.
Forgive the lies, forgive the rends, forgive my careless, callous rips.
Forgive my sins for I don’t realize til the time is much too late, that I might have saved the story if I had but challenged Fate.
I never meant to hurt you, so forgive my blasted sin.
I never wish to cause you pain, but I’m not perfect like all men.
I never intended for this wretched action, but I forgot the Golden Rule.
I never thought to change my path, and for that I am a fool.
I never will remember to stop or change or bend.
I never like to harm you; deep down I want to mend.
I never wish to hurt you, believe me for it’s true.
I never want to harm you, for the truth is I love you.
That's a universal message with a specific intitial inspiration. I only hope it really is true, and at this moment I can tell you it is. Somewhere hidden in my cold, cruel heart is the desire to only help (as long as you're not pervicacious yourself). Reality corrupts it, disguises it, hides it, but believe me it's there somewhere. I may not be able to articulate it well enough, carry it out as well as I'd like, or show that I really care. But I will be here. Always.
Sunday, September 26
Creative Writing
(This. Now this is a ramble. I have no idea what happens. It just does. Confound it, where did that blasted thing go! For the soon to be confused, I wrote the black part first and then came back and tried to debate myself in red, so I dispute lines you haven't read ahead of time since I know what to expect. I'm tired, I'm ornery, but I have to work this out! There has to be an answer! No matter what Mr. Ross thinks. There has to be!)
Fantasy and reality. The ideal and the truth. Our minds dance along the imaginary line separating the two, stepping into one realm or another only a beat before we return to the other side. A clever waltz, a subconscious dance we don't even realize we're participating in, plodding along to an orchestral epic of Fate's own devising. The dance involves different steps for each individual. Einstein theorized that all things are relative. My fantasy is only a fantasy for me, a reality for some, a nonentity for others. The same for my reality. I define it, and yet it seems as if Fate has been kind enough to define it for me. I don't understand how the definition developed; it must have been a long arduous process I wasn't aware I was participating in, but apparently the process has reached fruitation. My direct input was not required. My reality is defined, and it is a grizzly one at that. I'm reminded again, my life seems to be a gigantic paradox. I have to tread the thin line between two extremes in order to perpetuate the truth of the matter. There is no net to catch me if I fall. So I do my tricks, I dance, I maneuver between my line, but I can't fall off. Destruction awaits.
I realized today that I am trapped in yet another paradox. I'm an unconformist in fantasy who conforms in reality. I suppose it's not really a "realization," but rather an elaboration on a prevailing theme. For some reason, I've the moral system of a Puritan, in reality. In fantasy, I'm a romantic, not letting myself be defined by society's taboos and rules. But I need society. Or at the very least I need noninvasive order. (And yet, isn't it hypocritical to not follow my dreams and encourage others to do so? But then I'd be invading on the fundamental rights of others to not be disturbed. I'm not disturbing them, they're disturbing themselves! Why should I hold myself responsible for their insecurities?) So I have a fundamental Puritannical nature of conformity. I can dream, I can talk, I can create but I can't actually change my reality. I'm defined by logic, for it seems to be my only ally. A Rasputin, I suppose, but one I still follow. What else can I do? Spit in the face of order and jump into the uncertain chaotical cesspool, riding the winds of time instead of letting them erode my cold heart into dust? (There, right there. You see it too? How I note both sides are unfortunate, not just the contrary alternative? "Erode my cold heart into dust", right there! I recognize both are bad. The difference is one is easy. But if it's painful and incomplete, what's the point in easy?) Of course not. I cannot violate the whims and ideas of others unless they bring it upon themselves. I follow the prevailing acceptable sentiment. (We've been over this. You know society can be wrong. How can you still support a wrong notion? That's your very argument against Hell! That you idealistically stand despite the consequences. You're not condemning yourself, God is. Just as you're not affecting others, they're affecting themselves!) I must have order. It's the only way to preserve our reality. (If reality is incomplete, who wants it? Or maybe it's not complete without fantasy. So that makes fantasy a part of reality. But what does that mean?!) Some people can break free, and would that I were one of the blessed. But alas, I'm merely a dreamer. I can dream, believe me, I can. You should see some of them. My imagination sees an idea, latches onto it, and takes it to heights that are as improbable as they are pretentious. Real possibilities, all of them, but I am no visionary. I lack ambition, desire, an internal impetus to ride life's flurrying coattails. (You say happiness is the main goal of life. Is that not an impetus enough? Why won't you actually listen to yourself? How can you be such a collossal hypocrite and get away with all this?)
My train of thought must tear you all to pieces ;). Back to fantasy and reality. When it comes down to it, I thrive in fantasy. It's a world where one cannot go wrong; everything is reversible, no harm is ever done. But it is fantasy. I enjoy it, but only because it's not real. There are no stakes, no rules, no definitions (But fantasy is defined by reality! It is, it is! What reality is not, fantasy it. By defining one, you get the other! There are definitions to fantasy; what is not defined in reality. Right?). Illegal drugs, death, depravity are all terrible when they're real. In fantasy I find them quite humorous. In reality I loathe them all. Such is the situation with Romanticism and Puritanism. In fantasy I embrace fantastic ideals, emotions, and epic stories. In reality I can't stand any of it (But you enjoy sadness. You can respect the purity. You live for emotions, be they yours or others. What else is there? Emotion may change, but it's constantly changing!). Dramas are fun to read about, not experience. I desire fantasy. But that's because there are no rules or limitations. Reality is defined(By what fantasy is not?). The line is created because by reality's definition. I can fantasize all I want, but reality pokes its ugly little head in and taints the image. Doubts are all products of reality; they plague me. Math, english both are worlds of theory(That fit clearly into reality. If they can do it, why can't your fantasies as well?). The things I dislike involve reality. But how can I transcend reality? I can't(I can't. No reason can supply a suitable explanation. It's innate. Debating ingrained ideas is pointless, they don't change. Logic doesn't matter, faith doesn't matter, reality doesn't matter. Once ingrained, how do you lose the etched letters on your soul? How long until they fade? You can't erase them, can you? Can you?). The definition is clearly stated. To make fantasy a reality is to turn into reality where the definition corrupts it. *sigh* None of this makes sense, I know. It was all so clear a minute ago...
Simple, simple... In the fantasy I thrive. Make it a reality, I suffocate. I dream of fantasies, I live in reality. I preach fantasy, I follow reality. I want fantasy. I have reality. (This is like an Escher painting. Those can't exist. But then the link David produced says they can! The cycle can really exist, the simultaneous nature can! But the water won't run as it should. The water won't go on forever. It can't work.)
***
There. That last part. That works. The reality is always simple. The fantasy complex. But isn't the simplicity a fantasy? The question is a complex one, there are no easy answers. Yet I'm producing one. I'm living one. The very thing I condemn, making an easy answer to a complex question, that's what simplicity is. That's what reality is. No, it's fantasy. The simplicity is a fantasy that I want to make a reality. The reality will taint it. No, that's not it either. I had it, I had it right in my hands, my understand. I had it. And just like that it's gone. Gone. Oh my dear, the cycle's clear for those who care to stare into this complex abyss. (An eternal abyss. Not a cycle. A one way path to nothingness. Or through quintessential existence. I won't know unless I jump. It's simple. Simply impossible.)
Fantasy and reality. The ideal and the truth. Our minds dance along the imaginary line separating the two, stepping into one realm or another only a beat before we return to the other side. A clever waltz, a subconscious dance we don't even realize we're participating in, plodding along to an orchestral epic of Fate's own devising. The dance involves different steps for each individual. Einstein theorized that all things are relative. My fantasy is only a fantasy for me, a reality for some, a nonentity for others. The same for my reality. I define it, and yet it seems as if Fate has been kind enough to define it for me. I don't understand how the definition developed; it must have been a long arduous process I wasn't aware I was participating in, but apparently the process has reached fruitation. My direct input was not required. My reality is defined, and it is a grizzly one at that. I'm reminded again, my life seems to be a gigantic paradox. I have to tread the thin line between two extremes in order to perpetuate the truth of the matter. There is no net to catch me if I fall. So I do my tricks, I dance, I maneuver between my line, but I can't fall off. Destruction awaits.
I realized today that I am trapped in yet another paradox. I'm an unconformist in fantasy who conforms in reality. I suppose it's not really a "realization," but rather an elaboration on a prevailing theme. For some reason, I've the moral system of a Puritan, in reality. In fantasy, I'm a romantic, not letting myself be defined by society's taboos and rules. But I need society. Or at the very least I need noninvasive order. (And yet, isn't it hypocritical to not follow my dreams and encourage others to do so? But then I'd be invading on the fundamental rights of others to not be disturbed. I'm not disturbing them, they're disturbing themselves! Why should I hold myself responsible for their insecurities?) So I have a fundamental Puritannical nature of conformity. I can dream, I can talk, I can create but I can't actually change my reality. I'm defined by logic, for it seems to be my only ally. A Rasputin, I suppose, but one I still follow. What else can I do? Spit in the face of order and jump into the uncertain chaotical cesspool, riding the winds of time instead of letting them erode my cold heart into dust? (There, right there. You see it too? How I note both sides are unfortunate, not just the contrary alternative? "Erode my cold heart into dust", right there! I recognize both are bad. The difference is one is easy. But if it's painful and incomplete, what's the point in easy?) Of course not. I cannot violate the whims and ideas of others unless they bring it upon themselves. I follow the prevailing acceptable sentiment. (We've been over this. You know society can be wrong. How can you still support a wrong notion? That's your very argument against Hell! That you idealistically stand despite the consequences. You're not condemning yourself, God is. Just as you're not affecting others, they're affecting themselves!) I must have order. It's the only way to preserve our reality. (If reality is incomplete, who wants it? Or maybe it's not complete without fantasy. So that makes fantasy a part of reality. But what does that mean?!) Some people can break free, and would that I were one of the blessed. But alas, I'm merely a dreamer. I can dream, believe me, I can. You should see some of them. My imagination sees an idea, latches onto it, and takes it to heights that are as improbable as they are pretentious. Real possibilities, all of them, but I am no visionary. I lack ambition, desire, an internal impetus to ride life's flurrying coattails. (You say happiness is the main goal of life. Is that not an impetus enough? Why won't you actually listen to yourself? How can you be such a collossal hypocrite and get away with all this?)
My train of thought must tear you all to pieces ;). Back to fantasy and reality. When it comes down to it, I thrive in fantasy. It's a world where one cannot go wrong; everything is reversible, no harm is ever done. But it is fantasy. I enjoy it, but only because it's not real. There are no stakes, no rules, no definitions (But fantasy is defined by reality! It is, it is! What reality is not, fantasy it. By defining one, you get the other! There are definitions to fantasy; what is not defined in reality. Right?). Illegal drugs, death, depravity are all terrible when they're real. In fantasy I find them quite humorous. In reality I loathe them all. Such is the situation with Romanticism and Puritanism. In fantasy I embrace fantastic ideals, emotions, and epic stories. In reality I can't stand any of it (But you enjoy sadness. You can respect the purity. You live for emotions, be they yours or others. What else is there? Emotion may change, but it's constantly changing!). Dramas are fun to read about, not experience. I desire fantasy. But that's because there are no rules or limitations. Reality is defined(By what fantasy is not?). The line is created because by reality's definition. I can fantasize all I want, but reality pokes its ugly little head in and taints the image. Doubts are all products of reality; they plague me. Math, english both are worlds of theory(That fit clearly into reality. If they can do it, why can't your fantasies as well?). The things I dislike involve reality. But how can I transcend reality? I can't(I can't. No reason can supply a suitable explanation. It's innate. Debating ingrained ideas is pointless, they don't change. Logic doesn't matter, faith doesn't matter, reality doesn't matter. Once ingrained, how do you lose the etched letters on your soul? How long until they fade? You can't erase them, can you? Can you?). The definition is clearly stated. To make fantasy a reality is to turn into reality where the definition corrupts it. *sigh* None of this makes sense, I know. It was all so clear a minute ago...
Simple, simple... In the fantasy I thrive. Make it a reality, I suffocate. I dream of fantasies, I live in reality. I preach fantasy, I follow reality. I want fantasy. I have reality. (This is like an Escher painting. Those can't exist. But then the link David produced says they can! The cycle can really exist, the simultaneous nature can! But the water won't run as it should. The water won't go on forever. It can't work.)
***
There. That last part. That works. The reality is always simple. The fantasy complex. But isn't the simplicity a fantasy? The question is a complex one, there are no easy answers. Yet I'm producing one. I'm living one. The very thing I condemn, making an easy answer to a complex question, that's what simplicity is. That's what reality is. No, it's fantasy. The simplicity is a fantasy that I want to make a reality. The reality will taint it. No, that's not it either. I had it, I had it right in my hands, my understand. I had it. And just like that it's gone. Gone. Oh my dear, the cycle's clear for those who care to stare into this complex abyss. (An eternal abyss. Not a cycle. A one way path to nothingness. Or through quintessential existence. I won't know unless I jump. It's simple. Simply impossible.)
Drop the H and you have no Hope.
I watched Dr. Strangelove today. It was pretty good. I like Stanley Kubrik's use of music; music seems to be the most moving part of a movie, so when it's sort of off it makes it quite appropriate.
Well, some things have been happening that aren't all that entertaining but still equate to more than the nothings of yesteryear. As you can probably tell, my blog writing has suffered a bit as a result of me recent activities. And by "activities" I mean heroine. I jest, I jest. While on heroine. Bleh. I've bee laying the hard drug references on pretty thick recently, might be time to go back to the hard work of actually making up stuff. Woohoo!
Anyway, I guess the only thing worthy of note of late is my trip to the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles for the acronomically impaired). For those who don't know, me and the DMV have a bit of history. We dated when I was an angry teenager looking to get back at the society that had ostracized me for my charming good looks and the magnificent future that was sure to plague me for the rest of my unnatural existence. I'd call, the DMV would give me the run around, I'd drop by, it'd make me wait 2 or three hours til we could finally get down to business, and then we wouldn't talk for months until we had to repeat the entire dance.
Well, I needed a favor. I wasn't proud of it, but sometimes a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, ya know? No? Dang irresponsible punk .... Anywho, I sallied forth to try my chances on a date with destiny. I arrived to find a fiasco. The place was full of squalor and what wasn't squalorized was foreign. Not that I'm xenophobic, that's just how the DMV is. So I fill out my form, all 57 pages of it, and walk to the secratary-ish lady. She asks if I have a birth certificate. Of course I have no birth certificate, what do I do, carry it around in my wallet? Unlike my get-out-of-Ohio-free card, I actually don't. So I drove home, scrounged through the hills of random citations, impoundings, restraint orders, and vital paperwork until I came upon my birth certificate in triplicate. I took all three copies back to the DMV (an approximately 25minute drive). On the way I noticed a doomsday-ish flair to the roadways; bodies littered the streets, the broken remains of cars mauled by monstrous SUVs were imbedded in wounds so gruesome you'd vomit imagining just the therapy, and police officers stemming off waves of angry insurgents determined to enfore the "No Shirts, No Shoes, No Government" policy. But I was only slightly phased.
I proceeded to my destination and handed the paperwork to the lady. "Here's your number. Enjoy." Let's see, number A81. "Now calling A 15." Doh! Ah well, waiting time. I sat down and began working on college applications. Yes, if I was in Hell I may as well make it count. I finished my 15th (Pellissippi High School for the Intellectually Zombified) and finally my number was called. I give the DMV worker my papers. She gets to work. And by "work" I mean strikes up a conversation with ther coworkers.
"You know what Shirley, I enjoy smoking crack."
"Yes Diane, but it's so expensive. That's why I have this deadend job. You know, it makes me so angry sometimes, the injustice of it all."
"You know, if you elect John Kerry he'll give you free crack every other Tuesday."
"Really? Hotdog! Libertarian it is."
"Libertarian? I hate people. All of them. Even this smug looking jerk right here. That's why I'm a Nader supporter."
So she punched me in my kidney and handed me my papers. "Your name will be called in a few moments, honeydarlinpumpkinpie." The reference to cannibalism was disturbing, but what isn't in government institutions nowadays? So I sit back down and wait. And wait. And wait. Three hours later "Dialon Muges." I walk up and announce my presence. The FBI comes in. "Mr. Muges, you're wanted on charges of larceny, theft, kleptomania, megalomania, maniaomania, corruption of minors, corruption of majors, corruption of the European football league, and production of illegal mutant vegetables without a license."
I reply, "No I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"I plead the Fifth."
" Denied."
"I plead the Eighteenth."
"Repealed."
"I plead guilty."
"Innocent."
"Woohoo, I win."
"Blast."
They shot me. But with my dieing breath, I grabbed my new driver's license and yelled, "My only regret is never eating cultured yogurt!"
And that's about it. I embellished a bit, but you're smart intelligent people. You'll be able to discern the truth from the dramatic flair. Right? Right. Or left. I really could care less.
Well, some things have been happening that aren't all that entertaining but still equate to more than the nothings of yesteryear. As you can probably tell, my blog writing has suffered a bit as a result of me recent activities. And by "activities" I mean heroine. I jest, I jest. While on heroine. Bleh. I've bee laying the hard drug references on pretty thick recently, might be time to go back to the hard work of actually making up stuff. Woohoo!
Anyway, I guess the only thing worthy of note of late is my trip to the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles for the acronomically impaired). For those who don't know, me and the DMV have a bit of history. We dated when I was an angry teenager looking to get back at the society that had ostracized me for my charming good looks and the magnificent future that was sure to plague me for the rest of my unnatural existence. I'd call, the DMV would give me the run around, I'd drop by, it'd make me wait 2 or three hours til we could finally get down to business, and then we wouldn't talk for months until we had to repeat the entire dance.
Well, I needed a favor. I wasn't proud of it, but sometimes a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, ya know? No? Dang irresponsible punk .... Anywho, I sallied forth to try my chances on a date with destiny. I arrived to find a fiasco. The place was full of squalor and what wasn't squalorized was foreign. Not that I'm xenophobic, that's just how the DMV is. So I fill out my form, all 57 pages of it, and walk to the secratary-ish lady. She asks if I have a birth certificate. Of course I have no birth certificate, what do I do, carry it around in my wallet? Unlike my get-out-of-Ohio-free card, I actually don't. So I drove home, scrounged through the hills of random citations, impoundings, restraint orders, and vital paperwork until I came upon my birth certificate in triplicate. I took all three copies back to the DMV (an approximately 25minute drive). On the way I noticed a doomsday-ish flair to the roadways; bodies littered the streets, the broken remains of cars mauled by monstrous SUVs were imbedded in wounds so gruesome you'd vomit imagining just the therapy, and police officers stemming off waves of angry insurgents determined to enfore the "No Shirts, No Shoes, No Government" policy. But I was only slightly phased.
I proceeded to my destination and handed the paperwork to the lady. "Here's your number. Enjoy." Let's see, number A81. "Now calling A 15." Doh! Ah well, waiting time. I sat down and began working on college applications. Yes, if I was in Hell I may as well make it count. I finished my 15th (Pellissippi High School for the Intellectually Zombified) and finally my number was called. I give the DMV worker my papers. She gets to work. And by "work" I mean strikes up a conversation with ther coworkers.
"You know what Shirley, I enjoy smoking crack."
"Yes Diane, but it's so expensive. That's why I have this deadend job. You know, it makes me so angry sometimes, the injustice of it all."
"You know, if you elect John Kerry he'll give you free crack every other Tuesday."
"Really? Hotdog! Libertarian it is."
"Libertarian? I hate people. All of them. Even this smug looking jerk right here. That's why I'm a Nader supporter."
So she punched me in my kidney and handed me my papers. "Your name will be called in a few moments, honeydarlinpumpkinpie." The reference to cannibalism was disturbing, but what isn't in government institutions nowadays? So I sit back down and wait. And wait. And wait. Three hours later "Dialon Muges." I walk up and announce my presence. The FBI comes in. "Mr. Muges, you're wanted on charges of larceny, theft, kleptomania, megalomania, maniaomania, corruption of minors, corruption of majors, corruption of the European football league, and production of illegal mutant vegetables without a license."
I reply, "No I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"I plead the Fifth."
" Denied."
"I plead the Eighteenth."
"Repealed."
"I plead guilty."
"Innocent."
"Woohoo, I win."
"Blast."
They shot me. But with my dieing breath, I grabbed my new driver's license and yelled, "My only regret is never eating cultured yogurt!"
And that's about it. I embellished a bit, but you're smart intelligent people. You'll be able to discern the truth from the dramatic flair. Right? Right. Or left. I really could care less.
Monday, September 20
I walk alone
So I've taken to going on nightly walks alone. I walk a lot, mainly because it warms my bony, brittle form more than atrophizing in this chair for hours on end (my body takes in and loses heat faster than a Portugese mudwrestler opens a can of refried fried chicken. In other words, ridiculously fast.). I also think much better while walking. I can't just sit and think. I'm a pacer, if you haven't noticed, I have to be doing something to occupy a portion of my mind for the rest of it to be at maximum capacity. Autopilot is amazing, especially while driving. I start thinking while driving and wake up, only to realize I've waited at the light, gone through, and I'm getting ready to turn without consciously acknowledging it. Anyway, there's a new neighborhood 2minutes away that only has road paved, but no houses. I have to walk through a touch of brush, but it's like my own private circuit of solitude. I can walk in circles for however long I want and there's an incredibly low probability I'll ever be disturbed.
It's odd, how calming and serene it is. That isolation, only me, nature, and the blanket of darkness. You don't really realize how bright the moon is until you've been out at night enough. It hurt my eyes tonight. So I walk and think. But here's where it gets forboding and symbolic. I walk, isolated and alone, and it's a perfect indicator of my projected path in life. I'll be in contact with plenty of people in the day, but at night I'll come home and be thoroughly alone. Oh, there might be a dog or two, but human companionship will be quite lacking. As I stroll along the deserted, almost desolated landscape, I gaze into the sky. Stars twinkle, a plane or two flies in the distance, and I feel as close to nature as I ever will. The Food City on Western ruins the effect by beaking its infernal speaker system to call some code 57 on aisle 932 about some small child who has decided to relinquish all control of his waste management facilities right in the middle of the paper towel section. Oh irony, how you taunt me. But it's a small matter. The night remains, as do I, and the annoyance past I continue my trek. There is no goal or set distance I aim for. I just walk along the course, hitting every circle once and head home. The monotany doesn't bother me. I dream, I plot, I ponder, but mostly I exist.
I sometimes wonder if I'd like to walk with someone else. A pleasant addition to complete a peacefully beautiful scene. But, for me, I fear it would ruin the effect. I would feel obliged to speak, for as you're well aware, silence in the company of friends annoys me to no end. Perhaps I'll find someone who I can be comfortable with in silence, but I'm afraid to search. I'm reminded of the cliche dating ad "Single female seeks sensitive male who enjoys poetry and long walks on the beach." Irony's at it again, I'm afraid. Of course only an insignificant minority of girls actually want that, but it's still amusing to think about. I go into my "course" because I crave the isolation, the distance from stress and obligation available only in a state of such distance. I suppose it's one of the strongest attractors to Maryville College. It has that "walled in by trees microcosm" feel to it. The woods are nearby and I know some of them are ripe for aimlessly wandering. UT just doesn't have that.
But that's a decision for another day. For now, walking alone seems appropriate. It's not depressing, just somewhat sad. Perhaps melancholy. It's that peculiar pure sensation where you feel like smiling and crying at the same time because you're lonely but you know it's the only way. I guess I'd better get used to it.
***
On a much lighter note, I came up with the idea for the Amazingly Redundant Repetitive Looping Man Hero. The name's going to be constantly revised, but I maybe I'll write a story or about him.
"But Amazingly Fantastic Redudant Repetitive Man, why do you keep pounding your head against the wall?"
AFRRM:"Well Jimmy boy, child, kiddo I have to pound a hole in this wall and by smashing a gap into the obstruction I can successfully bash an opening through this obstacle and exit leavingly with quick retreat."
Jimmy:"You could use the door."
AFRRM:"I'll kill you dead."
Exciting, no?
It's odd, how calming and serene it is. That isolation, only me, nature, and the blanket of darkness. You don't really realize how bright the moon is until you've been out at night enough. It hurt my eyes tonight. So I walk and think. But here's where it gets forboding and symbolic. I walk, isolated and alone, and it's a perfect indicator of my projected path in life. I'll be in contact with plenty of people in the day, but at night I'll come home and be thoroughly alone. Oh, there might be a dog or two, but human companionship will be quite lacking. As I stroll along the deserted, almost desolated landscape, I gaze into the sky. Stars twinkle, a plane or two flies in the distance, and I feel as close to nature as I ever will. The Food City on Western ruins the effect by beaking its infernal speaker system to call some code 57 on aisle 932 about some small child who has decided to relinquish all control of his waste management facilities right in the middle of the paper towel section. Oh irony, how you taunt me. But it's a small matter. The night remains, as do I, and the annoyance past I continue my trek. There is no goal or set distance I aim for. I just walk along the course, hitting every circle once and head home. The monotany doesn't bother me. I dream, I plot, I ponder, but mostly I exist.
I sometimes wonder if I'd like to walk with someone else. A pleasant addition to complete a peacefully beautiful scene. But, for me, I fear it would ruin the effect. I would feel obliged to speak, for as you're well aware, silence in the company of friends annoys me to no end. Perhaps I'll find someone who I can be comfortable with in silence, but I'm afraid to search. I'm reminded of the cliche dating ad "Single female seeks sensitive male who enjoys poetry and long walks on the beach." Irony's at it again, I'm afraid. Of course only an insignificant minority of girls actually want that, but it's still amusing to think about. I go into my "course" because I crave the isolation, the distance from stress and obligation available only in a state of such distance. I suppose it's one of the strongest attractors to Maryville College. It has that "walled in by trees microcosm" feel to it. The woods are nearby and I know some of them are ripe for aimlessly wandering. UT just doesn't have that.
But that's a decision for another day. For now, walking alone seems appropriate. It's not depressing, just somewhat sad. Perhaps melancholy. It's that peculiar pure sensation where you feel like smiling and crying at the same time because you're lonely but you know it's the only way. I guess I'd better get used to it.
***
On a much lighter note, I came up with the idea for the Amazingly Redundant Repetitive Looping Man Hero. The name's going to be constantly revised, but I maybe I'll write a story or about him.
"But Amazingly Fantastic Redudant Repetitive Man, why do you keep pounding your head against the wall?"
AFRRM:"Well Jimmy boy, child, kiddo I have to pound a hole in this wall and by smashing a gap into the obstruction I can successfully bash an opening through this obstacle and exit leavingly with quick retreat."
Jimmy:"You could use the door."
AFRRM:"I'll kill you dead."
Exciting, no?
Saturday, September 18
Wednesday, September 15
(Just an aside, the below two pieces should be read in order. I wrote the top one first and adjusted the date to make it flow better for those who don't stare at my blog constantly. Just try to remember that "I" does not mean me, if you catch my drift. It can and often does, but it doesn't have to. Enjoy!)
Mis-ant-thropy
I hate them. All of them. All of them with their minute differences and perpetually perverse similarities. The variety amidst such mundanity is sickening. But what is one ant from the next? They work and toil for their allotted time on stage and then saunter off and let the next troupe take their place. Day by year by eternity, they mindlessly labor on their pitiful hills of dirt. And then their pathetic attempts at some lasting contribution to future generations is annihilated by a passing shower of Heavenly tears. No trace remains. Soon not even a memory. The dirt returns to the earth, new ants replenish the depleted remnants of past empires, and they build again. Always building, are the drones. Building or destroying. Tearing down each other's shoddy structures out of jealousy or rage or some warped sense of temporal "order." Rain or ants or God, it matters not. The memory, the thought, the feeling, the entire ludicrous purpose is forgotten. And yet, nothing is ever learned. Still they build their castles of sand.
I abhor them. Their stupidity appalls me. How blissful they are. No cares, no worries. Their almighty, omniscient Queen directs their preposterous steps, organizing their dances, pulling the strings to their hearts, minds, and souls. They never doubt her, never rise against her, never consider She could be unjust, immoral, or wrong. That thought is too immense for their insiginificant faculties. No, they march along and find some shallow delusion of "happiness" while inside they burn and yearn and churn out silent pleas for clemency. The Queen merely laughs. She enjoys every wail, whine, and fevered wish. She uses her pawns, playing an eternal game against herself, for She has no friends. She has no partner, only her game. She devises schemes and plots and paths and plans to take out her cruel bitterness on a random piece, one sacrifice at a time. They have no real meaning for her. They are merely tools and toys. And oh how She loves to play.
I despise them. I loathe their pairs, marching hither and dither with vacant expressions upon their glazed, idiotic faces. Nothing is said, nothing is done, just pairing and staring, aimlessly. They plague the world with their infernal silence. Oh, ants blather incessantly about who's doing what or whom or why, but it's impossible to hear the ignorant tripe they spew from their constantly churning mandibles. None of it has substance. None of it has any real meaning. Just like everything else that makes up an ant's life. All meaningless fluff. One ant dies, cries, loses, bruises, is eaten or beaten, cheated or defeated, unseated and repeated a million upon a trillion times until the Queen tires of her sadistic game.
I abominate them. I deplore their existence. But what can one do about these hordes of barbarians, fumbling in the dark for some way out of their colossal waste of a nest. Finally they obtain freedom, but the delusion is revealed to be only an extension of their slavery. They simply serve Her in different ways. And still, no matter how far they crawl, slither, or slump, they still serve. She plays them like a flute. The discord is a crime against consciousness. And how does she aid them in their eternal, mindless plights? She raises her magnifying glass and incinerates them, one at a time. Then their charred remains are eaten by their fellows and what is left? A memory? A monument? Some magnificent acme of art? A wonderous discovery with their tiny illegible name scrawled as the "first"? A boon to all antkind, a treasured and revered influence inspiring zillions of future antlings? No. Only ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Check mate.
I abhor them. Their stupidity appalls me. How blissful they are. No cares, no worries. Their almighty, omniscient Queen directs their preposterous steps, organizing their dances, pulling the strings to their hearts, minds, and souls. They never doubt her, never rise against her, never consider She could be unjust, immoral, or wrong. That thought is too immense for their insiginificant faculties. No, they march along and find some shallow delusion of "happiness" while inside they burn and yearn and churn out silent pleas for clemency. The Queen merely laughs. She enjoys every wail, whine, and fevered wish. She uses her pawns, playing an eternal game against herself, for She has no friends. She has no partner, only her game. She devises schemes and plots and paths and plans to take out her cruel bitterness on a random piece, one sacrifice at a time. They have no real meaning for her. They are merely tools and toys. And oh how She loves to play.
I despise them. I loathe their pairs, marching hither and dither with vacant expressions upon their glazed, idiotic faces. Nothing is said, nothing is done, just pairing and staring, aimlessly. They plague the world with their infernal silence. Oh, ants blather incessantly about who's doing what or whom or why, but it's impossible to hear the ignorant tripe they spew from their constantly churning mandibles. None of it has substance. None of it has any real meaning. Just like everything else that makes up an ant's life. All meaningless fluff. One ant dies, cries, loses, bruises, is eaten or beaten, cheated or defeated, unseated and repeated a million upon a trillion times until the Queen tires of her sadistic game.
I abominate them. I deplore their existence. But what can one do about these hordes of barbarians, fumbling in the dark for some way out of their colossal waste of a nest. Finally they obtain freedom, but the delusion is revealed to be only an extension of their slavery. They simply serve Her in different ways. And still, no matter how far they crawl, slither, or slump, they still serve. She plays them like a flute. The discord is a crime against consciousness. And how does she aid them in their eternal, mindless plights? She raises her magnifying glass and incinerates them, one at a time. Then their charred remains are eaten by their fellows and what is left? A memory? A monument? Some magnificent acme of art? A wonderous discovery with their tiny illegible name scrawled as the "first"? A boon to all antkind, a treasured and revered influence inspiring zillions of future antlings? No. Only ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Check mate.
Antpology
*Sigh.* I love ants. Their quirks, their identities, their stories. Each one has a different story, you know. Think of that, should you ever consider squishing one. That ant had parents, friends, family, beliefs, ideas, dreams. It is most likely cared for by someone. I care for ants. The one's I've observed more than others, I suppose. At first glance all ants look the same. But once you really watch them, learn from them, truly see what it is to be that ant, it moves you. You root for that ant against any foe. If you had known the red ant before the black you would have cheered it on instead, but such is Fate.
I adore ants. The resonant boom or joyful titter of an amused ant truly brightens my heart. They're sort of funny, in a way. They bumble about, searching for this, eating that, following this, marching about so importantly. What are they doing? Building hills. Glorious hills, marvels of architecture if I do say so myself. I certainly couldn't rival them. Their twists, turns, complexities only add to their charm. Some hills are more advanced than others, but they all serve some benefit to some other ant. Of course that nasty old perspective applies again. Get to know the black ant first, and you'll loathe the red ant, who has just as much claim as anybody, if the Queen's to be believed. But you must root for someone to make it interesting. But I digress. The hills! I positively admire their perseverance. A lesser man would be appalled at their seeming stupidity. Building up hills only to have them torn down. But the ants thrust on. Is it mindlessness? Is it for lack of an alternative? Perhaps. But I'd like to think they have a utilitarian creed. One ant sacrifices his life so that other ants can build upon his legacy. If not, the ant race would die out. Which they will, in time. But they're amusing in the interim.
I cherish ants. Their dances, their wars, their dramas. Ants have dramas, you ask? But of course! Ants want glory as much as anyone. Who gets to the food first, who carries the most home, who pulls more weight. It is silly, I agree, for in the end all help in their own way, but you can't help but smile. Strong, proud ants running into gauntlets of poison, spiders, fingers, doom around every corner, just to help the colony survive. Many die in the attempt, often before they make a single positive contribution. Are they remembered? Are they rewarded? No. They're forgotten in due course. But they tried. They had a benevolent spirit, and it truly is the thought that counts. I dare say we could learn a lesson from their sacrifices.
I applaud ants. Do they ever complain to their Queen? Do they ever whine or moan or groan about how hard their lives are, how they should have better? Never. They salute the Queen, overseer and director of the whole complex operation, and bear their burden until their deaths. So persistent are the ants that I wonder if they even sleep. Perhaps I only see the best. The lazy ants are lost in their nests, avoiding anything resembling labor. But I certainly hope not. Ants believe in community, in helping one another. A wise mentality indeed.
I apoligize ants. Some are bitter that you walk upon them munching sour grapes with their faces staring straight into the ground waiting for it to open up and swallow them. Ironically, they'll only find more ants when they get there, but of course they refuse to admit it. While you toil and strive, they can only decry your efforts. Such is the grasshopper, envious of your determination and lacking it itself. Are grasshoppers born this way? I'm inclined to say yes, regrettably, but there's nothing you can do to change them. Help them when they change their minds and seek shelter from their cold musings, but don't be surprised when they leave you disgusted. They'll be back. Grasshoppers are simply no fun. They abhor games. They focus only on winning and losing, and yet each defeat is like a personal blow. They don't realize it's all in good hearted fun. Without the game their would be no drama, no reality, just a bland bored and bland formations. If no one wins there's no reason to play. But if all had fun, did anyone really lose? I really am sorry for these silly grasshoppers. They know not what they do. Let them play their mournful fiddles, humming dirges no one really wants to hear. It's the job of a grasshopper. And the job of an ant is to persevere. A place for everything and everything in its place. How wonderful this puzzle is...
I adore ants. The resonant boom or joyful titter of an amused ant truly brightens my heart. They're sort of funny, in a way. They bumble about, searching for this, eating that, following this, marching about so importantly. What are they doing? Building hills. Glorious hills, marvels of architecture if I do say so myself. I certainly couldn't rival them. Their twists, turns, complexities only add to their charm. Some hills are more advanced than others, but they all serve some benefit to some other ant. Of course that nasty old perspective applies again. Get to know the black ant first, and you'll loathe the red ant, who has just as much claim as anybody, if the Queen's to be believed. But you must root for someone to make it interesting. But I digress. The hills! I positively admire their perseverance. A lesser man would be appalled at their seeming stupidity. Building up hills only to have them torn down. But the ants thrust on. Is it mindlessness? Is it for lack of an alternative? Perhaps. But I'd like to think they have a utilitarian creed. One ant sacrifices his life so that other ants can build upon his legacy. If not, the ant race would die out. Which they will, in time. But they're amusing in the interim.
I cherish ants. Their dances, their wars, their dramas. Ants have dramas, you ask? But of course! Ants want glory as much as anyone. Who gets to the food first, who carries the most home, who pulls more weight. It is silly, I agree, for in the end all help in their own way, but you can't help but smile. Strong, proud ants running into gauntlets of poison, spiders, fingers, doom around every corner, just to help the colony survive. Many die in the attempt, often before they make a single positive contribution. Are they remembered? Are they rewarded? No. They're forgotten in due course. But they tried. They had a benevolent spirit, and it truly is the thought that counts. I dare say we could learn a lesson from their sacrifices.
I applaud ants. Do they ever complain to their Queen? Do they ever whine or moan or groan about how hard their lives are, how they should have better? Never. They salute the Queen, overseer and director of the whole complex operation, and bear their burden until their deaths. So persistent are the ants that I wonder if they even sleep. Perhaps I only see the best. The lazy ants are lost in their nests, avoiding anything resembling labor. But I certainly hope not. Ants believe in community, in helping one another. A wise mentality indeed.
I apoligize ants. Some are bitter that you walk upon them munching sour grapes with their faces staring straight into the ground waiting for it to open up and swallow them. Ironically, they'll only find more ants when they get there, but of course they refuse to admit it. While you toil and strive, they can only decry your efforts. Such is the grasshopper, envious of your determination and lacking it itself. Are grasshoppers born this way? I'm inclined to say yes, regrettably, but there's nothing you can do to change them. Help them when they change their minds and seek shelter from their cold musings, but don't be surprised when they leave you disgusted. They'll be back. Grasshoppers are simply no fun. They abhor games. They focus only on winning and losing, and yet each defeat is like a personal blow. They don't realize it's all in good hearted fun. Without the game their would be no drama, no reality, just a bland bored and bland formations. If no one wins there's no reason to play. But if all had fun, did anyone really lose? I really am sorry for these silly grasshoppers. They know not what they do. Let them play their mournful fiddles, humming dirges no one really wants to hear. It's the job of a grasshopper. And the job of an ant is to persevere. A place for everything and everything in its place. How wonderful this puzzle is...
Sunday, September 12
The Silence Lies
The silence lies. It lies in wait to berate the passing of time in slanted rhyme that flies and dies while silence lies in words and waits and then creates an illusion that naught has passed. Abashed, the silence lies with muted cries of boredom and despairing sighs who all imply that once you lie the truth stands up and promptly tries to die admist the cries and lies and why's rhetorically. Historically all the why's do agonize and though we try to dry the tearsoaked silence of the by and by's only my poor muffled cries, all lies, do terrorize the souls of every shape and size of fat, short, stupid, young, old and wise are all my lies and yet they speak in moans and sighs inaudible amidst the cries of all the other ants and flies who also lie in wait, sedate, without a thought or feeling. Reeling I respond with cries in silence that attempt to vie and win but in the end the sigh dies staring with cold, blue, dead eyes of guilty conscience. Hence I oft do recognize my lies and half-aborted tries when I realize I purposefully fail. Pale my face and soft my cries while time runs out the door and slips and trips and dies for silence lies to slay those who won't heed its cries for help. The silence lies in wait and word and I hear, ashamed, absurd, the folly of my evil ways but the silence wounds and slays whatever I could think to claim in this blasted eternal game and I lie and try and vie and sigh and cry and finally die in silence.
Wednesday, September 8
Poppin' Pills
To cure ills. No, not for cheap thrills. Pills aren't cheap! But anyway, I'm getting better. I think. Either I am or those cheap generic pills worked somewhat. Either way, I'm pleased. Colds are one of the many banes of my existence. They're the type of unacceptable pain because they're not self-inflicted. I can't get too angry about depression because I can change it should I try hard enough, but when it comes to disease I just have to wait. And I have little patience for viruses!
Today I got home around 4, and it just felt downright strange. I have things to do after school everyday except Wednesday, so when I actually come home this early, it's something special. Everyday last semester was like this (except Wednesday, ironically, since I had Mu Alpha Thaeda). And now it's reversed. I think I like it more, though.
But I noticed something yesterday on the way to Cardboard Club that I felt too miserable to write about. My reserve of positive energy is very limited. I get some encouragement, even the smallest of sincere positive comments works, and I'm charged. But gradually the excitement dulls, the hope diminishes, and doubts plague me. Using yesterday as an example, I was walking down to Petko's room wondering if anyone at all, other than David, would show up. The thought that it might be failing was rather disheartening. Much to my surprise we had quite a crowd; it was very reassuring. It's just evidence of a recurring problem. The same thing happens with all my "projects." With the Beowulf film I wonder if it's on the right side of the very thin stupid/funny line. I look back over it and I'm just not sure. It sounded funny at one point, at least... Meh, like depression, it's just a matter of remembering that I can make anything out of anything; I just need to make it all as good as possible.
By the way, just as a warning, I might start writing fiction here using "I" in the sense of a character and not myself. I think it'll be pretty apparent which are the silly, mellodramatic Dylan entries and which are the choppy, ludicrous fiction sections. One can hope, at least.
Today I got home around 4, and it just felt downright strange. I have things to do after school everyday except Wednesday, so when I actually come home this early, it's something special. Everyday last semester was like this (except Wednesday, ironically, since I had Mu Alpha Thaeda). And now it's reversed. I think I like it more, though.
But I noticed something yesterday on the way to Cardboard Club that I felt too miserable to write about. My reserve of positive energy is very limited. I get some encouragement, even the smallest of sincere positive comments works, and I'm charged. But gradually the excitement dulls, the hope diminishes, and doubts plague me. Using yesterday as an example, I was walking down to Petko's room wondering if anyone at all, other than David, would show up. The thought that it might be failing was rather disheartening. Much to my surprise we had quite a crowd; it was very reassuring. It's just evidence of a recurring problem. The same thing happens with all my "projects." With the Beowulf film I wonder if it's on the right side of the very thin stupid/funny line. I look back over it and I'm just not sure. It sounded funny at one point, at least... Meh, like depression, it's just a matter of remembering that I can make anything out of anything; I just need to make it all as good as possible.
By the way, just as a warning, I might start writing fiction here using "I" in the sense of a character and not myself. I think it'll be pretty apparent which are the silly, mellodramatic Dylan entries and which are the choppy, ludicrous fiction sections. One can hope, at least.
Tuesday, September 7
Bleh
I despise colds. They're icky. And painful. But mostly icky. I just hope we don't have to march in the heat tomorrow. It'll be tortuous. Meh. And that's aboot it.
Monday, September 6
In the year 2010
I might be starting my career. Just 6 years. For those mathematically impaired, 6 years currently incorporates a third of my life. At that point I will be 24 and 6 years will be one fourth of my life. In 57 years, I'd like to retire. Assuming I haven't gone crazy, I'm still living, and I can still perform adequately. Yes, I want to work til I'm 75. It seems almost mind boggling. To do the same thing 114 times with a new set of students each time (assuming block scheduling). 114! Of course, that’s probably not going to happen. I’ll die of some cancer or malnutrition related disease in my 50’s, which is fine with me because I don’t want to retire.
But, in the meantime, I’ll become a hat enthusiast. For some reason I just like odd hats. Not regular baseball caps and the like, but exotic, character demonstrating hats. Hats that when you put them on you have a license to act as a different persona. Then, every Friday, I’d put on a different hat and teach as if I was that person. A Viking, a pirate, a Cowboy, a Hippie, things like that. Hopefully it won’t be too confusing; it certainly sounds fun to me. And then, after I’ve used the hat, I’d allow my students to put it on during class as long as they answered in the right persona.
I’d also do Math Test Mad-libs. Whenever I got caught making a mistake in my math (as I will perpetually) I’d ask for a noun, verb, adjective, whatever and plop it in the word problems for my tests. For instance “Three Albanian cats ate 6 wads of jello every 75.6 hours. How many wads of jello would be eaten in 60 hours by 33 cats?” Better than “Timmy has three apples. Good for him. You call the cops, frame him for murder, and steal his apples. Are you happy?”
I think it sounds fun, at least. Hopefully the administration will have a sense of humor. Yeah, I know. But I can dream, can’t I?
But, in the meantime, I’ll become a hat enthusiast. For some reason I just like odd hats. Not regular baseball caps and the like, but exotic, character demonstrating hats. Hats that when you put them on you have a license to act as a different persona. Then, every Friday, I’d put on a different hat and teach as if I was that person. A Viking, a pirate, a Cowboy, a Hippie, things like that. Hopefully it won’t be too confusing; it certainly sounds fun to me. And then, after I’ve used the hat, I’d allow my students to put it on during class as long as they answered in the right persona.
I’d also do Math Test Mad-libs. Whenever I got caught making a mistake in my math (as I will perpetually) I’d ask for a noun, verb, adjective, whatever and plop it in the word problems for my tests. For instance “Three Albanian cats ate 6 wads of jello every 75.6 hours. How many wads of jello would be eaten in 60 hours by 33 cats?” Better than “Timmy has three apples. Good for him. You call the cops, frame him for murder, and steal his apples. Are you happy?”
I think it sounds fun, at least. Hopefully the administration will have a sense of humor. Yeah, I know. But I can dream, can’t I?
Saturday, September 4
Looks like the Cops won again
Heh, it's funny (in a sad way), but the vast majority of my blog entries are negative because it's the only place I really allow myself to be that way. I've come to accept it so much I don't really notice it, but it's almost like I'm two different people. I don't like being a dark, moody, depressing person so I only inflict it upon any of you unfortunate saps unlucky enough to be so bored they read this. Or when I'm tired. Like last night. Having one's contacts in for too long (generally past 10) is surprisingly straining and makes me grumpy. Just fyi.
Hmph. Hmph I say! I'm clueless despite my recent sluthing. You'd think things would be getting easier, but nosireeboberella. I talked to Mrs. Bast yesterday. She's got to be the best guidance councilor EVAR! Well, I like her at least. We talked about Maryville v. UT (Reg and Honors), and I think I have a slightly better understanding of the situation. I also saw Mark (I can't believe I've forgotten his last name; he was in my pre-cal and geometry class...) who is apparently in UT's Honors program. It sounded like he really liked it, which was quite encouraging. I guess if I went to UT I'd go to that, because I couldn't stand living at home. So it's back to Maryville v. UT Honors. Maryville would be a nice small school experience, but it seems like a substantial risk, in terms of people. Probability would be against me. At UT I'd get out in 5 years with a Masters degree, something I'd really like to have. Food for thought.
Meh, I guess I'll stick to my computer games. Ta-ta!
Hmph. Hmph I say! I'm clueless despite my recent sluthing. You'd think things would be getting easier, but nosireeboberella. I talked to Mrs. Bast yesterday. She's got to be the best guidance councilor EVAR! Well, I like her at least. We talked about Maryville v. UT (Reg and Honors), and I think I have a slightly better understanding of the situation. I also saw Mark (I can't believe I've forgotten his last name; he was in my pre-cal and geometry class...) who is apparently in UT's Honors program. It sounded like he really liked it, which was quite encouraging. I guess if I went to UT I'd go to that, because I couldn't stand living at home. So it's back to Maryville v. UT Honors. Maryville would be a nice small school experience, but it seems like a substantial risk, in terms of people. Probability would be against me. At UT I'd get out in 5 years with a Masters degree, something I'd really like to have. Food for thought.
Meh, I guess I'll stick to my computer games. Ta-ta!
Looking into a mirror
of my future self. That's what Mr. Ross almost seems like. Obviously there are some differences. Determinism, my grandiloquence, my aimed for virtue, not to mention Mr. Ross's assumed "alternate lifestyle." But his lifestyle/predicament seems to be me.
It really is intriguing to hear different people's takes on him. Because it's like a different way of looking at myself. He's got the same cyclical/likely chemical imbalance that I have. "He's depressed" is an understatement. I dunno, for you Christians it's impossible to really understand it. You don't know pain and isolation until you leave the ideas of God, Heaven, and Hell behind. To know this really is it, it's terrible. I won't try to convince you, though I ought to. Suffice it to say that existentialism can only be made worse with determinism. Oh, lucky me... (Yes, the two can go together; I might explain it if anyone's actually interested).
And I'm falling into the trap. I don't know what I'll do to keep my sanity in my later years. Now I can look forward to something, but when the monotany becomes too much... The grim realization that I will be a nameless anonymity condemned to loneliness by my own hand for the rest of my natural existence isn't reassuring. Maybe I'm looking too far ahead... Or maybe I'm a Mr. Ross dead on. Meh, we'll see. Won't we?
It really is intriguing to hear different people's takes on him. Because it's like a different way of looking at myself. He's got the same cyclical/likely chemical imbalance that I have. "He's depressed" is an understatement. I dunno, for you Christians it's impossible to really understand it. You don't know pain and isolation until you leave the ideas of God, Heaven, and Hell behind. To know this really is it, it's terrible. I won't try to convince you, though I ought to. Suffice it to say that existentialism can only be made worse with determinism. Oh, lucky me... (Yes, the two can go together; I might explain it if anyone's actually interested).
And I'm falling into the trap. I don't know what I'll do to keep my sanity in my later years. Now I can look forward to something, but when the monotany becomes too much... The grim realization that I will be a nameless anonymity condemned to loneliness by my own hand for the rest of my natural existence isn't reassuring. Maybe I'm looking too far ahead... Or maybe I'm a Mr. Ross dead on. Meh, we'll see. Won't we?
Thursday, September 2
Busy, Please Hold
Me. Or don't. In fact, scratch the entire sentiment, minus the first word. There, that's better. I think we've all learned something today...
I sure have. Too much to do. I'm not used to this. Ellen and Caitlin are, it's in their blood. But me? I'm a bum through and through. Whatever am I doing? Today I even had the bright idea to have a Bridge Club on Wednesdays, but I'd have to have a concrete, steady support. And you people do enough already. Meh, too tired. Too late. Too litte. I'll just watch the Daily Show, my bastion of sanity...
I sure have. Too much to do. I'm not used to this. Ellen and Caitlin are, it's in their blood. But me? I'm a bum through and through. Whatever am I doing? Today I even had the bright idea to have a Bridge Club on Wednesdays, but I'd have to have a concrete, steady support. And you people do enough already. Meh, too tired. Too late. Too litte. I'll just watch the Daily Show, my bastion of sanity...
Wednesday, September 1
Grungy Grendel and The Sexy Exi's
For those of you needing band names, it's a possibility. Today we discussed existentialism further, so now a few of you lucky saps know my pain hehe. It's really an ugly philosophy. Wretchedly depressing as well. For those not in first, I argued the "optimistic" version of existentialism, blaming Grendel for his own despair and saying his suicide wasn't all that hot. I didn't articulate it that well, but it's the sort of thing you want to believe, because the alternative just isn't pretty. I was accused of being a hypocrite because I've not been the best of following the optimistic version, but when you become an existentialist and give up that holy security blanky, you might have a leg to stand on. I mean, most of you probably see it as philosophical nonsense, but the disturbing reality is that this is precisely what happens if you break out of the shell. I was Grendel in February, except I was a bit more accepted. I did have romantic conflicts on the opposite end of the spectrum and a solid foundation of determinism, so the dynamics differed a bit, but the similarities remain. I had to partially delude myself to keep on going, so I'd like to advise others to do the same if they're getting this thrust on them.
The cycle is real. I'm trapped in it. If I'm conscious of it, I can generally alleviate the lows to an acceptable point. But it takes the ability to almost objectively observe yourself and I don't think to use it often.
Meh, I'm just worried about those who fall into it and aren't guided well. Mr. Ross seems to be giving a particularly pessimistic version as it pertains to Grendel, even though I try to be as contrary as I can. I dunno, people in pain, especially mental pain, bother me. I'd like to help them fix it. But that requires a level of trust and commitment, yada yada. I just want to help others so they don't veer as close to the chasm as I did.
It's too bad I'm human. I err and disguise it as "reciprocity." I need to remove all traces of sadism, even that little offshoot. I guess it'll give me something to do.
School is entirely too stressful. I just want it to end. I don't know why I have to get good grades, I just do. Sorta like Sisyphus, except Sisyphus can't fail pushing the boulder. That makes it easier to smile... Joy.
The cycle is real. I'm trapped in it. If I'm conscious of it, I can generally alleviate the lows to an acceptable point. But it takes the ability to almost objectively observe yourself and I don't think to use it often.
Meh, I'm just worried about those who fall into it and aren't guided well. Mr. Ross seems to be giving a particularly pessimistic version as it pertains to Grendel, even though I try to be as contrary as I can. I dunno, people in pain, especially mental pain, bother me. I'd like to help them fix it. But that requires a level of trust and commitment, yada yada. I just want to help others so they don't veer as close to the chasm as I did.
It's too bad I'm human. I err and disguise it as "reciprocity." I need to remove all traces of sadism, even that little offshoot. I guess it'll give me something to do.
School is entirely too stressful. I just want it to end. I don't know why I have to get good grades, I just do. Sorta like Sisyphus, except Sisyphus can't fail pushing the boulder. That makes it easier to smile... Joy.