Beach of War

Well, I figured I'd write since I don't want to start my homework, but I've nothing else to do and unfortunately, just within the last 40minutes, my great ship of "Obstinance" to The Sadist in the Sky seems to have crashed ashore. Hopefully I can get her back into the water to continue traversing the sea, but it's not easy. To extend this metaphor, I've got an ocean to sail, a long, torrentuous, mind-numbing ocean ahead before I reach the Promised Land. I'm tired of sailing on an ocean. I know my destination, I know what awaits me and it is relatively good. But I just want to skip the sailing and get to the far horizon. Chemistry and Spanish, for instance. They're driving me crazy! So much to know, so much to keep in mind. I can't logic my way out like in Math or make things up like English. There's just so much with note ven the deceny of a chronological system like History. Just a jumble. And not a fun "dorfidenb" one either. It would be so nice just to skip college and get on with the final 50 or so years of my life.

But as time travel is not available, my only recourse is righteous indignation. Things aren't perfect and it's not my fault. It's "The Creator's." It is the fault of that warped, sadistic individual who came up with this twisted little reality of ours. Albeit, there are some good things in it, but it could have been perfect! And it's not. Thus, I have to battle reality and despair and right now, the "weapon of choice" in this duel of will is anger. It's not right, it's not fair, and I won't stand for it. So I won't comply with its demands. There is no room for negotiation.

On a ...different... note, last night/this morning alternated between pure terror, hope, fun, frustration, and mainly exhaustion. I stayed up until 2AM working on my History work. And then, what do I get from it? My teacher doesn't even take up a lick of it! We run out of time and everything! After all that work. It's just not right! I'll do it eventually, sure, but it just won't be the same... Ah well.

Time. It's a peculiar thing. But that will have to wait until next time...

Dyl 1, God 0

And counting! Yes, after last weekend which is arguably one of the craziest I've underwent, I must have purged some sort of demon or possibly a very irate woodchuck from my oh so tormented pysche. Whatever the result, writing one of those nonsense poems actually aided me somehow and I managed to make a breakthrough I had made before, but not really focused on. Yes, I've decided the "Powers that Am" are just plain sadistic. That's the long and short of the matter. I'm going to call it "God" for simplicity's sake, but it could be a variety of uncomprehendable super-entities.

Anywho, my new goal is to stop letting life get to me. The stress, all forms, has just been pulling me down, pushing me back into a well of despair I frankly find a tad too cramped and just a bit too musty for my exquisite tastes. Therefore I've launched an "Anti-Depression" campaign where I treat everyday like a battle with God throwing me disappointment-filled dodgeballs while I attempt to deftly dodge the dangerous Dyl-desolating destroyers. Yesterday, overall, proved to be a relative success, thus the above score. Today, while it has had its' share of pitfalls, has likewise turned up relatively sunny. And by sunny, I mean nice, pleasant, warm sunny not scalding, scorching "DEAR FAKE LORD MY UNDERPANTS ARE ON FIRE AND I'M NOT EVEN WEARING ANY" sunny. So let's hope that this, unlike my myriad of other plans, does not fail. The true score is probably more like God 316137211, Love 11111211, Dyl -15. But I can start a new slate anytime I want because it's my crazy game and I make the gosh-dern rules!

On another, not so positive note, I've yet to begin studying for my AP tests. Although I could, hypothetically, make 5's on all if I wanted to work for them, I'm fairly certain 3's and 4's will suffice at any college I go to (meaning not crem de la crem or however you dirty frenchies spout it). Thus, I'm not really stressing out over them. Que sera, sera. I have three complications, one of which will be gone in a matter of months, one which will be taken care of in a matter of slightly more months, and the third which I won't need to deal with for at least 6 or 7 years. Even then, the last is the least of my worries. So, with three main obstacles and all essentially matters of time and me making one or two choices, I'm about set. Everything in between, while requiring work, shouldn't be too difficult. If I let my standards drop. And if I have my way, drop they shall!

So that's about all. A cheery update, compared to the normal chain of patheticness, and hopefully one of many. Quite possibly I'll fall down and God will start racking up points sometime very soon, but I can hope, right? I can't? hmmm... Well, I will anyway! Until next time and way after that.

Love

I love her and she loves me, entwined for all eternity.
Oh joy of joys! Oh bliss of bliss! How I embrace her every kiss!
Never alone, never in pain; this happiness I can’t contain!
Her voice, her eyes, her shining face all put each Angel to disgrace!
How could I live before she came? How could I think without her name?
All else is her, she’s all I see; I’ll always love her and she will me.

And then, I wake.
A dream. A dream. Always a dream!
Everything you see or seem!
No, a dream’s too nice a word.
It implies joy, oh how absurd!
Nightmare! Now that fits the bill!
It’s apt for sure, it’s just Fate’s will.
I did not choose to dream that lie!
Why won’t it leave, why won’t it die?
It haunts me, every night and day;
A disgusting monster I cannot slay.
I cry and scream; I fight and moan,
I grovel to its’ corpse-built throne.
I beg, I plea, “Just go away!
I’ll watch next time my idle play!
Please, please, please just let me be!
I just want peace, I just want free…”
Not a word is said or done,
The fight is lost, I turn and run.
I know not where I run, but do.
I must escape, escape from you.
And yet I tire, for I am man…

I am alone.
The gray is also here.
It left once, to go get milk.
I think I told it to go.
But it came back.
Swirling voids my playmates.
We waltz to a band, serenading others that do not matter.
They do not care.
Neither do we.
For we are alone.

I wake…
Love! Oh blessed love return!
Reject me not, my heart doth yearn!
How could I say you were untrue?
How could I say I hated you?
Lies! All lies! I love you so!
Return to me! Please do not go!
Just please leave me not alone
to dance with death in monotone!
I desire joy, not emptiness!
Please, dear love, retrieve my bliss…
I try, but I’ve run out…

She does not care.
She never will.
She pays no mind.
She did, until
Time passed on,
Off it did go!
Oh blessed time,
You go so slow.
Then she stopped.
An ambush kill.
She loves not me.
I love her still.

I wake…
Dear God, what have I done!
I give my life, I run and run!
Where is my answer? No, I repeal.
Where is my love? My love that's real!
I’ll not play your petty game.
I shall not dance, I am not tame.
You did this to me! I know twas you!
Do not deny! You know it’s true!
So finish the deed! End it at last!
I’ll search no more! I quit…this…cast.

Now. Then. Forever. I sleep.

For the Love of Love.

Love. It's a topic I only vaguely allude to here. Basically because it's probably one of the most personal subjects there is. But tonight (it's still night for me), spurred by a friend's "issues", as we'll put them, I've decided to breach the sacred bastion and step onto these hollowed grounds. Love is probably the best and worst thing there is. When it's shared, it's probably the highest level of emotion and happiness a human can achieve. Nothing else should matter. Nothing else really can. All your troubles seem smaller, all your pains less hurtful, all your moments alone not so lonely. There's only that one person who truly loves you and makes your entire existence euphoria. At least, that's what I, as a self-repressing romantic, interpret it as.

However, I've yet to experience the above. And, in ugly, disgusting reality, I don't know how true the above ideal is. I could hope that I'll achieve it. But I'm a realist, if not a pessimist. I think reality will get in the way. Tearing, gnawing, thrashing into my blessed illusion, leaving a mutated dwarf of that relic Nirvana. I fell in love. With a girl. And I despise it. I try fighting it, constantly seeking remedies for my madness, my inherent human gift and curse. And I fail. But this is far from over. I'll not be celestial entertainment. No, all I must do is remain aware. On guard. Tis a duel with Fate. And I duel with drumsticks. Drumsticks of a different drummer.

(SEE! SEE what you people get when I stay up late, have too much stress, homework, and too little time? I do stupid things like this! THIS!!! No, I'm not crazy. I'm completely in control. I'd just like you to remember the speaker in a poem is not the author. And although it sure seems like it often is, don't make that oh so fatal mistake. I'm done, I've got to sleep. But by golly, I had better win this thing. And I intend to. Until I go down the hill. But that's a future poem, and future story for next time...)

A Night in 4 Acts.

Yesterday was probably the "craziest" I've ever gone. So many variables, so many switches of mood, all leading into an absolutely rotten mindset. I'd say one of the biggest contributors was the changing situation and variables. It's amazing how actually doing something different for different amounts of time can completely change your mood, your feelings, and your sense of time perception. Sitting at the computer for ten hours straight, and believe me I've gone longer, is quite a different experience from going from location to location, different group of people to different group of people, different subjects and different activities. It's almost common sense, but for some reason my experiences in such a setting last night seemed to make 6 hours seem so incredibly long, the beginning seemed so distant it was hard to remember. I suppose it's not really 4 acts per se, just my changing mental state, because otherwise I would make this nice and humorous. At least crazy. But what I felt in the last waning hours of last night is completely devoid of humor or any remants of joy.

I won't go into details because they're not all that interesting (Details of the exact circumstances; the warping and twisting will be covered a bit). But by the end it really reminded me of Catch-22. Not in a bizarre, off-beat manner like the first part, but as the book goes on and characters start dieing, it goes from irreverent to increasingly grim and depressing. It all culminates in "The Eternal City", which I still think is the best capture of despair, hopelessness, and futility in a harsh, cold world that I've read. Anyway, that's what last night was rather like. It started out fun and irreverent, me with slight blood loss and increasing delirium from a combination of mental and emotional stress, lack of sleep, lack of food, and just plain not caring about trying to be reserved (believe it or not, I am occasionally). I even made a double entendre, which I normally don't do and probably wouldn't do if I wasn't slowly descending into mania.

The next act was a tad more stressful. Two lines of thought going along and intertwining, one fun and positive, the other depressing and tormenting. My delirium increased and where I previously was slightly contained, I began to go all out. I have fits of "violence" to get rid of it all so I don't do things like, oh, I dunno, tear people who insist on touching me in HALF, but more on that later. Anyway, these violent fits are a tad excessive, but I don't really care. There are times to be restrained and times to not, and I wasn't really hurting anyone, so what the heck?

The next act I calmed down a bit. But the fun, entertaining side somewhat dwindled, the tormenting stream kept flowing, and now a third line of thought enters of repulsion and disgust. That's me being touched again. Nothing wrong with that and minor to anyone else, but when certain person does it especially for slightly extended periods of time, it begins to sap whatever reserves I have. Most of you just don't understand my mentality in terms of physical contact, and I can understand. But it's when you persist that I get angry. Whether or not it's harmful or you understand it, that doesn't mean you have the right to decide what's good for me or not. You go to Prom and I tell you what I think of it. But I don't try to stop you and persist in downing it. I try to let you know how it can be detrimental, but ultimately if it makes you happy, I let it be. However, you don't understand how contact infuriates me. It's like you're invading my personal space and involving me in something I don't want to be involved in. And I can do nothing to stop it. I don't like physical contact because it involves me in things I don't want to be involved in. I can remain distant emotionally and literally which is how I'd like it to be. It's easier. But when you make that direct contact it's like a connection I don't want or need. Too many more variables are added in to an already confusing and painful mess. I don't want any more of either. It drains me. I can tolerate accidents and brief contact. For instance, Lee occasionally hugs me but lets go very soon so it's just amusing to her. But extended contact just makes me wither.

Anyway, so this happens and I'm drained. And then the final act, the tragedy. I watched the movie "Four Rooms" which was a terrible movie. Not necessarily in terms of cinematic merit, but from what it portrayed and the message it sent. If you haven't seen it, it basically consists of the story of a bellhop on New Years who goes into four different rooms and has all sorts of demented adventures. The format was a nice idea, each room had a different writer and director, and it was meant to be a comedy, but instead it was just terrible. It brought on that feeling from "The Eternal City" of immense spiritual, moral, and ethical depravity. No character in the entire thing was likeable. It was just sin, squalor, and corruption throughout. I suppose that was the point, but by the time Quentin Tarantino came on and just started a long line of F-bombs, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the K-town hood were all pretty much destroyed. The display of just plain corruption really had an effect on my mental state. It left me angry and disgusted. This, combined with all the other variables previously mentioned, sapped practically every last remnant of compassion and love from me and left me a bitter, cold, agitated, irate shell.

Perhaps I could have gotten myself out of it, the emotion that is, but I wanted to learn more. It was almost nice and beautiful in a raw, corrupted way just because it was so powerful. Like sadness is so incredibly painful but beautiful in a way depression isn't, this corruption, this incredible sense of despisement, loss, and spiritual, moral, and emotional rot was so strong and raw it couldn't help but be somewhat magnificient. It was terrible, no doubt, but it was...something. To be so devoid of care and love, just hate and anger. My heart was not broken, it was incinerated, disentegrated, and just plain disappeared. Sort of like when I decide I want nothing to do with love because it's too painful, something has to replace it and there Hate is like a sly, devilish imp ready to make the switch without consciously alerting me. You want something so bad, it happens, but to an extent that is simply abysmal.

So I finally came home in that mood and would have written then, but my sister was using the computer. And she was listening to Disney music. Very loudly. So when she came to latch onto me in that quasi-loving but really sadistic way of hers, I just hurled her away. I'm not usually that violent, but the anger I had gave me a surprising strength so I could just fling her away. I did apologize, even though I'm sure she didn't deserve it, and I managed to contain my anger to the point so I wouldn't stab her in bed or break the dog's neck. Mind you, the two thoughts occurred to me in the sort of way it would occur to a madman who really could not care about the repurcussions, so crazed was I. If I had weaker morals, I would have. I might have dropped the f-bomb myself last night, I'd heard it so much from Tarantino. It's a terrible word, after so many times, but when used with the right emotion (the actual connotations of the word completely disregarded) it really captures depravity and anger like no other word can. But my morals, those blessed bastions of confused Puritanism, stood in the way. I always knew they were good for something...

So I just thought I should tell you what raw emotions can do, although I'd say you probably already know. It wasn't really that dramatic, but it was just different. Such is Modern Art I suppose. It's terrible. But soon, oh so sweetly soon, this sort of thing will fade into distant memory and never plague me again. I'll be that much closer to peace. All things in moderation.

To think, I achieved all this doing hardly anything at all. I'm like my own microcosm! I don't need drugs or alcohol to go crazy, just lack of sleep, lack of food, and modern art. Wrastlin's tonight, who knows what wonders that will bring out. But you won't know until next time...

Blame it on the Butterfly.

Well, a bit of an explanation of the poem (In other words, SPOILERS STOP READING!!!). It alludes to what's known as "Chaos Theory" which a theory that states if a butterfly flaps it's wings in Japan, two weeks later there will be a hurricane in Argentina, or something to that effect. Thus, the effects of a butterfly can, theoretically, drastically alter all our lives. In one sense I believe in it, according to the effects of a changed variable. But being a determinist, the butterfly has about as much choice as anyone else.

I don't really mind. David brought up an interesting point though. I almost wrote it as a quasi-satire, and it is depending on what mood I'm in. I mean, you're blaming your problems on a tiny little bug. It's a bug! It has no control over things, only you do! On the other hand, it has all the control in the world. Just a tiny switch in a variable and all of a sudden, everything's different. It's absolutely mindboggling to consider the sheer number of infinite possibilities. So many worse, so many better. If only...

I sometimes picture these different realities, as I'm sure you do. If I was smarter, faster, better, more talented. Loved. Loving. You know the drill. The funny thing is, though, that David's partially right. If you want something enough, act on it. But my sedentariness is for a reason. If I really wanted something, I'd go after it. But I don't because I've decided it's not worth the risk. All of this is about analyzing risk and reward. But it's the sort of thing you can't treat with logic and I do. So I have to accept the unfortunate side of the whole debacle. But it's better than some alternatives.

The best way I've heard of relationships is from Woody Allen in some movie. He told this "joke" about a guy who goes to a psychiatrist. And the guy says "I'm not really that crazy, but my brother is. He thinks he's a chicken." The psychiatrist says, "Well why don't you bring your brother in?" And the guy says, "Because we need the eggs." Woody goes on to say how that's how relationships are. Irrational, completely nonsensical. But we need the eggs. Well, I'm trying to do without any fictional eggs. My soul has to starve and salivate a little, but I don't have to deal with as much nonsense. It's counterintuitive in an entirely intuitive way. Fun stuff.

So I've got a nice future planned. It seems peaceful enough. Not exactly entertaining and lovely, but peaceful and enough to make me content. But I think about what would have happened if that butterfly had flapped once more. So many things could be different. I could be happy. Or I could be sad. I'm neither. Go figure.

By the way, "Blame it on the Butterfly" would be an awesome T-shirt. It's catchy, has a great message, and everything. Somebody get on to producing that. I'll go think of more until next time...

The Butterfly

If he had flapped but just once more
How would that have changed the lore?
Would I be yours or you be mine?
Would you have at last seen the sign?
Why did he not, why choose so wrong?
Why make me mourn for oh so long?
Perfection rests upon that wing;
Just a flap could change the thing.
But his wing he did not flap
Thus tis I who take the rap.
His choice I now do so deplore;
If only he had flapped once more…