-Mer on Biomedical Ethics.
Ah me. I read over some of the things I write and they're either angsty or they remind me of a little girl. I guess it's because the non-angst stuff is a tad simplistic, but pure because I try not to corrupt it. There are some words and phrases that might make it more complex, but they would adulterate the meaning. So even though what I write often seems too disjointed and incomplete, I'll take it over dirty complexities.
Speaking of dirty complexities, there was some comical movement on that front today. No, not my sex life (still in the prenatal stage, thank Allah) you silly people. I was kicked out of the library today. As many people know, I've signed fake names for over a year. Well, the librarians finally had enough and kicked me out (after I signed the first name of a student other than my own, the infamous "Ellen Lofaro" of Loaded Questions fame (she knows why). Although I don't think that's the reason they called me out). They're justified, I have been disobeying and making their lives a tad difficult, but I had my reasons. I mean, their purpose is to keep track of how many people use the room and maybe keep track of who's where. But it's a completely flawed system. You can sign-in multiple times, use almost real names of people who don't exist, and write so sloppily no one at all will know who you are without getting caught. It's just because I'd done it so consistently that they knew I was doing it. I might have reverted, but they're so uptight and mean about most everything. They don't ask, they demand. They don't laugh, they scold. They get angry. And I just don't respond well to anger. When people get angry at me I generally stop respecting their opinions. I don't like the negativity. It can just be handled better. So I kept on not "behaving my age", and they finally got tired of it. But have no fear, I'm not beaten. I'll go in tomorrow, meek and arrogant at the same time, and sign my real name. Then, gradually, I'll warp it to "Dylam Neggs" and " Mylad Seggm" when they stop checking everyday. I'll write it really sloppy too, to make them question whether I'm writing it wrong or just improperly. Things would have been a lot easier if they'd just asked my name when they found I was doing it (I come in most everyday, afterall), and said "Oh, that Dylan!" and wrote my real name since my handwriting's pretty distinct. But no, their sense of order and mindnumbing desire for law overcame whatever minute sense of humor they have. People who can't take some dissent with some laughter just annoy me...
Ah well. It was part of what made my day, at any rate. You probably wouldn't believe the other part if I told you. So I won't. The year keeps slipping along, and for some reason for every smidge it gets worse, something else counteracts it to make it quite a bit better. My stars...
Edit: I still don't think the librarians know my name after all this time. I do declare...
Monday, November 8
Sunday, November 7
Star Light, Star Bright
As I travel my usual path, I'm overcome by a queer sense of despair, a loneliness I'm thoroughly unfamiliar with. Everything seems so much darker... so frightening. And I, I walk alone. Afraid, almost, of this bleak new world. What has changed? Why is it so... cold. So... dark.
I hadn't even noticed the moon's absence. I never really respected its light, until now. In fact, I never embraced the sun. I called it names, taunted it, begged it to leave me be. And when it left, the moon's light still assaulted my eyes. It was a burden. Yet now it's gone. The light, the warmth, the normality all... gone. The world is dark and cold. And I... I am alone.
The world’s sun is gone, so I turn to my star. My warmth. My sun. My moon. My light. But woe, it too is eclipsed. Some planet of more vibrant hues, greater size, larger orbit, with stronger, grander rings has passed between us. The star is not at fault, no, but still we are distant. I paid no attention to its absence, when the sun was shining and the moon lent its soft, lunar glow to the world. But now all I see are distant stars, so very far away. Where did my star go? I never realized how much warmth it had. A much needed commodity, on a night like tonight.
Ah, me. When the sun shines, a star is but a bonus. When the moon beams, a star is a comfort. But when all light fades, a star is a shining beacon against the darkness of this fickle, eternal cycle. The sun shows its shining face less and less; the once full moon is sliced night by night until finally not even a sliver remains. Then we appreciate our stars. As we stroll along on these empty nights, we seek them out. And those that have them are truly blessed.
Alas, my star is faded. I wish not on a star, but for it. Yet wishes are not realities. So I walk, alone, cold, dark. I know I too have left my star, continued on my own orbit, as it must travel its. It too has suffered as I do now. But if absence makes the heart grow fonder, let my heart stop growing and end this wretched absence! I like my star. No, I love it.
I hadn't even noticed the moon's absence. I never really respected its light, until now. In fact, I never embraced the sun. I called it names, taunted it, begged it to leave me be. And when it left, the moon's light still assaulted my eyes. It was a burden. Yet now it's gone. The light, the warmth, the normality all... gone. The world is dark and cold. And I... I am alone.
The world’s sun is gone, so I turn to my star. My warmth. My sun. My moon. My light. But woe, it too is eclipsed. Some planet of more vibrant hues, greater size, larger orbit, with stronger, grander rings has passed between us. The star is not at fault, no, but still we are distant. I paid no attention to its absence, when the sun was shining and the moon lent its soft, lunar glow to the world. But now all I see are distant stars, so very far away. Where did my star go? I never realized how much warmth it had. A much needed commodity, on a night like tonight.
Ah, me. When the sun shines, a star is but a bonus. When the moon beams, a star is a comfort. But when all light fades, a star is a shining beacon against the darkness of this fickle, eternal cycle. The sun shows its shining face less and less; the once full moon is sliced night by night until finally not even a sliver remains. Then we appreciate our stars. As we stroll along on these empty nights, we seek them out. And those that have them are truly blessed.
Alas, my star is faded. I wish not on a star, but for it. Yet wishes are not realities. So I walk, alone, cold, dark. I know I too have left my star, continued on my own orbit, as it must travel its. It too has suffered as I do now. But if absence makes the heart grow fonder, let my heart stop growing and end this wretched absence! I like my star. No, I love it.
Saturday, November 6
Bored
My classes are beginning to bore me. The only times Calculus is entertaining is when I get to take a test or quizzes. Otherwise, nada. But I still have to do the homework. Meh, go figure. However, in my near delirious state of mental idleness, to prevent myself from falling asleep I wrote some prose-etry. So here they are, uneditted (including gramatical mistakes), straight from the class discussed. Enjoy! (I'll warn ya now, it's a tad... odd. In a bad way. But that's public school for you, eh? New poll up, by the way.)
4 f(e)=A=r 0*f #
A Calculus Crypt
Although I am tempted, I dare not sleep, for troubles of old and Newton shall plague. I phase in and then out, round and about the room to preserve my reserve of patience. I ponder and plea for some activity that shall waken my poor soul from slumber, but regretfully it appears to me that this Calculus still has my number. Alas and alack, my slumped over back leaves my head to look for a pillow, but since she's off track and my mind's on the rack, I'm required to weep with the willow. And cries I now write for I no longer fight the boredom and idle depression, but though it sounds trite and is devoid of bite, my thoughts creep into rhyming recession.STOP I declare, for I'm going somewhere in which dreams overcome every difference and sum, and I still question why we all multiply every figure and shape in each plane and planescape in a binary code, a numerical ode, to a one and some zeros, our nihilistic heores, all counting the days till our greens turn to grays and I stand up and SCREAM
THEY ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM! "No use, all," is the morbid last call. Drink to me darling with a twinkle of eye and your Romantic sigh-ed of the story.
Econ, The Do
I demand to know why I supply an answer right in my mind's eye that's right when I use common cents that I have never earned. Earned, then spurned, is how this works, with bureacrats and business jerks all plying, trying, crying, lieing, buying my soul and entire whole attention span to dollar signs and whines of unemployed landminds planted within these coded pages, stirring rages, closing cages on what I was sure was true. But you, you fury causing thought that ought not to supply its quantity of persistence in sustaining its sad existence solely spreading lies intended to be known as fact. A fact? A fact! No use of tact is used when reality abused is defied and warped and lied upon its shell. Theories, theories, queries teary mindeyes. I find that now I've been turned blind, like Justice with her laws and rules, but all the these new rules are formed by fools who believe no God, so odd, yet blindly trust that rust shall not adulterate the rate of change in time of this out of control rhyme that deals in, but makes, no cents.
Economic Eccentricities
Fingers sans toes, whoever knows to press the keys to success. It's a breeze to cough and wheeze out notes from throats exhaling zounds of different sounds. A missed key here unlocks a trapdoor of discord that hides beneath the floor. A cry, a scream, a minor sigh of dark romance to dance and prance and waltz with faults of step in the 3/4 march of life "Hup One, hup three", he yells at me, and I don't care for his notes or stare as I unload a barrage of staccato bullets aimed at his heart. It's a start, in this sonorous war, but I fear it won't end before the double bar of death. I practice C's and miseries for coming concerts of despair and symphonies of agonies, oh listener beware! A masterpiece of writing, a sonata of silence, a concerto of nothing, a soundless,
e
m
p
t
y
VOID
4 f(e)=A=r 0*f #
A Calculus Crypt
Although I am tempted, I dare not sleep, for troubles of old and Newton shall plague. I phase in and then out, round and about the room to preserve my reserve of patience. I ponder and plea for some activity that shall waken my poor soul from slumber, but regretfully it appears to me that this Calculus still has my number. Alas and alack, my slumped over back leaves my head to look for a pillow, but since she's off track and my mind's on the rack, I'm required to weep with the willow. And cries I now write for I no longer fight the boredom and idle depression, but though it sounds trite and is devoid of bite, my thoughts creep into rhyming recession.STOP I declare, for I'm going somewhere in which dreams overcome every difference and sum, and I still question why we all multiply every figure and shape in each plane and planescape in a binary code, a numerical ode, to a one and some zeros, our nihilistic heores, all counting the days till our greens turn to grays and I stand up and SCREAM
THEY ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM! "No use, all," is the morbid last call. Drink to me darling with a twinkle of eye and your Romantic sigh-ed of the story.
Econ, The Do
I demand to know why I supply an answer right in my mind's eye that's right when I use common cents that I have never earned. Earned, then spurned, is how this works, with bureacrats and business jerks all plying, trying, crying, lieing, buying my soul and entire whole attention span to dollar signs and whines of unemployed landminds planted within these coded pages, stirring rages, closing cages on what I was sure was true. But you, you fury causing thought that ought not to supply its quantity of persistence in sustaining its sad existence solely spreading lies intended to be known as fact. A fact? A fact! No use of tact is used when reality abused is defied and warped and lied upon its shell. Theories, theories, queries teary mindeyes. I find that now I've been turned blind, like Justice with her laws and rules, but all the these new rules are formed by fools who believe no God, so odd, yet blindly trust that rust shall not adulterate the rate of change in time of this out of control rhyme that deals in, but makes, no cents.
Economic Eccentricities
Fingers sans toes, whoever knows to press the keys to success. It's a breeze to cough and wheeze out notes from throats exhaling zounds of different sounds. A missed key here unlocks a trapdoor of discord that hides beneath the floor. A cry, a scream, a minor sigh of dark romance to dance and prance and waltz with faults of step in the 3/4 march of life "Hup One, hup three", he yells at me, and I don't care for his notes or stare as I unload a barrage of staccato bullets aimed at his heart. It's a start, in this sonorous war, but I fear it won't end before the double bar of death. I practice C's and miseries for coming concerts of despair and symphonies of agonies, oh listener beware! A masterpiece of writing, a sonata of silence, a concerto of nothing, a soundless,
e
m
p
t
y
VOID
Sin
My greatest sin is envy. You were expecting gluttony, right? From most appearances, it might be sloth. But there are some things, important things, that I do do. I see sloth as not doing what has to be done. I do what I need to, I just don't do it promptly. I've too little self-esteem for pride, I repress all the lust I can, I don't think badly of others often enough to get angry, and I'm any but greedy for material possessions.
So that leaves envy. And I have it bad. Mainly I'm envious of power. Not exactly physical power, or political, or the "traditional" uses of the word. I want to be able to create/perform works that have real power. I see so many who can and do, and since I feel inadequate in that regard, I'm envious instead of appreciative. It takes away from other people's accomplishments so because I try to find flaws to make myself feel better. Or I don't at all, and I slip and slide down a watery plastic slope of depression. Oh the grass stains on my fragile frame, believe you me.
I suppose the desire for power is rooted in my lack of purpose. For those who might not have picked up on my oh so subtle hints, the main reason I'm still living is delusion. The problem is, I see the delusion and know I'm doing it, so it doesn't work all that well. I crave a meaning, or at the very least a tangible, concrete value. I shouldn't, I have meaning to at least a few people, but I want to be able to affect more. It's like a futile obsession, because I'll never believe it when I do, if I actually did it would fade so fast it would be equitable to worthless, and it's all dust on the wind after a few years anyway.
I don't know, I listen to a song, see a movie, watch an actor, read a book, and I'm moved. I want to do that to other people. It's at once a depressant, an impetus, and an inspiration. And when I face my failure (whether it's just perception or actually existant), I just become more envious of those who succeed.
Really, I've been falling back on my novel a whole lot. I keep thinking "this will be the culmination, this will be the ideas and affect I want to achieve. This will be exactly what I want to create so I can rest easy for the duration of my life, living my piddly little anticlimatic math teacher goal but not caring I'm not something more because I have created something good." And there's where it gets even worse. I'll write my novel and get feedback (I'll probably have you all do surveys). Now, the positive I won't believe. Especially if it's lukewarm, unenthused, "polite" positive. Don't give me that. I want truthful results, but I obviously want them to be good too. So I'll try to put a great deal of effort into this. You know Perse, in all its 40+ pages, only had about 20000 words? I want to at least double that. This thing is going to be... different. I'm looking forward to it more than I've looked forward to much of anything in recent memory. And yet, I know it will be a huge letdown. But... we'll see. Be honest. I'm a paranoid, timid little ball of nerves.
Oh dear.
So that leaves envy. And I have it bad. Mainly I'm envious of power. Not exactly physical power, or political, or the "traditional" uses of the word. I want to be able to create/perform works that have real power. I see so many who can and do, and since I feel inadequate in that regard, I'm envious instead of appreciative. It takes away from other people's accomplishments so because I try to find flaws to make myself feel better. Or I don't at all, and I slip and slide down a watery plastic slope of depression. Oh the grass stains on my fragile frame, believe you me.
I suppose the desire for power is rooted in my lack of purpose. For those who might not have picked up on my oh so subtle hints, the main reason I'm still living is delusion. The problem is, I see the delusion and know I'm doing it, so it doesn't work all that well. I crave a meaning, or at the very least a tangible, concrete value. I shouldn't, I have meaning to at least a few people, but I want to be able to affect more. It's like a futile obsession, because I'll never believe it when I do, if I actually did it would fade so fast it would be equitable to worthless, and it's all dust on the wind after a few years anyway.
I don't know, I listen to a song, see a movie, watch an actor, read a book, and I'm moved. I want to do that to other people. It's at once a depressant, an impetus, and an inspiration. And when I face my failure (whether it's just perception or actually existant), I just become more envious of those who succeed.
Really, I've been falling back on my novel a whole lot. I keep thinking "this will be the culmination, this will be the ideas and affect I want to achieve. This will be exactly what I want to create so I can rest easy for the duration of my life, living my piddly little anticlimatic math teacher goal but not caring I'm not something more because I have created something good." And there's where it gets even worse. I'll write my novel and get feedback (I'll probably have you all do surveys). Now, the positive I won't believe. Especially if it's lukewarm, unenthused, "polite" positive. Don't give me that. I want truthful results, but I obviously want them to be good too. So I'll try to put a great deal of effort into this. You know Perse, in all its 40+ pages, only had about 20000 words? I want to at least double that. This thing is going to be... different. I'm looking forward to it more than I've looked forward to much of anything in recent memory. And yet, I know it will be a huge letdown. But... we'll see. Be honest. I'm a paranoid, timid little ball of nerves.
Oh dear.
Thursday, November 4
Wednesday, November 3
When Vice Principals go Mad on Radio (Or Madness at the Polls)
"Breaker 19, Breaker 19, this is Sugar Cube, we've got a domestic disturbance in front of the auditorium, over."
"Sugar Cube, this is Salt Block, do you need back up, over?"
"Salt Block, we have two males approximately 15 years of age apparently quarrelling over whether twinkies are more delicious than the blood of the innocent. They have crowbars, I'm going in, over."
"Sugar Cube, I'm calling in the Tazer-Guard, OVER."
"Salt Block, I'm gonna have to use my broadsword to control the situation OVER!"
"Sugar Cube, I need you to abort the mission, I repeat, ABORT OVER."
"Salt Block, I'm currently engaged in a firefight with malatov cocktails and a whole lotta hand grenades, I'm sending in the assassin kangaroos, OVER!"
"ABORT Sugar Cube, ABORT!"
"Breaking the line... can't take... kamikaze chimapanzees.... need.... more... VODKA!!!"
"WE HAVE NO LIQUOR!!! ONLY FRUIT PUNCH, OVER!"
"THE LIBERTARIANS ARE EVERYWHE-" *crash* *pop* *BANG* *BANG*
"Sugar Cube? Sugar Cube! NOOOOO"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heh, I got bored yesterday. Really, really bored. So that's one of the five "pieces" I wrote on a whim. It was kinda fun.
Anyway, election didn't turn out "as planned." There were no epic cataclysms, Ragnarok did not occur, nor did I transcend my physical form to the blissful angelic state that awaits my wayward soul. But Shannondale did get a Badnarik vote, so it's all good baby! I was depressed this morning, but Cardboard proved a wonderful cure to what ailed me, so I'm in good spirits. Tomorrow, and most of the rest of the semester, looks pretty bleak. English, Calculus, Economics, and Band all involve more work and/or boredom than I'd prefer in an average day. It's especially bad since I'm mostly decided on what I'll do in and after college, so I've little incentive to work now. Go figure.
Other than that, not much else is new. My mother said one of the most painful things to me after reading my letters (I may post another sometime) from yesterday: "Forget Math, you should be a writer." Some people have so much nerve...
Finally, I bought a pirate game at Gameboard today! (We went to the mall to perform that dreaded ritual of futility, clothes shopping. But no pants would fit me at JCPenny, so I get to go pantsless! Or I'll have to borrow some of yours. Hey, we teenage boys want in people's pants for a good reason!) Anyway, it's a neat little game. Hopefully I can set it up in Cardboard next time. Hope to see you all there!
"Sugar Cube, this is Salt Block, do you need back up, over?"
"Salt Block, we have two males approximately 15 years of age apparently quarrelling over whether twinkies are more delicious than the blood of the innocent. They have crowbars, I'm going in, over."
"Sugar Cube, I'm calling in the Tazer-Guard, OVER."
"Salt Block, I'm gonna have to use my broadsword to control the situation OVER!"
"Sugar Cube, I need you to abort the mission, I repeat, ABORT OVER."
"Salt Block, I'm currently engaged in a firefight with malatov cocktails and a whole lotta hand grenades, I'm sending in the assassin kangaroos, OVER!"
"ABORT Sugar Cube, ABORT!"
"Breaking the line... can't take... kamikaze chimapanzees.... need.... more... VODKA!!!"
"WE HAVE NO LIQUOR!!! ONLY FRUIT PUNCH, OVER!"
"THE LIBERTARIANS ARE EVERYWHE-" *crash* *pop* *BANG* *BANG*
"Sugar Cube? Sugar Cube! NOOOOO"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heh, I got bored yesterday. Really, really bored. So that's one of the five "pieces" I wrote on a whim. It was kinda fun.
Anyway, election didn't turn out "as planned." There were no epic cataclysms, Ragnarok did not occur, nor did I transcend my physical form to the blissful angelic state that awaits my wayward soul. But Shannondale did get a Badnarik vote, so it's all good baby! I was depressed this morning, but Cardboard proved a wonderful cure to what ailed me, so I'm in good spirits. Tomorrow, and most of the rest of the semester, looks pretty bleak. English, Calculus, Economics, and Band all involve more work and/or boredom than I'd prefer in an average day. It's especially bad since I'm mostly decided on what I'll do in and after college, so I've little incentive to work now. Go figure.
Other than that, not much else is new. My mother said one of the most painful things to me after reading my letters (I may post another sometime) from yesterday: "Forget Math, you should be a writer." Some people have so much nerve...
Finally, I bought a pirate game at Gameboard today! (We went to the mall to perform that dreaded ritual of futility, clothes shopping. But no pants would fit me at JCPenny, so I get to go pantsless! Or I'll have to borrow some of yours. Hey, we teenage boys want in people's pants for a good reason!) Anyway, it's a neat little game. Hopefully I can set it up in Cardboard next time. Hope to see you all there!