1. The Big Lebowski was disappointing in its comic qualities. I'd heard so much, but it was rather lacking. Maybe that's because I'd heard so much. I dunno. I did like the "common man" amidst all this crazy philosophy and confusion of the "big rollers" who didn't bowl at all. But that's just me.
2. Firefox should be the browser choice of everyone. Talking to Elizabeth, I think I've figured out that it is so good because it runs off of the hopes and dreams of America's youth. That's why they're all cynical, disillusioned, and materialistic. Hey, it's free. If you can't beat em... then you're not into S&M.
Monday, January 17
Sunday, January 16
Saturday, January 15
Son of Mann
Well, I watched "The Terminal" tonight and, as usual, it got me thinking. Fortunately on more positive thoughts than last Friday (although the existentialist aspect was quite prevalent, what with the alienation and confusion; the end result would have been much more inspiring if it didn't seem like the characters who befriended the main weren't so... nice. It was almost illogical, so it wasn't as believable. Anyway...). I, once again, was moved because, as I've mentioned before, I am really a little girl. Or emphatic. Or both.
Anyway, once again I was stirred by the desire to make something moving, and, overlooking my novel, I found it insufficient a device. To create beauty, something powerful that "tugs on one's heartstrings", I think you need a vision. A complete vision, a larger vision. I deal with details. I read word by word, not paragraph by paragraph. I don't see a painting all at once, I have to focus. And the focusing takes away from the effect. I think. I don't know. Maybe it's a justification of my poor writing or lackluster ideas. The execution, perhaps. As usual, your guess is as good as mine.
But I've decided it's ok for this effort not to be spectacular. I have a plan. Instead of a singular novel, I want to create a trilogy. "Dear sweet mother of inservice days, why is he taking on MORE work!?" you cry. Well, it's not immediate. I want to write this novel when I'm 18, fresh out of adolescence with little perspective, lots of uncertainty, and quite a bit of stress. I want to see how I progress. The next milestone in one's life seems to be 40. At 40 you're "over the hill" which, oddly, just occurred to me tonight that "over the hill" refers to one's life expectancy. At 40, half of your life is through. You're coasting downhill from this point forward. That's why it's so depressing. So 40 will be a good age. Then I want to write my last novel at 80. If I live that long, and judging by current habits of self preservation, I'll be lucky to make it to 40. We'll see. If I make it to 80, I want to write the third in the trilogy. The first about Avery Mann. The second about his son. The third about his son. Ironic, because at that point I may have grandchildren of my own. It's an impossible distance and an idea that I'm likely to forget in a month. 22 years til the next installment? It sounds impossible. Here's to a dream, though. No matter the result, it's an effort worth undertaking. Think of the result. Even if just one of my descendants reads them... my legacy, perhaps. One I find perfectly suitable. You'll have to remind me at our high school reunion years from now.
I'm crazy. But a harmless crazy. For now... check back with me after half my life's over and we'll see. Until then... Cheers!
Anyway, once again I was stirred by the desire to make something moving, and, overlooking my novel, I found it insufficient a device. To create beauty, something powerful that "tugs on one's heartstrings", I think you need a vision. A complete vision, a larger vision. I deal with details. I read word by word, not paragraph by paragraph. I don't see a painting all at once, I have to focus. And the focusing takes away from the effect. I think. I don't know. Maybe it's a justification of my poor writing or lackluster ideas. The execution, perhaps. As usual, your guess is as good as mine.
But I've decided it's ok for this effort not to be spectacular. I have a plan. Instead of a singular novel, I want to create a trilogy. "Dear sweet mother of inservice days, why is he taking on MORE work!?" you cry. Well, it's not immediate. I want to write this novel when I'm 18, fresh out of adolescence with little perspective, lots of uncertainty, and quite a bit of stress. I want to see how I progress. The next milestone in one's life seems to be 40. At 40 you're "over the hill" which, oddly, just occurred to me tonight that "over the hill" refers to one's life expectancy. At 40, half of your life is through. You're coasting downhill from this point forward. That's why it's so depressing. So 40 will be a good age. Then I want to write my last novel at 80. If I live that long, and judging by current habits of self preservation, I'll be lucky to make it to 40. We'll see. If I make it to 80, I want to write the third in the trilogy. The first about Avery Mann. The second about his son. The third about his son. Ironic, because at that point I may have grandchildren of my own. It's an impossible distance and an idea that I'm likely to forget in a month. 22 years til the next installment? It sounds impossible. Here's to a dream, though. No matter the result, it's an effort worth undertaking. Think of the result. Even if just one of my descendants reads them... my legacy, perhaps. One I find perfectly suitable. You'll have to remind me at our high school reunion years from now.
I'm crazy. But a harmless crazy. For now... check back with me after half my life's over and we'll see. Until then... Cheers!
Thursday, January 13
Two notes
1. I hit it to make it work. The computer wouldn't start, so I hit the blasted thing and it worked as well (or poorly) as it normally does. Makes ya think. No, Elizabeth, I know what YOU'RE thinking, and you really ought to stop.
2. I hope Mr. Ross has a sense of humor. I wrote, more or less, a note on the card we went to the Ross's since Mr. Ross's mom broke her hip: "Ms. Ross, I sincerely hope you get better. Mr. Ross come back soon, existentialism is meaningless without you." It's better than David's "Come back Mr. Ross, I'm tired of doing work!" Or David Duncan's pun, referring to the perky insect he wrote under inside the card "BEE sure to get well soon." Some people.
2. I hope Mr. Ross has a sense of humor. I wrote, more or less, a note on the card we went to the Ross's since Mr. Ross's mom broke her hip: "Ms. Ross, I sincerely hope you get better. Mr. Ross come back soon, existentialism is meaningless without you." It's better than David's "Come back Mr. Ross, I'm tired of doing work!" Or David Duncan's pun, referring to the perky insect he wrote under inside the card "BEE sure to get well soon." Some people.
Tuesday, January 11
Just for Caitlin
Big props to the Student Council on a quick effort to get money to the Tsunami victims. Hopefully more, better publicized efforts will follow, but it's a cause I really support. I look at 9/11 and people with terminal illnesses and think that there are larger pictures that should be addressed instead of the individuals. But the tsunami was on such a scale that it deserves as much attention as it can get. We were shocked, awed, and massively changed by around three thousand deaths in a terrorist attack. This is at least 50 times 9/11 in its death toll alone, not to mention the widespread devastation. It fills my heart with a literal surge of joy (strangest feeling) when I read of people donating, especially countries giving a really significant amount (although given the total we've supplied to Iraq, our tsunami relief seems lacking). At any rate, good job Student Council. I deride your dances and lack of any real meaningful power in the school, but this sort of thing is what the group ought to be about. More people should follow its example. A Cardboard tournament for Tsunami victims? You never know...
Sunday, January 9
Saturday, January 8
Existential Desire
I am a singular disaster of humanity. This will be one of those typical Saturday rants combining lunacy, angst, self-pity, anger, hopelessness, and an everpervasive sense of defeated resignation that maybe one person reads because everyone else is either too disgusted, embarassed, bored, or just plain apathetic to care. And that's quite fine. Because, at the moment, everything just seems downright pitiful. You see, the existential beast has once again reared its emaciated frame to declare itself king of the heap of bones that is myself. But, as always, it is just "at the moment." For it's all words and temporary emotions, the past nothing but things to yearn for and avoid, the future something to fear or look at with stupidity. What has prompted this arrousal of what, by most signs, had been sleeping for quite some time? I'm not really sure. I'm just angry. I've let my blasted guard down, let that fool of a romantic take control of the council that supposedly resides in my twisted head and now it's lead me on some fool errand's where it actually convinced me I was content. I may even have had hope. Of course, the existentialist is laughing that cruel, mocking laugh he generally does when the romantic sticks his hand in the garbage disposal that is existence trying to find some gem of purpose only to shredded. Oh, it's clear now. My path, what I really "ought to do" with the rest of my pitiful life, is to find some boring, mundane job and die alone in obscurity. For that would be the honest way. I wouldn't be tempted to fool myself then. I would forgive all trespasses, try to be a generally pleasant person, but turn into that introvert who was always "such a nice boy" whenever the cops interview the others in his appartment after a murder/suicide. Actually, I don't think there'd be any murder. That might be too much of a justification.
Now, one might think at this very moment I'm depressed and miserable. Actually, I've only got mild anxiety and anger. It's dull anger, though, so I'm not shaking. Oh, speaking of shaking, that's what my father was referring to, without his knowledge, when I arrived home tonight. Me, angry at existence and myself over matters as important as anything in the coloring book of Fate, and he has the gall to tell me he's failed me as a father. I can only assume he'd been drinking, because he only lets his self-pity show whenever he loses control. As you might be able to tell, that is not a genetic problem as I generally let it show whenever I feel like it. At any rate, this time he hasn't paid enough attention to me and my oboe. Apparently my (I'm so tempted to start dropping f-bombs, but because it's one of the last refuges of pointless control I senselessly force upon myself, I'll refrain and let the stress/frustration build more) attacks of bodily convulsions and inability to read whenever I tryout for grades could have been lessened or prevented if he'd held my hand or something ridiculous like that. No, dear papa, my problem is that despite my frequent attempts to convince myself that I am above accomplishment, this was my one chance to justify all the thousands of dollars you squandered on oboe lessons. And the pressure was too great and in typical fashion I overcame that wonderful drug that worked so well and I blew the entire thing. Oh yes, it was quite abysmal. In fact, I'm almost certain it's a contributing factor to this rant. I didn't want it to same I'm decent or anything. I wanted it to justify wasting money. I wouldn't care if it was my money, my effort that was thrown away, but whenever it's other people's I feel as if I have responsibilities and obligations I simply didn't uphold. It just occurred to me that some of you may not have known I was trying out for Sr. Clinic, although since "there is no try" it may be more apt to say "I did not Sr. Clinic."
And then I'm spurred to figure out exactly what I want out of this trash heap. What do I want? Everything that pops into my mind I'm once again aware is only temporary. Every single blasted thing. (Oh, almost a curse word! Aren't I risque?) I could love, but that would fade. I could write the "Great American Novel" as my feeble attempt at creation has been so derisively called, but that will be a flop, a confusing jumble of well-intended sentiments that gets a "I liked the message, but the execution ruined the idea." I'll have to put that on the cover... I could become a great actor, but that's right... not only do I have no talent for entertainment, I also lack the ability to perform under any sort of expectations or strain. I could be that math teacher, but to what purpose? At the moment I don't want to be bothered. I'm tired. I don't really want anything except peace, being responsible for only myself, the ability to fade into the background, and to die. Oh, it's not some suicidal wish, it's simply the desire to stop delaying the inevitable because the inevitable bothers you so much. This is the anxiety, the strain, the weight that hangs above oneself when you have an assignment to do and you keep procrastinating on it. I have a life to end and I'm sitting here wasting time on the computer. It's good for all sorts of procrastination, you know.
Have no fear, dear reader, if you actually do exist and I'm not ranting to myself (for I believe in your position this would be something that would be rather difficult to read. So... I'm sorry?). This is only a mood. For I am a man of moods. Aren't we all? Why should my wayward emotions be any different from yours? I suppose some of you get upset over petty things that lead to lesser levels of anxiety and frustration. Then, perhaps, you look at me, whining about a lack of direction and purpose. "'Everything's going to fade, we're all going to die eventually, boohoohoo.' Geez. For crying out loud, get over it. I've got more important things to worry about. You don't know my pain. Get over it." I don't know your pain, that's quite right.
I don't know anything. I preach, I advise, I try to aid, but on what ground do I stand that I would be in such a position to render such a service? Am I a hypocrite? Oh, surely, in many areas not brought to my attention. But not in my advice. No, I think I am just a failure. What have I failed? I've failed to find a purpose. I've failed to maintain the illusion. I let myself go. I let my self-control, my rigid repression ease, lessen, rot and I forgot to keep it in moderation. Or did I? What have I done that is so very extreme? In fact, I still won't curse. Even in the foulest of moods, I won't let myself write four letters and press "send." I forgot. I always forget. Every lesson. Every rule. Every guideline to mental success and the route to becoming the type of person I ideally would like to be. Then I remember and think "I knew this, I've been over this before." And a week, a day, an hour later it's gone. Just like emotion. Words. It's all grains of sand, swirled in the wind then deposited into some dune we call a psyche. The wind blows, our mind changes, our perspective is altered, and we dance the dance again. Which will it be next? The Puritan? The introvert? The Romantic? The failed dreamer? The depressed teenager? Can this all be dismissed as childish rantings? When does it become "unacceptable"? When do I "have to grow up"? Or maybe I'm already too grown up. Maybe I'm thinking of things no one should even consider. Maybe I'm thinking and that's the problem. Oh yes, remember that one? Thinking is what causes all my problems? Everything seems to be a cause and cure for all my problems.
And now, you'll finish reading this (if you actually read the whole thing) and say some irreverent quip or one lined response that is supposed to alleviate it all. Or you'll remain silent. Like most of the time. I respond. I try to add my own input. But I'm wrong, confound it. I'm wrong. Someone say something that's close to right. Someone respond with something of some use. Or don't. Because in a day, an hour, a few minutes it'll fade. And I'll look at this and think "Well, isn't this pointless and embarassing. I ought to delete it." But I leave it up. A testament to a moment. Perhaps I think it will last, on some level, however wrong that may be. Did you notice that? I just threw you some symbolism. Maybe we're all symbolic of something. God's writing a book. Am I the main character? Are you? Does it matter? I remember Rosencrantz said something like "I remember a time when there were no questions." I do too. Was I happy then? I can't remember. I'm not sure anyone can.
Now, one might think at this very moment I'm depressed and miserable. Actually, I've only got mild anxiety and anger. It's dull anger, though, so I'm not shaking. Oh, speaking of shaking, that's what my father was referring to, without his knowledge, when I arrived home tonight. Me, angry at existence and myself over matters as important as anything in the coloring book of Fate, and he has the gall to tell me he's failed me as a father. I can only assume he'd been drinking, because he only lets his self-pity show whenever he loses control. As you might be able to tell, that is not a genetic problem as I generally let it show whenever I feel like it. At any rate, this time he hasn't paid enough attention to me and my oboe. Apparently my (I'm so tempted to start dropping f-bombs, but because it's one of the last refuges of pointless control I senselessly force upon myself, I'll refrain and let the stress/frustration build more) attacks of bodily convulsions and inability to read whenever I tryout for grades could have been lessened or prevented if he'd held my hand or something ridiculous like that. No, dear papa, my problem is that despite my frequent attempts to convince myself that I am above accomplishment, this was my one chance to justify all the thousands of dollars you squandered on oboe lessons. And the pressure was too great and in typical fashion I overcame that wonderful drug that worked so well and I blew the entire thing. Oh yes, it was quite abysmal. In fact, I'm almost certain it's a contributing factor to this rant. I didn't want it to same I'm decent or anything. I wanted it to justify wasting money. I wouldn't care if it was my money, my effort that was thrown away, but whenever it's other people's I feel as if I have responsibilities and obligations I simply didn't uphold. It just occurred to me that some of you may not have known I was trying out for Sr. Clinic, although since "there is no try" it may be more apt to say "I did not Sr. Clinic."
And then I'm spurred to figure out exactly what I want out of this trash heap. What do I want? Everything that pops into my mind I'm once again aware is only temporary. Every single blasted thing. (Oh, almost a curse word! Aren't I risque?) I could love, but that would fade. I could write the "Great American Novel" as my feeble attempt at creation has been so derisively called, but that will be a flop, a confusing jumble of well-intended sentiments that gets a "I liked the message, but the execution ruined the idea." I'll have to put that on the cover... I could become a great actor, but that's right... not only do I have no talent for entertainment, I also lack the ability to perform under any sort of expectations or strain. I could be that math teacher, but to what purpose? At the moment I don't want to be bothered. I'm tired. I don't really want anything except peace, being responsible for only myself, the ability to fade into the background, and to die. Oh, it's not some suicidal wish, it's simply the desire to stop delaying the inevitable because the inevitable bothers you so much. This is the anxiety, the strain, the weight that hangs above oneself when you have an assignment to do and you keep procrastinating on it. I have a life to end and I'm sitting here wasting time on the computer. It's good for all sorts of procrastination, you know.
Have no fear, dear reader, if you actually do exist and I'm not ranting to myself (for I believe in your position this would be something that would be rather difficult to read. So... I'm sorry?). This is only a mood. For I am a man of moods. Aren't we all? Why should my wayward emotions be any different from yours? I suppose some of you get upset over petty things that lead to lesser levels of anxiety and frustration. Then, perhaps, you look at me, whining about a lack of direction and purpose. "'Everything's going to fade, we're all going to die eventually, boohoohoo.' Geez. For crying out loud, get over it. I've got more important things to worry about. You don't know my pain. Get over it." I don't know your pain, that's quite right.
I don't know anything. I preach, I advise, I try to aid, but on what ground do I stand that I would be in such a position to render such a service? Am I a hypocrite? Oh, surely, in many areas not brought to my attention. But not in my advice. No, I think I am just a failure. What have I failed? I've failed to find a purpose. I've failed to maintain the illusion. I let myself go. I let my self-control, my rigid repression ease, lessen, rot and I forgot to keep it in moderation. Or did I? What have I done that is so very extreme? In fact, I still won't curse. Even in the foulest of moods, I won't let myself write four letters and press "send." I forgot. I always forget. Every lesson. Every rule. Every guideline to mental success and the route to becoming the type of person I ideally would like to be. Then I remember and think "I knew this, I've been over this before." And a week, a day, an hour later it's gone. Just like emotion. Words. It's all grains of sand, swirled in the wind then deposited into some dune we call a psyche. The wind blows, our mind changes, our perspective is altered, and we dance the dance again. Which will it be next? The Puritan? The introvert? The Romantic? The failed dreamer? The depressed teenager? Can this all be dismissed as childish rantings? When does it become "unacceptable"? When do I "have to grow up"? Or maybe I'm already too grown up. Maybe I'm thinking of things no one should even consider. Maybe I'm thinking and that's the problem. Oh yes, remember that one? Thinking is what causes all my problems? Everything seems to be a cause and cure for all my problems.
And now, you'll finish reading this (if you actually read the whole thing) and say some irreverent quip or one lined response that is supposed to alleviate it all. Or you'll remain silent. Like most of the time. I respond. I try to add my own input. But I'm wrong, confound it. I'm wrong. Someone say something that's close to right. Someone respond with something of some use. Or don't. Because in a day, an hour, a few minutes it'll fade. And I'll look at this and think "Well, isn't this pointless and embarassing. I ought to delete it." But I leave it up. A testament to a moment. Perhaps I think it will last, on some level, however wrong that may be. Did you notice that? I just threw you some symbolism. Maybe we're all symbolic of something. God's writing a book. Am I the main character? Are you? Does it matter? I remember Rosencrantz said something like "I remember a time when there were no questions." I do too. Was I happy then? I can't remember. I'm not sure anyone can.