I know I shouldn't be afraid of the things I'm afraid of, but I can't overcome my fears. I'm scared of talking to people, like at school, or even people on the phone. I'm scared of others judging me. I'm scared of being a financial failure. I'm scared of cancer and medical bills. I'm scared of having a terrible job the rest of my life. I'm scared of being angry all the time. I don't want to be angry. I don't want to have a temper that snaps so easily. I don't want to be jealous of what other people have. I want to be happy for other people. I want empathy. I want to be looked-up to. I want to be proud of myself. I want to stop caring what other people think of me, but without resorting to dismissing them as human beings. I want the world to get along; I want people to stop killing each other. I want people to open their minds and stop being ignorant of the world. I want peace and relaxation. I want respect and honesty. I want to act like I think. I want to think before I speak. I want to be charming and charismatic. I want to lead people to prosperity. I want to be a genius. I want people to study me five hundred years from now. I want to write breath-taking literature. I want to influence the hearts of people. I want them to think about why they live. I want everything to slow down because I'm too scared of everything happening at once.
I don't want a funeral. I want to be cremated. I want a party instead of a funeral. I want to see what the future will look like, but I can't. I want to overcome my fear of death, now, at age twenty, before it overpowers me any longer. I want to do the things I want to do before I die. But even if I did, would that actually remove my fear of death? I'd want more, and more, and more. There's no end to human desire, yet there is clearly an end to human life. The Buddha says all life is suffering because all we do is desire. Well, I desire not to die, but that won't make it so. So we should be more like the Buddha, and we should be more like Christ, and accept our fate: that one day we will die, and even though it may be preceded by a glorious life, the world will move on. As Robert Frost so famously said about life, "It goes on." As John Keats so beautifully and concisely expressed in his epitaph, "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."
And so Virginia Woolf committed suicide and so Earnest Hemingway committed suicide, and so many others have committed suicide, who's names we no longer remember, who's names we can never locate again; they are gone, and in time, will be forgotten. Everyone who has died, will die, has been born, or will be born, will be forgotten in eternity. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed: Hemingway and Woolf and all the Popes and all the kings and all the peasants are gone, but their atoms are not, and even though that doesn't mean we live forever, it demands the question: were we really ever here, wherever here is, to begin with?
We are no more infinite than a ham; we are no less infinite than a ham.
I came from brilliancy
And return to brilliancy.
What is this?
Kaa!
--The Last Poem of Hoshin, taken from Zen Flesh, Zen Bones, compliled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Another list, another zen story, a mess of things
A list of things I'm excited for in 2012:
--I'd be lying if I said turning twenty-one was not my most anticipated event of the next year. I guess you know where my priorities are now.
--Finally transferring out of community college and into a university.
--People will finally stop talking about 2012 Mayan Doomsday.
--I wasn't very excited for the previous two films, but I'm actually looking forward to watching The Dark Knight Rises this summer.
--[insert other stuff later]
-------------------------
Muddy Road
"Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling.
Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection.
'Come on, girl,' said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. 'We monks don't go near females,' he told Tanzan, 'especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?'
'I left the girl there,' said Tanzan. 'Are you still carrying her?'"
From Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings, compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki.
-----------------------
It was like 75 degrees today.
Today's sunset was pink and very, very nice. It was striped with a light blue, like early afternoon. It looked like candy. Someone far away was witnessing that azure sky appear in the East, while my sky turned dark from the East.
Hahahaha! I just realized someone could describe something being in the East, but to me, it could be in my West, and that they're both so freaking arbitrary, it shouldn't even matter. Just like how people think the Earth is upside-down if Australian is 'on-top' of a map. I'd love to buy one of those 'upside-down' maps.
I feel like I'm wasting away from doing nothing all day. I sleep in until noon, and then go on the internet until one in the morning, then repeat the process all over again. This is not a life in fulfillment, I can tell you that. I can't wait to go back to school. I can't wait to become a big-shot whatever it is I am.
I'm constantly worried and scared by the never-ending stream of coming events.
What am I even talking about? What am I trying to say?
Surprisingly, this whole thing sums up how I feel at the moment.
--I'd be lying if I said turning twenty-one was not my most anticipated event of the next year. I guess you know where my priorities are now.
--Finally transferring out of community college and into a university.
--People will finally stop talking about 2012 Mayan Doomsday.
--I wasn't very excited for the previous two films, but I'm actually looking forward to watching The Dark Knight Rises this summer.
--[insert other stuff later]
-------------------------
Muddy Road
"Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling.
Coming around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the intersection.
'Come on, girl,' said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he no longer could restrain himself. 'We monks don't go near females,' he told Tanzan, 'especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?'
'I left the girl there,' said Tanzan. 'Are you still carrying her?'"
From Zen Flesh, Zen Bones: A Collection of Zen and Pre-Zen Writings, compiled by Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki.
-----------------------
It was like 75 degrees today.
Today's sunset was pink and very, very nice. It was striped with a light blue, like early afternoon. It looked like candy. Someone far away was witnessing that azure sky appear in the East, while my sky turned dark from the East.
Hahahaha! I just realized someone could describe something being in the East, but to me, it could be in my West, and that they're both so freaking arbitrary, it shouldn't even matter. Just like how people think the Earth is upside-down if Australian is 'on-top' of a map. I'd love to buy one of those 'upside-down' maps.
I feel like I'm wasting away from doing nothing all day. I sleep in until noon, and then go on the internet until one in the morning, then repeat the process all over again. This is not a life in fulfillment, I can tell you that. I can't wait to go back to school. I can't wait to become a big-shot whatever it is I am.
I'm constantly worried and scared by the never-ending stream of coming events.
What am I even talking about? What am I trying to say?
Surprisingly, this whole thing sums up how I feel at the moment.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Christmas and Stuff
For Christmas this year, my family and I went to my mother's cousin's (first cousin once removed, I think) apartment. It's in this huge apartment complex that's shaped like a square doughnut, and in the middle is a pool surrounded by two clean-cut lawns.
My cousins and I played Just Dance 2 on Wii. Are you the kind of person who's not afraid to make themselves look stupid? I am, and I am not. As anyone who's ever briefly met me can attest to, I'm quite shy. I'm also quite socially inept, meaning I don't know how to treat other people in social situations. I've gotten better since high school, but it's still difficult for me to hold one-on-one conversations with strangers, or generally people I'm not very familiar with. Anyway, with that aside, I can sometimes act like an idiot. I can totally shed any regard for shame and dance like a lunatic in front of my cousins (who I'm not exactly close with). I'm either on or off, I guess.
Sometimes I question whether I'm a leader or a follower. But then, why can't you be both? A leader one day, a follower the next.
Often I think about what kind of father I may be some day. I want to be like my dad. I want to have the kind of life experience he has. Maybe all older people have that level of experience, but not all of them learn from their experiences. But to have more life experience, I need to, uh, experience more of life, don't I? Sometimes I think I'm too well-behaved for my own good; I play things too safe.
I think a good father does whatever he can for his children, and I think one day I'll be willing to do that. That one day, however, is nowhere near today.
My cousins and I played Just Dance 2 on Wii. Are you the kind of person who's not afraid to make themselves look stupid? I am, and I am not. As anyone who's ever briefly met me can attest to, I'm quite shy. I'm also quite socially inept, meaning I don't know how to treat other people in social situations. I've gotten better since high school, but it's still difficult for me to hold one-on-one conversations with strangers, or generally people I'm not very familiar with. Anyway, with that aside, I can sometimes act like an idiot. I can totally shed any regard for shame and dance like a lunatic in front of my cousins (who I'm not exactly close with). I'm either on or off, I guess.
Sometimes I question whether I'm a leader or a follower. But then, why can't you be both? A leader one day, a follower the next.
Often I think about what kind of father I may be some day. I want to be like my dad. I want to have the kind of life experience he has. Maybe all older people have that level of experience, but not all of them learn from their experiences. But to have more life experience, I need to, uh, experience more of life, don't I? Sometimes I think I'm too well-behaved for my own good; I play things too safe.
I think a good father does whatever he can for his children, and I think one day I'll be willing to do that. That one day, however, is nowhere near today.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Brief Thoughts and Questions on Humanity
I was just thinking that if I could, I'd like to travel for a living. Not tourist travel where there is always a barrier between observer and observed, but a world traveler where I assimilate into different groups of people. Like a monk or something. I've never felt an Us and Them mentality--not until recently. And I feel that's true for a lot of young people until we're told by older generations that, This is how 'They' do it, This is how 'We' do it. People have different ways of wanting or achieving the same goals. Is a Canadian baby any different than an American baby? French to Brazilian? European to Asian? We're so mind-locked into thinking each other a different species that we don't see each other as related.
But then again, maybe we are too distant to care anymore. People are so damn concerned about themselves--including myself--that we ignore others. Maybe the world is too big to care about anyone else. You know, it's like how people lived in tribes and protected their tribes from other tribes and killed other people they considered enemies. Now, we have countries and continents, and so we kill other people because they're trying to hurt us, or in extreme cases, because we want what they have. So where does it end? What does it mean to be human, to act humanely, or to behave like an animal? Humans are animals; perhaps, when we separate ourselves into Us and Them, we're only doing what our instincts tell us to do--the animal instincts.
However, no other animal has ever built a hospital, or performed open heart surgery, or air-shipped millions of pounds of food to the other side of the world, or opened schools, or kept written records, or harnessed electricity, or done any of the wonderful things only humans are capable of. So then, is there a line between human and animal? Can we become more than our natural instincts and let go of our own self-interest for the sake of a more harmonious world?
But then again, maybe we are too distant to care anymore. People are so damn concerned about themselves--including myself--that we ignore others. Maybe the world is too big to care about anyone else. You know, it's like how people lived in tribes and protected their tribes from other tribes and killed other people they considered enemies. Now, we have countries and continents, and so we kill other people because they're trying to hurt us, or in extreme cases, because we want what they have. So where does it end? What does it mean to be human, to act humanely, or to behave like an animal? Humans are animals; perhaps, when we separate ourselves into Us and Them, we're only doing what our instincts tell us to do--the animal instincts.
However, no other animal has ever built a hospital, or performed open heart surgery, or air-shipped millions of pounds of food to the other side of the world, or opened schools, or kept written records, or harnessed electricity, or done any of the wonderful things only humans are capable of. So then, is there a line between human and animal? Can we become more than our natural instincts and let go of our own self-interest for the sake of a more harmonious world?
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
List and Ghosts
Things I'd like to have happen by forty:
--marriage
--possibly children; if not by forty, then I probably won't ever have children
--a stable income that could support my wife and I; it wouldn't matter to me if my wife worked or made more money than me, as long as she doesn't choose her career over our marriage
--a house
--sense of individual accomplishment through my work
--a consistent way of helping other people
--plenty of time spent abroad
--this is not a comprehensive list
I don't know what else to blog about. I'm typing as I think.
Do you believe in ghosts? I don't, but I know a lot of people who do. Their reasons are mainly personal stories of unexplainable things happening around them. For instance, a have a friend who believes there is a ghost-woman in a white dress who walks his street every night at 2 am. Not a homeless person; a transparent, ethereal apparition that appears and disappears every night at the same time. I have another friend who thought his house was haunted because he's heard strange sounds like footsteps or doors closing. They know I don't believe, so sometimes when they're done telling me one of these stories, they look at me and go, Well, how do you explain that? And my answer nearly every time is, I can't. I can't disprove that a ghost slammed a door in your house or walks around in the middle of the night; I CAN, however, say it's very unlikely the kind of thing you think of as ghosts--namely, a human being in spirit form who can somehow physically manipulate objects--are responsible for these incidents. If you were raised in a culture that believed 3-inch-tall invisible elves did all these unaccountable things, then you'd blame them for scaring you at night. I suppose that still doesn't explain why strange things occur, but, culturally, it's just as reasonable. Maybe there are other-worldly forces that cause these things, but calling these forces ghosts is over-simplifying the problem, and leads to more fear rather than more understanding.
--marriage
--possibly children; if not by forty, then I probably won't ever have children
--a stable income that could support my wife and I; it wouldn't matter to me if my wife worked or made more money than me, as long as she doesn't choose her career over our marriage
--a house
--sense of individual accomplishment through my work
--a consistent way of helping other people
--plenty of time spent abroad
--this is not a comprehensive list
I don't know what else to blog about. I'm typing as I think.
Do you believe in ghosts? I don't, but I know a lot of people who do. Their reasons are mainly personal stories of unexplainable things happening around them. For instance, a have a friend who believes there is a ghost-woman in a white dress who walks his street every night at 2 am. Not a homeless person; a transparent, ethereal apparition that appears and disappears every night at the same time. I have another friend who thought his house was haunted because he's heard strange sounds like footsteps or doors closing. They know I don't believe, so sometimes when they're done telling me one of these stories, they look at me and go, Well, how do you explain that? And my answer nearly every time is, I can't. I can't disprove that a ghost slammed a door in your house or walks around in the middle of the night; I CAN, however, say it's very unlikely the kind of thing you think of as ghosts--namely, a human being in spirit form who can somehow physically manipulate objects--are responsible for these incidents. If you were raised in a culture that believed 3-inch-tall invisible elves did all these unaccountable things, then you'd blame them for scaring you at night. I suppose that still doesn't explain why strange things occur, but, culturally, it's just as reasonable. Maybe there are other-worldly forces that cause these things, but calling these forces ghosts is over-simplifying the problem, and leads to more fear rather than more understanding.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Ego
Today I watched football and played Xbox and used the internet. I'm kind of afraid that's what I'll be doing the next two weeks because I don't have school. I should definitely read more, and I should definitely write more--in my diary, at least. At least I'm putting time aside to write here.
One day I'll have to experience snow.
There was this guy in my fiction writing class who would be on his computer whenever somebody was reading their story. It's rude to expect people to listen to you, and then ignore those people when you're supposed to listen to them. Did he think he was better than everybody? Did he think no one was worth listening to? Sure, there were people in the class who weren't good writers, but why ignore them? Is his ego that big?
I have a big ego. I freely admit that. I'm trying to cure it, but it's difficult for me. I'm always comparing myself to everyone else.
One of the reasons I love my dad is because he has almost no ego. It's so wonderful because he doesn't belittle people and even tries to understand them. I can correct him without fear of reprisal. He admits when he's wrong too. He's self-sacrificing and honorable. He sees every one as equal. He doesn't considered himself above anyone, nor anyone above him. That's the way we should be. That's the kind of person I want to be.
This comes to mind:
"I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else's. I'm sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It's disgusting--it is, it is....Just because I'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn't make it right. I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody."--Franny by J.D. Salinger
One day I'll have to experience snow.
There was this guy in my fiction writing class who would be on his computer whenever somebody was reading their story. It's rude to expect people to listen to you, and then ignore those people when you're supposed to listen to them. Did he think he was better than everybody? Did he think no one was worth listening to? Sure, there were people in the class who weren't good writers, but why ignore them? Is his ego that big?
I have a big ego. I freely admit that. I'm trying to cure it, but it's difficult for me. I'm always comparing myself to everyone else.
One of the reasons I love my dad is because he has almost no ego. It's so wonderful because he doesn't belittle people and even tries to understand them. I can correct him without fear of reprisal. He admits when he's wrong too. He's self-sacrificing and honorable. He sees every one as equal. He doesn't considered himself above anyone, nor anyone above him. That's the way we should be. That's the kind of person I want to be.
This comes to mind:
"I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else's. I'm sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It's disgusting--it is, it is....Just because I'm so horribly conditioned to accept everybody else's values, and just because I like applause and people to rave about me, doesn't make it right. I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody."--Franny by J.D. Salinger
Friday, December 16, 2011
My Own Hero Journey
Golfing was fantastic. I did much better than I thought I would.
What is this feeling inside of me that wants new experiences and adventure and originality? On one hand, it may be the natural growth from childhood to adulthood: the search for a new place and identity in the world. On the other, it may be that I'm tired of living the same old boring life and want something to wake me from this monotony. You can call my old life my childhood, and you can say I want to become a mature, independent adult. Maturation is a process; it's not a magic trick, and it doesn't happen overnight. In our society, there are a few rites of passage that mark maturation: obtaining a drivers license; graduating high school and/or college; living on one's own; getting a job; getting married. Many of these assume maturation because, each to some degree, they levy responsibility on us. But not all drivers are the same, and not all marriage are consummated between responsible individuals. So even if we do all these things, that doesn't mean we're mature adults. Is that okay? Can we survive adulthood without self-dependence and will and solemnity? No, we cannot. So what happens to the person that passes through these stages, but never grows up? I guess what I'm really looking for is a threshold to break into adulthood. But I don't want to be a full adult yet. I'm caught in the middle, somewhere between responsibility and play. That is what irritates me.
The only time I've ever touched snow was when my family and I went up into the mountains when I was seven or eight. Other than that one experience, no, I've not dealt with snow. I could have lived my whole life up to now without seeing snow--and I've never seen snowfall. But why is that so surprising? I don't think many people in tropical regions have seen snow either.
What is this feeling inside of me that wants new experiences and adventure and originality? On one hand, it may be the natural growth from childhood to adulthood: the search for a new place and identity in the world. On the other, it may be that I'm tired of living the same old boring life and want something to wake me from this monotony. You can call my old life my childhood, and you can say I want to become a mature, independent adult. Maturation is a process; it's not a magic trick, and it doesn't happen overnight. In our society, there are a few rites of passage that mark maturation: obtaining a drivers license; graduating high school and/or college; living on one's own; getting a job; getting married. Many of these assume maturation because, each to some degree, they levy responsibility on us. But not all drivers are the same, and not all marriage are consummated between responsible individuals. So even if we do all these things, that doesn't mean we're mature adults. Is that okay? Can we survive adulthood without self-dependence and will and solemnity? No, we cannot. So what happens to the person that passes through these stages, but never grows up? I guess what I'm really looking for is a threshold to break into adulthood. But I don't want to be a full adult yet. I'm caught in the middle, somewhere between responsibility and play. That is what irritates me.
The only time I've ever touched snow was when my family and I went up into the mountains when I was seven or eight. Other than that one experience, no, I've not dealt with snow. I could have lived my whole life up to now without seeing snow--and I've never seen snowfall. But why is that so surprising? I don't think many people in tropical regions have seen snow either.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Zen Story and Things
"Once a Zen master stood up before his students and was about to deliver a sermon. And just as he was about to open his mouth, a bird sang. And he said, 'The sermon has been delivered.'"--Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth
There are many trees still green in California. Perennials and all that. We don't exactly have winter here either; it's more like a slightly colder autumn.
I think I was secretly jealous of my brother, who is three years older than me, because he was already using deodorant at that time.
This blog is called Veer Far Away because that's sometimes what I feel like doing: going away to someplace new. I want adventure and heroism. Maybe one day I'll find a great jacket and go on a great adventure.
What exactly is this? Is this a journal, where I record my day, or a soapbox, where I spread my ideas? It's a little of both, and has few of the benefits of either.
I woke up early today to take my Bio final. Early to me now is six or seven in the morning. I probably got a C on it.
If a person likes you and offers you a token of this affection, don't laugh at them. This happened in my Bio class where a guy gave a girl a love poem, and the girl made jokes with the people around her. The guy may have overhead; I don't know. But people who laugh at sincerity and kindness are really questionable people. If you don't like the other person, fine, but don't make fun, and don't bring them down to your level. Reaching out to other human beings takes guts.
Tomorrow I'm going golfing in the morning.
There are many trees still green in California. Perennials and all that. We don't exactly have winter here either; it's more like a slightly colder autumn.
I think I was secretly jealous of my brother, who is three years older than me, because he was already using deodorant at that time.
This blog is called Veer Far Away because that's sometimes what I feel like doing: going away to someplace new. I want adventure and heroism. Maybe one day I'll find a great jacket and go on a great adventure.
What exactly is this? Is this a journal, where I record my day, or a soapbox, where I spread my ideas? It's a little of both, and has few of the benefits of either.
I woke up early today to take my Bio final. Early to me now is six or seven in the morning. I probably got a C on it.
If a person likes you and offers you a token of this affection, don't laugh at them. This happened in my Bio class where a guy gave a girl a love poem, and the girl made jokes with the people around her. The guy may have overhead; I don't know. But people who laugh at sincerity and kindness are really questionable people. If you don't like the other person, fine, but don't make fun, and don't bring them down to your level. Reaching out to other human beings takes guts.
Tomorrow I'm going golfing in the morning.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
More Colors, Memories, And Jackets
Good question. Do I really want to become rich and famous? Who would mind being rich? Famous, eh. It seems like a hassle. But I would like to be a respected author. Respected by whom? I guess I'm not sure what I want yet.
I remember this one afternoon a few years ago, when the sun was setting, the sky and even the air around me was pink. Honestly, it was like my eyes were pink and the clouds were pink and when I held out my hands in front of me they were pink too. It was really cool. I noticed it while I was inside and looked out my window and saw nothing but pink. I went out to my backyard and just stood there, kind of trying to absorb or bathe in the pinkness.
Also, today I was standing in my room, and I looked out my window and noticed just how many different colors were present at the same time. I noticed the green of the grass and the trees, but those greens weren't the same; the green in the trees was lighter, like bright plastic green; the green in the grass was darker, like an earth tone. For someone who's job isn't to inspect color, it's nice to notice them.
Finally, my jacket story. Actually, the right word for it is dilemma; it's really my jacket dilemma.
In fourth grade, I always wore the same jacket. It was a black hooded jacket that fit me slightly too big. I don't what kind of material it was made of, but when it rubbed together, it was like sandpaper. The lining of the jacket was soft polyester and had planets and stars on it. It was supposed to be reversible, but I never wore the polyester side out because: for one, it was a little embarrassing to dress in neon planets and stars, and, more importantly, because the sand paper side would have rubbed my skin raw.
Anyway, I wore that jacket nearly everyday. Part of the reason I wore it so much was because I was afraid I smelled because I didn't use deodorant yet (note: did not reach puberty until seventh grade), but, more practically, because it was a warm jacket for the cold mornings. I don't remember what happened to that jacket. I think I lost it. But ever since, I've never had a jacket that I found so comforting. It may sound strange, but I wish I had a certain jacket that I wore all the time. Like an identity, you know? Some people have certain things that are exclusively them, like their hair, or their cologne. I want my thing to be an all-weather jacket. Warm and comfortable and always on me.
I remember this one afternoon a few years ago, when the sun was setting, the sky and even the air around me was pink. Honestly, it was like my eyes were pink and the clouds were pink and when I held out my hands in front of me they were pink too. It was really cool. I noticed it while I was inside and looked out my window and saw nothing but pink. I went out to my backyard and just stood there, kind of trying to absorb or bathe in the pinkness.
Also, today I was standing in my room, and I looked out my window and noticed just how many different colors were present at the same time. I noticed the green of the grass and the trees, but those greens weren't the same; the green in the trees was lighter, like bright plastic green; the green in the grass was darker, like an earth tone. For someone who's job isn't to inspect color, it's nice to notice them.
Finally, my jacket story. Actually, the right word for it is dilemma; it's really my jacket dilemma.
In fourth grade, I always wore the same jacket. It was a black hooded jacket that fit me slightly too big. I don't what kind of material it was made of, but when it rubbed together, it was like sandpaper. The lining of the jacket was soft polyester and had planets and stars on it. It was supposed to be reversible, but I never wore the polyester side out because: for one, it was a little embarrassing to dress in neon planets and stars, and, more importantly, because the sand paper side would have rubbed my skin raw.
Anyway, I wore that jacket nearly everyday. Part of the reason I wore it so much was because I was afraid I smelled because I didn't use deodorant yet (note: did not reach puberty until seventh grade), but, more practically, because it was a warm jacket for the cold mornings. I don't remember what happened to that jacket. I think I lost it. But ever since, I've never had a jacket that I found so comforting. It may sound strange, but I wish I had a certain jacket that I wore all the time. Like an identity, you know? Some people have certain things that are exclusively them, like their hair, or their cologne. I want my thing to be an all-weather jacket. Warm and comfortable and always on me.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Todays Weather, Then A Memory
Where is this going to begin, and where is this going to end?
It rained today. When I woke up, my room was kind of blue, even with my blinds closed. It's strange that days can be different colors. How lucky am I to even see color, or have functioning eyes? This morning the day was blue; normally, it's a bright yellow. At sunset, it's coral or deepening red. I have a memory that comes to mind related to this.
I'm sitting in my car at my school waiting for my six o'clock class to start. The parking lot I'm in is nice and quiet. The sun is setting down to my left behind these tall trees; the sky is darkening and turning midnight blue to my right. In between are whispy clouds the color of vibrant pink coral and ripe tangerine orange. And when I say in between, I mean they appear close to where I am, almost like I can run and touch them. Beyond them are the hills I drive through to get home, which have expensive houses on them; they look like movie scenery, yet also look detailed and much more real than normal--much clearer than normal, I guess. It's like I'm in a tub of rainbow sherbert ice cream, only I feel safe and warm. I feel like crying between I'm grateful for my life. I think about my life and the direction I'm going. Like always, I'm thinking about the future and worry that I won't explore the world and become rich and famous, and will ultimately fail in every attempt to fulfill my dreams. That's what I'm usually afraid of, so it's no surprise to me I'm thinking about it at that time. But seeing those wonderful colors floating across the sky toward the setting sun made me hopeful again. And I thought, "It's enough to be alive and see all of this. I'm going to be okay." That's it.
Anyway, so, yeah, it rained today, and I stayed inside the entire time. I don't like driving in the rain.
Tomorrow I'll tell you my jacket story. (It's not really a story.)
It rained today. When I woke up, my room was kind of blue, even with my blinds closed. It's strange that days can be different colors. How lucky am I to even see color, or have functioning eyes? This morning the day was blue; normally, it's a bright yellow. At sunset, it's coral or deepening red. I have a memory that comes to mind related to this.
I'm sitting in my car at my school waiting for my six o'clock class to start. The parking lot I'm in is nice and quiet. The sun is setting down to my left behind these tall trees; the sky is darkening and turning midnight blue to my right. In between are whispy clouds the color of vibrant pink coral and ripe tangerine orange. And when I say in between, I mean they appear close to where I am, almost like I can run and touch them. Beyond them are the hills I drive through to get home, which have expensive houses on them; they look like movie scenery, yet also look detailed and much more real than normal--much clearer than normal, I guess. It's like I'm in a tub of rainbow sherbert ice cream, only I feel safe and warm. I feel like crying between I'm grateful for my life. I think about my life and the direction I'm going. Like always, I'm thinking about the future and worry that I won't explore the world and become rich and famous, and will ultimately fail in every attempt to fulfill my dreams. That's what I'm usually afraid of, so it's no surprise to me I'm thinking about it at that time. But seeing those wonderful colors floating across the sky toward the setting sun made me hopeful again. And I thought, "It's enough to be alive and see all of this. I'm going to be okay." That's it.
Anyway, so, yeah, it rained today, and I stayed inside the entire time. I don't like driving in the rain.
Tomorrow I'll tell you my jacket story. (It's not really a story.)
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The Blogger With A Thousand Excuses (for not blogging more)
I'm going to try posting more often now. I'm not guaranteeing anything at the moment, but I feel like if I start incorporating blogging into my daily routine, I might be able to pull off a post every other day or so. Not even thinking about quality at this point; they'll just be my thoughts.
Here's my prediction for the presidential election next November: Mitt Romney loses against incumbent Barrack Obama. Why do I think Romney will win the Republican nomination? He looks the most like a politician, his views are neither too conservative nor too non-conservative, and he has a lot of money. By the way, I'm not a Democrat or a Republican or a banana; I'm actually apolitical, if I'm honest.
I don't know what to write about.
I'm half-way through Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. I can't make too many judgements right now, although I might criticize the plot for, like, you know, finally developing halfway through.
I'm also reading Joseph Campbell's The Hero With A Thousand Faces, which I find extremely interesting, although a bit too scholarly for my taste. It's about what James Joyce calls the "monomyth" (don't actually remember if it was Joyce; don't quote me). Monomyth is the theory that many, many, MANY human myths/stories from all over the world follow the same pattern; Campbell calls this pattern the Hero Cycle. A modern day example of this is Harry Potter.This means that human psychology is basically the same anywhere you go. Of course, there are innumerable differences and details that can alter one's mind; but, in essence, we're all pretty much thinking on the same wavelength.
Okay.
Here's my prediction for the presidential election next November: Mitt Romney loses against incumbent Barrack Obama. Why do I think Romney will win the Republican nomination? He looks the most like a politician, his views are neither too conservative nor too non-conservative, and he has a lot of money. By the way, I'm not a Democrat or a Republican or a banana; I'm actually apolitical, if I'm honest.
I don't know what to write about.
I'm half-way through Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. I can't make too many judgements right now, although I might criticize the plot for, like, you know, finally developing halfway through.
I'm also reading Joseph Campbell's The Hero With A Thousand Faces, which I find extremely interesting, although a bit too scholarly for my taste. It's about what James Joyce calls the "monomyth" (don't actually remember if it was Joyce; don't quote me). Monomyth is the theory that many, many, MANY human myths/stories from all over the world follow the same pattern; Campbell calls this pattern the Hero Cycle. A modern day example of this is Harry Potter.This means that human psychology is basically the same anywhere you go. Of course, there are innumerable differences and details that can alter one's mind; but, in essence, we're all pretty much thinking on the same wavelength.
Okay.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Ask Me Anything About Human Sexuality. (That's the class I talk about.)
I feel like posting, but I don't know what to write about. This will most likely be a summary of my day.
I woke up around 8:40. Usually it takes me ten or so minutes after I wake up to actually get up--out of bed and changed or whatever. Literally ten minutes or more. So by the time I was preparing to go to class, it was already 8:55 or so, and as a result, I skipped breakfast.
Then I drove to school and whatnot. Confession: I like head-banging in my car and singing/humming/screaming to music. I'm afraid of getting whip-lash one day.
Anyway, I got to school pretty early. I've been late a lot this semester. In fact, I think I'm an absence or two away having my grade lowered. You see, every three instances of arriving late counts as an absence, and because we must sign in at the start of class, if you arrive anytime after 9:45 you're considered late. You get five or six absences before you're dropped a full letter grade. That's why I've been getting to class earlier: I don't want my grade lowered in the last two weeks of school.
I think it's funny that it's already been three years since I graduated high school. Where did all the time go? I still feel like my eighteen-year-old self; I'm still living two years in the past. Well, not exactly. I am changed, that's self-evident. I'm less edgy, not so anxious; I'm not trying to please everyone as much.
What I need is experience. Experience can teach us anything. It's like mental puberty, you know? What's so strange about puberty is that the human body becomes mature and ready for procreation, but the mind is still inexperienced. Which is why it's sad when teenage girls become pregnant: they don't know how much experience they're missing, and how their lives will change.
I've had a good friend since elementary school who is a smart, athletic, funny, charming, ruggedly handsome guy. Unfortunately, he got his girlfriend--his first legitimate girlfriend--pregnant during senior year. Two years later, they were married. And all this time, I think it's a damn shame that those two radically altered their lives in only an instant. Who am I to judge their lives now if they're doing what they want? Regardless, what I mean is, we're not the people at age 15 that we'll be at age 20 or 28 or 35 or 87--nor should we be. If we get out into the world, we'll see life for what it is through our own eyes--whatever that may mean to us. And hopefully, after we've seen all the heartache and personal struggles, and had some of our own, then, if we're lucky, we'll become better people for the world.
Why do all my posts have to have a moral? I'm so goddam didactic, like medieval literature.
I woke up around 8:40. Usually it takes me ten or so minutes after I wake up to actually get up--out of bed and changed or whatever. Literally ten minutes or more. So by the time I was preparing to go to class, it was already 8:55 or so, and as a result, I skipped breakfast.
Then I drove to school and whatnot. Confession: I like head-banging in my car and singing/humming/screaming to music. I'm afraid of getting whip-lash one day.
Anyway, I got to school pretty early. I've been late a lot this semester. In fact, I think I'm an absence or two away having my grade lowered. You see, every three instances of arriving late counts as an absence, and because we must sign in at the start of class, if you arrive anytime after 9:45 you're considered late. You get five or six absences before you're dropped a full letter grade. That's why I've been getting to class earlier: I don't want my grade lowered in the last two weeks of school.
I think it's funny that it's already been three years since I graduated high school. Where did all the time go? I still feel like my eighteen-year-old self; I'm still living two years in the past. Well, not exactly. I am changed, that's self-evident. I'm less edgy, not so anxious; I'm not trying to please everyone as much.
What I need is experience. Experience can teach us anything. It's like mental puberty, you know? What's so strange about puberty is that the human body becomes mature and ready for procreation, but the mind is still inexperienced. Which is why it's sad when teenage girls become pregnant: they don't know how much experience they're missing, and how their lives will change.
I've had a good friend since elementary school who is a smart, athletic, funny, charming, ruggedly handsome guy. Unfortunately, he got his girlfriend--his first legitimate girlfriend--pregnant during senior year. Two years later, they were married. And all this time, I think it's a damn shame that those two radically altered their lives in only an instant. Who am I to judge their lives now if they're doing what they want? Regardless, what I mean is, we're not the people at age 15 that we'll be at age 20 or 28 or 35 or 87--nor should we be. If we get out into the world, we'll see life for what it is through our own eyes--whatever that may mean to us. And hopefully, after we've seen all the heartache and personal struggles, and had some of our own, then, if we're lucky, we'll become better people for the world.
Why do all my posts have to have a moral? I'm so goddam didactic, like medieval literature.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
What the hell did I just write? Very stream-of-consciousness and very raw. Mostly about my future as a writer and the other writers in my creative writing class.
I feel like this is it for me; it's time to make a decision. Up until now I've never felt like I needed to make Creative Writing my final major.
There are young, talented people in the class, and they've worked hard to make their work great. Who am I? I don't think my work is great, or any good; and I mean that sincerely, not as an author affecting humility, but as a reader who finishes reading them and goes, What the hell? That was crap!
Everything's so relative, isn't it? Some people think other people are crap; other people love some people. Nothing is definitely going to happen. There's no guarantee those talented people will ever write outside of the class, will ever find an agent and publish work. Who's gonna guarantee them that? Nobody. If anyone ever guarantees you anything, they're nobodies; they don't know what the hell the score is. They're the ones looking at the stars--I imagine in a giant soccer stadium with the flood lights on full-blast--trying to find the faint stars through the pollution, and saying, And we'll all live in harmony and everyone will love each other and nobody is gonna ever die again, I guarantee it. Who the hell guarantees anything? That's what I want to know.
Anyway, so there's no guaranteeing the people in my writing class will ever publish and become successful writers--actual, honest-to-god writers who get paid. Isn't that every budding writers dream? To get paid to write. And if the stuff they write isn't very good, but they still get paid? Now wouldn't that be something. Of course, like any field, there are good writers and bad writers, and sometimes the bad writers gross more than the good writers, etc., whatever. My point is this: the talented writers in my class, they have something I don't; I see it clearly. They're good writers--or at least decent writers who can see good writing on the horizon--because they work hard. I guarantee (look at this guy guaranteeing) that they've worked hard for long hours, which is why they're so good. Turning back to me, I don't work hard. I slack off, laze about, think a bit, then push out some half-coherent drivel about a car accident and the pain of youth or whatever. Do you see the problem here? I don't practice! Goddammit, I don't practice. I put it off, kick it further down the road, push it until the very last moment, then scribble a few lines about "causers and victims"--what the hell does that even mean? I mean, what the hell is wrong with me that I'm afraid to try? I'm afraid to put pen to paper, and write and think and try. Fear is so powerful an inhibitor--as much as alcohol is an uninhibitor. Except I'm always drunk off my flying ass off fear. My life changes because of it; every action, decision, impulse, thought is tinged in fear. I'm so disappointed in myself. Seriously, I think it's something tragic that I must address now. There's no great climax or rising action or pivotal catch-all scene where I must decide; the great moment is a Thursday in November an odd number of days from Thanksgiving while sitting in my car on a foggy night in my college's parking lot. That's the time for me to decide.
So what will it be? Will I choose the blue pill, or the red pill? My life, my decisions, my consequeses--isn't that how it's suppposed to go? Yes.
Unfortunately, I just can't decide. To write, or not to write--that's the mother-flippin' question. A writer, or not a writer; stories, or no stories; fiction, or not-fiction. What the hell, man? Why you gotta treat me so rough, Life? I'm given tremendous opportunity, and I complain; that's the extent of my ungratefulness.
I've decided. Just like that the decision is made. I told you it isn't a climactic scene of kissing in the rain 2,000 miles away from home. I choose to write (I guess). I want to become great. I want to write great stories so bad... Who the hell says that? If you're gonna be a writer, don't do it for the money. Chances are the money's shit, your stories are shit, and everyday you contemplate how to improve yourself while absolutely nothing comes to mind. How do I consume greatness? I suppose it's self-made. Shit.
There are young, talented people in the class, and they've worked hard to make their work great. Who am I? I don't think my work is great, or any good; and I mean that sincerely, not as an author affecting humility, but as a reader who finishes reading them and goes, What the hell? That was crap!
Everything's so relative, isn't it? Some people think other people are crap; other people love some people. Nothing is definitely going to happen. There's no guarantee those talented people will ever write outside of the class, will ever find an agent and publish work. Who's gonna guarantee them that? Nobody. If anyone ever guarantees you anything, they're nobodies; they don't know what the hell the score is. They're the ones looking at the stars--I imagine in a giant soccer stadium with the flood lights on full-blast--trying to find the faint stars through the pollution, and saying, And we'll all live in harmony and everyone will love each other and nobody is gonna ever die again, I guarantee it. Who the hell guarantees anything? That's what I want to know.
Anyway, so there's no guaranteeing the people in my writing class will ever publish and become successful writers--actual, honest-to-god writers who get paid. Isn't that every budding writers dream? To get paid to write. And if the stuff they write isn't very good, but they still get paid? Now wouldn't that be something. Of course, like any field, there are good writers and bad writers, and sometimes the bad writers gross more than the good writers, etc., whatever. My point is this: the talented writers in my class, they have something I don't; I see it clearly. They're good writers--or at least decent writers who can see good writing on the horizon--because they work hard. I guarantee (look at this guy guaranteeing) that they've worked hard for long hours, which is why they're so good. Turning back to me, I don't work hard. I slack off, laze about, think a bit, then push out some half-coherent drivel about a car accident and the pain of youth or whatever. Do you see the problem here? I don't practice! Goddammit, I don't practice. I put it off, kick it further down the road, push it until the very last moment, then scribble a few lines about "causers and victims"--what the hell does that even mean? I mean, what the hell is wrong with me that I'm afraid to try? I'm afraid to put pen to paper, and write and think and try. Fear is so powerful an inhibitor--as much as alcohol is an uninhibitor. Except I'm always drunk off my flying ass off fear. My life changes because of it; every action, decision, impulse, thought is tinged in fear. I'm so disappointed in myself. Seriously, I think it's something tragic that I must address now. There's no great climax or rising action or pivotal catch-all scene where I must decide; the great moment is a Thursday in November an odd number of days from Thanksgiving while sitting in my car on a foggy night in my college's parking lot. That's the time for me to decide.
So what will it be? Will I choose the blue pill, or the red pill? My life, my decisions, my consequeses--isn't that how it's suppposed to go? Yes.
Unfortunately, I just can't decide. To write, or not to write--that's the mother-flippin' question. A writer, or not a writer; stories, or no stories; fiction, or not-fiction. What the hell, man? Why you gotta treat me so rough, Life? I'm given tremendous opportunity, and I complain; that's the extent of my ungratefulness.
I've decided. Just like that the decision is made. I told you it isn't a climactic scene of kissing in the rain 2,000 miles away from home. I choose to write (I guess). I want to become great. I want to write great stories so bad... Who the hell says that? If you're gonna be a writer, don't do it for the money. Chances are the money's shit, your stories are shit, and everyday you contemplate how to improve yourself while absolutely nothing comes to mind. How do I consume greatness? I suppose it's self-made. Shit.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
About my unexceptional self, and then it goes into this weird, Great Pyramid of Giza enfueled tangent. But it's all good. Also, I think I just made up the word 'enfueled.'
I realized today that I am average.
I am not a savant or a genius, nor was I a child prodigy. I am not unique or especially talented in any way. Sure, I have abilities other people do not have, but I also have deficits other people do not have. Everything balances out.
Convincing children they are special and vastly important inflates their ego and only sets them up for a cold shock when the world shows them differently. Our generation feels entitled despite having done absolutely nothing beneficial or relevant or even interesting. (Well, at least some people.)
Look at this amazing picture!
I'm always telling myself, One day my life will feel complete; one day I will be the best self I can be. But why can't that one day be today? No money means no independence. Okay, fair point. But what I mean is, If there is something I am capable of doing--it doesn't hurt other people, I won't get caught and go to jail for 90 years, etc.--and the only reason I haven't done it yet is because I'm afraid, then, fuck it, I'll do it anyways. Seriously, why let fear keep me down, control me and not allow me to grow, when I could just say, Okay, let's do it. Why not? Someday we will die, and there's no going back. I know I've got (hopefully) fifty or perhaps sixty years of life to go, but if I don't start improving my life now, when I have the time and energy, then when will I finally begin, at what exact point in time, down to the smallest possible microsecond any machine could possibly calculate, will I begin to improve my life for myself? Never. If not began now, never.
I am not a savant or a genius, nor was I a child prodigy. I am not unique or especially talented in any way. Sure, I have abilities other people do not have, but I also have deficits other people do not have. Everything balances out.
Convincing children they are special and vastly important inflates their ego and only sets them up for a cold shock when the world shows them differently. Our generation feels entitled despite having done absolutely nothing beneficial or relevant or even interesting. (Well, at least some people.)
Look at this amazing picture!
I'm always telling myself, One day my life will feel complete; one day I will be the best self I can be. But why can't that one day be today? No money means no independence. Okay, fair point. But what I mean is, If there is something I am capable of doing--it doesn't hurt other people, I won't get caught and go to jail for 90 years, etc.--and the only reason I haven't done it yet is because I'm afraid, then, fuck it, I'll do it anyways. Seriously, why let fear keep me down, control me and not allow me to grow, when I could just say, Okay, let's do it. Why not? Someday we will die, and there's no going back. I know I've got (hopefully) fifty or perhaps sixty years of life to go, but if I don't start improving my life now, when I have the time and energy, then when will I finally begin, at what exact point in time, down to the smallest possible microsecond any machine could possibly calculate, will I begin to improve my life for myself? Never. If not began now, never.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I've been thinking about a girlfriend
Been thinking about relationships a lot lately. I need one, I want one. They aren't so bad, are they? Someone to kiss, someone to hold. Isn't it normal to think this way at 20? It's biological; nothing could be more natural. We are animals, thinking animals--praying and studying and driving cars and piloting airplanes. Liars don't use contractions, they like to formalize their language--deliberation is deception. Why do we have relationships? Companionship, sexual gratification or release, a sense of belonging--a dimmed sense of unmitigated loneliness. Loneliness seems the best natural state of humans. We do not learn as children how to be lonely, we just know somehow when we're born that ourselves aren't enough when pitted against the world in this arena. You're the same, you're the same, you're the same. The same as me, the same as me. I wonder: how lonely is everybody today? I'm feeling quite lonely, quite desperate. Natural inclination to breed and explore. What's the difference when it happens? Who do I wait for? Myself, my lonely self.
Relationships: some never leave one, some never need one. I need one.
Relationships: some never leave one, some never need one. I need one.
Monday, October 3, 2011
This whole life situation
Sometimes it's hard to think about--this whole life situation. It's true that money dictates everything; it's the fuel for living. A part of me hates that, though it does accept the truth. That's the thing about truth: you may not have to like it, but you must accept it. What is true anyways? Anyways.
Like I said, part of me hates this life situation: get born, grow up, go to school, job, career, career, family, struggle, retirement(?), death, gone. And money keeps it running. It's so predictable. The youthful, creative side of me is inside right now, shaking his head, saying, "No, no, no, no; my life won't be like that." Oh, really?
Sometimes it's hard to live knowing money will dictate my life. Is there a way to escape? What do I want out of life anyway? It's painful to think about.
Like I said, part of me hates this life situation: get born, grow up, go to school, job, career, career, family, struggle, retirement(?), death, gone. And money keeps it running. It's so predictable. The youthful, creative side of me is inside right now, shaking his head, saying, "No, no, no, no; my life won't be like that." Oh, really?
Sometimes it's hard to live knowing money will dictate my life. Is there a way to escape? What do I want out of life anyway? It's painful to think about.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Twoday at the Fair
I just came back from the fair. I'm in a fatigued/overstimulated/deep-fried brain condition.
My friends and I walked a lot, talked a lot, joked a lot, and sat a bit. We only ate once between the hours of 1 and 11. I had a calzone; everyone else gobbled down ginormous slabs of turkey leg and meat on a stick.
Today I learned that I deeply value dependability. My ride almost stranded me miles away from home. Reliability is important to me, and will continue to stay important in my life until I die. I don't trust people who repeatedly fall behind their words.
Actions do not simply speak louder than words; they shout, jump, scream, leap, hiss, clap, spank; they punch out your cousin; they save your ass from a burning building. Words are thoughts full of hot air.
My friends and I walked a lot, talked a lot, joked a lot, and sat a bit. We only ate once between the hours of 1 and 11. I had a calzone; everyone else gobbled down ginormous slabs of turkey leg and meat on a stick.
Today I learned that I deeply value dependability. My ride almost stranded me miles away from home. Reliability is important to me, and will continue to stay important in my life until I die. I don't trust people who repeatedly fall behind their words.
Actions do not simply speak louder than words; they shout, jump, scream, leap, hiss, clap, spank; they punch out your cousin; they save your ass from a burning building. Words are thoughts full of hot air.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Another one
I wish there was no doubt. I wish I knew exactly what I loved. I wish I knew lots of authors and read lots of books so that I, too, could throw ambiguous names out in conversation.
I wish I wasn't so bad at meeting new people. I wish I was more charismatic and charming, someone more gregarious and someone people feel comfortable around.
I wish my hair didn't smell right now. I wish I didn't feel sick; I wish I was sick, so at least I know why I feel sick. I wish I would go to bed.
I wish I wasn't so concerned. I wish I was more patient, kind, sensitive to my family, to my friends, to strangers. I wish for greatness, fame, glory, praise, reverence, honor. I wish I could be great for myself, by myself. I wish I could move and touch people. I want to connect. I wish for a great life.
(correction: it doesn't bother me that my hair smells)
I wish I wasn't so bad at meeting new people. I wish I was more charismatic and charming, someone more gregarious and someone people feel comfortable around.
I wish my hair didn't smell right now. I wish I didn't feel sick; I wish I was sick, so at least I know why I feel sick. I wish I would go to bed.
I wish I wasn't so concerned. I wish I was more patient, kind, sensitive to my family, to my friends, to strangers. I wish for greatness, fame, glory, praise, reverence, honor. I wish I could be great for myself, by myself. I wish I could move and touch people. I want to connect. I wish for a great life.
(correction: it doesn't bother me that my hair smells)
Saturday, August 13, 2011
My Friends Wedding
Last Saturday my friend got married. My other friends got drunk and I even danced (I don't drink). After I dropped them off at the after-party, I went home. Someone left their cell phone and another person left their glasses in my car. When I searched my trunk for my jacket the next morning I discovered someone had taken it by mistake. Overall, a crazy, strange, surreal night full of drunk, partying, merry people. A nice wedding.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Growing Pains
I guess, as I'm getting older, I'm starting to miss my childhood a little. Just little things, like sitting in my grandma's house eating lunch while watching cartoons or walking to the arcade with my brother. These are things I won't ever do again; they're sweet memories made bitter with growing up. The reason I'm thinking about death--not suicide, but death in general--is that I've had this feeling inside me for a while that's telling me my childhood is over, and it will never return. And that makes me sad.
I told my mom today I felt a little sad thinking about the past, and she told me to look forward to the future. Even she, at 50 plus years old, looks toward the future. If you focus on negative thoughts, she told me, your thoughts will become negative.
Although my childhood memories aren't negative, they're bitter, and they have made me bitter. For now I've decided to follow my mom's advice and focus to the future and prepare myself a little more for my life as an independent adult.
I told my mom today I felt a little sad thinking about the past, and she told me to look forward to the future. Even she, at 50 plus years old, looks toward the future. If you focus on negative thoughts, she told me, your thoughts will become negative.
Although my childhood memories aren't negative, they're bitter, and they have made me bitter. For now I've decided to follow my mom's advice and focus to the future and prepare myself a little more for my life as an independent adult.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Silly Boy
(Has it already been a month since my last post?)
I feel like crying right now. Why?
I've been feeling suspended lately. My life feels uncoordinated, unorganized, wandering. Is that good or bad? Should I even ask that question? Not everything can be qualified as good or bad; sometimes life just is.
I don't believe in soul mates. That's silly. I believe in people and I believe in disconnectedness and I believe in love. Choosing a spouse or partner or whatever isn't a matter of finding "the one." There is no one who will completely fill that silly void inside all of us. I don't believe there is one person who is perfect for us because, obviously, no one is perfect. Which leads me back to the whole good or bad dilemma. Some people can get along well, and some people cannot. That doesn't mean that anyone's "bad;" it just means that's the way they are. Some things just are.
Why do I feel so vulnerable? That's a great word to describe how I feel: vulnerable.
My life feels messy. Everything is starting to speed up, and it seems like as more time passes the more hectic my life will become until, eventually, I will die. I was thinking about death the other day. What is it like to die? It's startling to think about my own death. I've never given it any realistic thoughts. But it's there, waiting.
I'm still wondering how my life will end up. Do I need to take steadier control of it?
Anyway, that's the final thought of the day.
P.S.
(Welcome home, Miss Anonymously Me)
I feel like crying right now. Why?
I've been feeling suspended lately. My life feels uncoordinated, unorganized, wandering. Is that good or bad? Should I even ask that question? Not everything can be qualified as good or bad; sometimes life just is.
I don't believe in soul mates. That's silly. I believe in people and I believe in disconnectedness and I believe in love. Choosing a spouse or partner or whatever isn't a matter of finding "the one." There is no one who will completely fill that silly void inside all of us. I don't believe there is one person who is perfect for us because, obviously, no one is perfect. Which leads me back to the whole good or bad dilemma. Some people can get along well, and some people cannot. That doesn't mean that anyone's "bad;" it just means that's the way they are. Some things just are.
Why do I feel so vulnerable? That's a great word to describe how I feel: vulnerable.
My life feels messy. Everything is starting to speed up, and it seems like as more time passes the more hectic my life will become until, eventually, I will die. I was thinking about death the other day. What is it like to die? It's startling to think about my own death. I've never given it any realistic thoughts. But it's there, waiting.
I'm still wondering how my life will end up. Do I need to take steadier control of it?
Anyway, that's the final thought of the day.
P.S.
(Welcome home, Miss Anonymously Me)
Sunday, June 12, 2011
What I've Been Up To
I'm writing again; I'm reading again. I just finished It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizinni. It's about a fifteen-year-old guy who becomes clinically depressed when he enters a very competitive private high school, so he checks himself into a psychiatric ward for a few days. I'd say I have most of the thoughts he has, only to a lesser degree. He thinks he's worthless because he's not as smart as everyone else in his school; they get perfect grades, and do way more after-school activities like volunteering or sports--the kind of things that look good on an Ivy league application. That's exactly how I feel sometimes. It sucks. But funny enough, he and I reached nearly the same conclusion at the end (I won't tell you--no spoilers from me).
I wrote a love poem today for a girl who doesn't like me. Didn't give it to her, just wrote it.
Finals are this week. I'm screwed.
I wrote a love poem today for a girl who doesn't like me. Didn't give it to her, just wrote it.
Finals are this week. I'm screwed.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
I carry your heart and this poem
I've been thinking a lot about e.e. cumming's "i carry your heart with me." (I strongly suggest you go read it--it's only 15 lines.) Most people think it's a happy love poem and categorize it as such, but I get the feeling that it's a loss poem. What's really the only way to carry someone's heart? Only if they're gone. Otherwise their heart would belong to them. The speaker has the heart of his/her "dear" and his/her own heart--that's two hearts! Someone's missing a heart in this situation.
Furthermore, I think the poem's really about the speaker carrying Death's heart much like he/she would carry his/her lover's, accepting that Death is "the root of the root...of a tree called life." The speaker admits to not fear his/her fate because Death is the ultimate fate for everyone--"(for you are my fate, my sweat)." We all carry eminent death inside our hearts, even if we do not admit it. The title, "i carry your heart with me," is redundant because "i carry" implies possession, which the "with me" restates; thus, our hearts are burdened because we indeed must carry--the word suggesting struggle--Death's presence our entire lives. Death "is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart" because Death eliminates any hope of permanent connection. We have no hope in ever seeing the stars come together while we are alive, something that astronomically would take billions upon billions of years to witness, so in our lifetime we will always see separated stars. The tragedy of the limited human lifespan cheats us out of seeing stars coming together and, more importantly, of seeing our loved ones forever. Finally, Death is "what a moon has always meant" because seeing the moon and night has always meant daytime has fallen, and the sun's warmth and protection is gone. Death and the moon have always meant misery, darkness, coldness, danger, and mystery. A sun will always "sing" Death because people die in their sleep and are discovered the next morning. Daylight reveals Death like it reveals mountains, oceans, rivers, forests, people, and every other object of the natural world. The tone of the poem is not fearful or panicked because the speaker accepts Death as the natural end to all living things, even calling Death "my dear" and "my sweet." It is natural like the moon, the sun, trees and love, and everything else. By the end, the burden of Death is lessened a little in the speaker's heart; the last line, "i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)," suggests that the speaker has accepted his/her inexorable death and resolved to not become trapped or burdened by unhealthy self-awareness that would greatly diminish his/her quality of life. It also triggers, in the reader, the realization that we can ease the burden of dying by accepting our own mortality and moving on.
In other news,
I need to read more poetry. I need to read more anything, really. Recently, my English professor gave me an extension on my research paper because he felt the failing grade I received was not "indicative of my writing ability." It was a huge compliment, and a massive ego boost because, as I think I've stated earlier, he's persnickety about student responsibilities. But I've already come to feel all the sharp shortcomings of my writing as I run his words through my head. I'm not the best writer in the universe, but, oh man, I want to at least become an excellent one. There are countless better writers who work harder than I do and who are much more knowledgeable and practiced. Can I compete? The only way to become great is practice.
But here's an even larger question: Will becoming a great writer make me happy?
For now, at least, it's the best idea I got.
Furthermore, I think the poem's really about the speaker carrying Death's heart much like he/she would carry his/her lover's, accepting that Death is "the root of the root...of a tree called life." The speaker admits to not fear his/her fate because Death is the ultimate fate for everyone--"(for you are my fate, my sweat)." We all carry eminent death inside our hearts, even if we do not admit it. The title, "i carry your heart with me," is redundant because "i carry" implies possession, which the "with me" restates; thus, our hearts are burdened because we indeed must carry--the word suggesting struggle--Death's presence our entire lives. Death "is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart" because Death eliminates any hope of permanent connection. We have no hope in ever seeing the stars come together while we are alive, something that astronomically would take billions upon billions of years to witness, so in our lifetime we will always see separated stars. The tragedy of the limited human lifespan cheats us out of seeing stars coming together and, more importantly, of seeing our loved ones forever. Finally, Death is "what a moon has always meant" because seeing the moon and night has always meant daytime has fallen, and the sun's warmth and protection is gone. Death and the moon have always meant misery, darkness, coldness, danger, and mystery. A sun will always "sing" Death because people die in their sleep and are discovered the next morning. Daylight reveals Death like it reveals mountains, oceans, rivers, forests, people, and every other object of the natural world. The tone of the poem is not fearful or panicked because the speaker accepts Death as the natural end to all living things, even calling Death "my dear" and "my sweet." It is natural like the moon, the sun, trees and love, and everything else. By the end, the burden of Death is lessened a little in the speaker's heart; the last line, "i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)," suggests that the speaker has accepted his/her inexorable death and resolved to not become trapped or burdened by unhealthy self-awareness that would greatly diminish his/her quality of life. It also triggers, in the reader, the realization that we can ease the burden of dying by accepting our own mortality and moving on.
In other news,
I need to read more poetry. I need to read more anything, really. Recently, my English professor gave me an extension on my research paper because he felt the failing grade I received was not "indicative of my writing ability." It was a huge compliment, and a massive ego boost because, as I think I've stated earlier, he's persnickety about student responsibilities. But I've already come to feel all the sharp shortcomings of my writing as I run his words through my head. I'm not the best writer in the universe, but, oh man, I want to at least become an excellent one. There are countless better writers who work harder than I do and who are much more knowledgeable and practiced. Can I compete? The only way to become great is practice.
But here's an even larger question: Will becoming a great writer make me happy?
For now, at least, it's the best idea I got.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Good Morning
I kind of wish people would say hi to each other again. I'm under the impression that sixty years ago perfect strangers on the street would greet each other. "Good morning," "Good afternoon," and "Hello" were common courtesy. Now what's courteous? Holding the door open for someone?
Everyone wants their distance and personal space untouched. Everybody's afraid of everybody. I suppose some fear is important. But when did it get to the point that looking at someone and saying hello was a crime? Some people are impossible to look at because it's like a personal attack to them; some people smile and say hello if you look at them, but they never initiate it.
We're too ironic and bored to take anything seriously anymore. If we're earnest we're also ironic. If were not ironic then we're uninspired. The only thing worse than dullness is sincerity.
One of my favorite Robert Frost lines is: "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life — It goes on."
Everyone wants their distance and personal space untouched. Everybody's afraid of everybody. I suppose some fear is important. But when did it get to the point that looking at someone and saying hello was a crime? Some people are impossible to look at because it's like a personal attack to them; some people smile and say hello if you look at them, but they never initiate it.
We're too ironic and bored to take anything seriously anymore. If we're earnest we're also ironic. If were not ironic then we're uninspired. The only thing worse than dullness is sincerity.
One of my favorite Robert Frost lines is: "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life — It goes on."
Friday, April 22, 2011
Our Mutual Discord
I want to go, to leave, and find someplace new. If possible, I want to travel to the future. I want to know who I'll be, who I'll associate with, what I'll do, what I'll be skilled at, and what I'll be deficient at.
Sometimes a person doesn't like you, and sometimes you don't like a person, and there's nothing else to be done about that. I don't mean outright hatred that burns inside our hearts; that's the kind of contempt reserved for movies and vain nincompoops. This dislike can be illustrated by something simple, like giving them a curt nod hello when you see them and walking away. Can everyone on Earth be agreeable with each other? No, I doubt it. We may hold our tongues, reserve our body language, withhold any hostility whatsoever, but there's not much to be done, nor is there more to expect. There will always be at least one person we don't see eye-to-eye with, and who's feelings are in concord with our own. It can't be helped. Whether it's because of deeply held opinions, an accidental history of bad blood, or something in-between, we each have a foil.
I am most encouraged when I am amongst my peers and perceive myself capable of surpassing their work; I am most discouraged when I read or hear about my superiors and find myself doubting my ability of ever reaching their level. I think my ego is far too frail.
Lately the sky has been overcast, and all day long it's gray outside.
Sometimes a person doesn't like you, and sometimes you don't like a person, and there's nothing else to be done about that. I don't mean outright hatred that burns inside our hearts; that's the kind of contempt reserved for movies and vain nincompoops. This dislike can be illustrated by something simple, like giving them a curt nod hello when you see them and walking away. Can everyone on Earth be agreeable with each other? No, I doubt it. We may hold our tongues, reserve our body language, withhold any hostility whatsoever, but there's not much to be done, nor is there more to expect. There will always be at least one person we don't see eye-to-eye with, and who's feelings are in concord with our own. It can't be helped. Whether it's because of deeply held opinions, an accidental history of bad blood, or something in-between, we each have a foil.
I am most encouraged when I am amongst my peers and perceive myself capable of surpassing their work; I am most discouraged when I read or hear about my superiors and find myself doubting my ability of ever reaching their level. I think my ego is far too frail.
Lately the sky has been overcast, and all day long it's gray outside.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Nostalgia Again
Mellow, melancholy music makes me feel nostalgic. It reminds me of my first year in high school. It's hard remembering my life back then. I have an overpowering sense of romantic nostalgia that reminds me of crushes, trying to fit in, and feeling very lonely. I was very lonely. I was very confused about what I wanted, and I never felt special. There's a lot of mixed feelings in that part of my memory.
I've never had a lot of friends. I don't generally meet very many people. I make acquaintances here and there, but full-blown friendships are rare. I've roughly had the same circle of friends since middle school. We're close, if only for that reason, but I've always imagined the friends I have now will be forgotten ten years from now. Everything's changing, as I've said a million times before. But it's so difficult to qualify this change that I don't even know what my life will be a month from now.
Who will I become in fifteen years? Who am I right now?
In other news, I finished Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It was pretty funny. It bothers me a bit to know that Lewis Carroll was some creepy mathematician who took dubious pictures of children, but what does it matter now that he's dead?
I keep thinking about "The dreary intercourse of daily life." It makes me irritable.
I've never had a lot of friends. I don't generally meet very many people. I make acquaintances here and there, but full-blown friendships are rare. I've roughly had the same circle of friends since middle school. We're close, if only for that reason, but I've always imagined the friends I have now will be forgotten ten years from now. Everything's changing, as I've said a million times before. But it's so difficult to qualify this change that I don't even know what my life will be a month from now.
Who will I become in fifteen years? Who am I right now?
In other news, I finished Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It was pretty funny. It bothers me a bit to know that Lewis Carroll was some creepy mathematician who took dubious pictures of children, but what does it matter now that he's dead?
I keep thinking about "The dreary intercourse of daily life." It makes me irritable.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
My Elderly Self
I have this weird way of thinking about how my day is going. I'm constantly worried that I'm going to have a bad day. If I have a good day, I'm worried that the next day or the day after that will be a bad one, just to "balance" everything out. If I have a bad day, well then I'm miserable because my day's bad. It's not easy to stop thinking about.
Sometimes I blend into crowds just because I'm unremarkable. While I was waiting for my morning class to start (which it didn't because it was canceled), some guy was handing out brochures or something to everyone in the hallway. As I was leaning against the wall, he started on my right, made his way through a throng of people to my left, then returned to my right without handing one to me. I didn't mind not getting one; I'd probably just throw it away. But it's strange. Maybe he doesn't like me. Maybe I give off a disgruntled, angry vibe. What if he's an unobservant guy?
It seems like the more I drive the slower I drive. I seriously drive like an stereotypical elderly person. But it really annoys me when I see people flying past me at 60 on a 40 mph street for no good reason. I mean, if you're going to save someone's life and driving that fast was the only way to save them in time, then I guess that's a good reason. But seriously: What are the chances of that happening? Oftentimes I think it's because everyone's always in a big hurry, like they've got something life/death important to do. But I've got news for you (people who drive unsafely): no one's that important to be endangering lives on the street. Plus you're wasting gas!
(I sound like a grumpy old man.)
Sometimes I blend into crowds just because I'm unremarkable. While I was waiting for my morning class to start (which it didn't because it was canceled), some guy was handing out brochures or something to everyone in the hallway. As I was leaning against the wall, he started on my right, made his way through a throng of people to my left, then returned to my right without handing one to me. I didn't mind not getting one; I'd probably just throw it away. But it's strange. Maybe he doesn't like me. Maybe I give off a disgruntled, angry vibe. What if he's an unobservant guy?
It seems like the more I drive the slower I drive. I seriously drive like an stereotypical elderly person. But it really annoys me when I see people flying past me at 60 on a 40 mph street for no good reason. I mean, if you're going to save someone's life and driving that fast was the only way to save them in time, then I guess that's a good reason. But seriously: What are the chances of that happening? Oftentimes I think it's because everyone's always in a big hurry, like they've got something life/death important to do. But I've got news for you (people who drive unsafely): no one's that important to be endangering lives on the street. Plus you're wasting gas!
(I sound like a grumpy old man.)
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Fine Misty Day
I had a fine day today, and even though the weather was thoroughly depressing in a misty, North of England kind of way, I didn't mind.
What did bother me, however, was a girl in my math class who kept coughing in an 'I'm quite sick' sort of way. I hope I don't catch her cold.
I feel guilty for handing in a crappy English paper, especially when I really like my professor. He's a stuttering, knit-picky kind of guy, but he's smart and he's straight-forward about what he knows and what he doesn't, and he shares my belief that suffering in school is for the purpose of becoming better people more than obtaining a diploma and a subsequent career. It's nice to know I'm not alone in that thinking.
I nearly fell asleep listening to my CD player (yeah, I still use mine after 6 or 7 years) while misty rain wafted around my car. The vaporous gray clouds hid the afternoon sun as I awaited a time when no honorable man rise against his neighbor, and for 6:30 when my class would start.
I've been reading a lot more lately. I just finished Great Expectations (fantastic book), and am currently switching between Wuthering Heights and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It's funny that a few years ago I wouldn't have understood any of these books, and now I'm reading them for a bit of morning enjoyment. I think I'm starting to come into my own.
I've also been writing a lot more recently, mostly fiction. There's not much more to that except I'm not very good yet, but I'm a lot better after practicing every day in March, and only hope to become better in the upcoming months. After all, creative writing is my freakin' major!
What did bother me, however, was a girl in my math class who kept coughing in an 'I'm quite sick' sort of way. I hope I don't catch her cold.
I feel guilty for handing in a crappy English paper, especially when I really like my professor. He's a stuttering, knit-picky kind of guy, but he's smart and he's straight-forward about what he knows and what he doesn't, and he shares my belief that suffering in school is for the purpose of becoming better people more than obtaining a diploma and a subsequent career. It's nice to know I'm not alone in that thinking.
I nearly fell asleep listening to my CD player (yeah, I still use mine after 6 or 7 years) while misty rain wafted around my car. The vaporous gray clouds hid the afternoon sun as I awaited a time when no honorable man rise against his neighbor, and for 6:30 when my class would start.
I've been reading a lot more lately. I just finished Great Expectations (fantastic book), and am currently switching between Wuthering Heights and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It's funny that a few years ago I wouldn't have understood any of these books, and now I'm reading them for a bit of morning enjoyment. I think I'm starting to come into my own.
I've also been writing a lot more recently, mostly fiction. There's not much more to that except I'm not very good yet, but I'm a lot better after practicing every day in March, and only hope to become better in the upcoming months. After all, creative writing is my freakin' major!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Deeply Apprehensive
I'm so deeply concerned with my future right now. It feels silly to talk about, and as I'm typing this sentence the sick sensation in my head is starting to dissipate. But nonetheless, I'm feeling very strange and nostalgic. Except it's the opposite of nostalgia, because instead of looking back I'm imagining forward. For some reason it's disheartening, like I'll never be happy again. Is this why so many people are unhappy with their lives when they reach middle age? Because they failed to achieve the visions of life they had when they were twenty?
I think it's mostly apprehension that's startling me. I don't know what kind of future I have, but I'm terrified it'll disappoint me. What are these feelings? So many people have failed to bring contentment into their lives that I'm afraid of living another day. Not every thing will go as expected, nor should they because it may not be what we need. But I at least want to find meaning to my life.
Know what it's like? It's like a dreary afternoon where you don't have anything to do but sit in your room and think. You've stopped being so busy that you finally have time to relax into the moment, and when you do you realize that something's not right, and you don't know what it is or when it happened because you were too busy to see. It's like a dreary afternoon inside me.
I think it's mostly apprehension that's startling me. I don't know what kind of future I have, but I'm terrified it'll disappoint me. What are these feelings? So many people have failed to bring contentment into their lives that I'm afraid of living another day. Not every thing will go as expected, nor should they because it may not be what we need. But I at least want to find meaning to my life.
Know what it's like? It's like a dreary afternoon where you don't have anything to do but sit in your room and think. You've stopped being so busy that you finally have time to relax into the moment, and when you do you realize that something's not right, and you don't know what it is or when it happened because you were too busy to see. It's like a dreary afternoon inside me.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Life: The Untold Story
Not everything can be perfect.
Did I know what was going to happen today? Heck no! But that's just another one of life's surprises. Who knew I would be taking care of a kitten that my sister's friend found? Seriously, you can't plan life. It's the greatest story you can tell. There's no way you can figure out what's going to happen next. Nothing's for sure, I'll tell you what.
Blahblahblahblahblah!
Did I know what was going to happen today? Heck no! But that's just another one of life's surprises. Who knew I would be taking care of a kitten that my sister's friend found? Seriously, you can't plan life. It's the greatest story you can tell. There's no way you can figure out what's going to happen next. Nothing's for sure, I'll tell you what.
Blahblahblahblahblah!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
This one's about scarves
This one’s about scarves.
I wore a scarf to school today. Actually, that’s only partly true. Let me explain.
The night before I put one on because my room, being one of the coldest in the house, becomes a meat locker as I sleep, and I didn’t feel like putting on my heater just because I could do without the stifling heat. So I woke up wearing one.
I took my sister to school, came home to browse the internet, and then got ready to go to school.
I was still wearing the scarf when I left because it was cloudy and windy outside. But when I finally parked and started walking to class, I did something I hadn't anticipated doing. I took off my scarf and threw it in my car. I didn't give much thought to the decision at the time.
Looking back, maybe it's because I rarely, if ever, wear a scarf in pubic. It's not part of my public wardrobe (the fact that I've chosen what clothes I can and cannot wear in public says something about me). I felt self-conscious wearing one, as if someone would stop me and say, "You don't look attractive with a scarf. Take it off."
My first class was Intro. To Sociology. At the end we watched a clip from ‘Scare Tactics,’ a prank reality show. In the clip, some guy is pressured into drinking a glass of juice by a group of ‘cult members’ (including his friend), despite suspicion of poison in it.
In the discussion that followed, the class thought he was stupid for doing it, and most asserted that, had they been in the same situation, they would not have drank the juice. I felt very strongly that I wouldn’t. My professor said people naturally conform to society’s whims, and that our lives are pervaded with social norms we follow just because everyone else is doing it—the American dream, going to college even if we don't want to, and dressing in fashionable, unpersonalized clothing.
She said everybody, at some point, drinks the juice--just like the guy in the video--even if it's just a little bit. I heartily agreed. Then I realized I unconsciously drink the juice earlier that morning.
I wore a scarf to school today. Actually, that’s only partly true. Let me explain.
The night before I put one on because my room, being one of the coldest in the house, becomes a meat locker as I sleep, and I didn’t feel like putting on my heater just because I could do without the stifling heat. So I woke up wearing one.
I took my sister to school, came home to browse the internet, and then got ready to go to school.
I was still wearing the scarf when I left because it was cloudy and windy outside. But when I finally parked and started walking to class, I did something I hadn't anticipated doing. I took off my scarf and threw it in my car. I didn't give much thought to the decision at the time.
Looking back, maybe it's because I rarely, if ever, wear a scarf in pubic. It's not part of my public wardrobe (the fact that I've chosen what clothes I can and cannot wear in public says something about me). I felt self-conscious wearing one, as if someone would stop me and say, "You don't look attractive with a scarf. Take it off."
My first class was Intro. To Sociology. At the end we watched a clip from ‘Scare Tactics,’ a prank reality show. In the clip, some guy is pressured into drinking a glass of juice by a group of ‘cult members’ (including his friend), despite suspicion of poison in it.
In the discussion that followed, the class thought he was stupid for doing it, and most asserted that, had they been in the same situation, they would not have drank the juice. I felt very strongly that I wouldn’t. My professor said people naturally conform to society’s whims, and that our lives are pervaded with social norms we follow just because everyone else is doing it—the American dream, going to college even if we don't want to, and dressing in fashionable, unpersonalized clothing.
She said everybody, at some point, drinks the juice--just like the guy in the video--even if it's just a little bit. I heartily agreed. Then I realized I unconsciously drink the juice earlier that morning.
Monday, January 10, 2011
This is about the Simpsons
This entry is about The Simpsons.
I was watching the Simpsons while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk today. I love this show. It's absolute wit, genius, and entertainment in half an hour. It was the one where Springfield enforces it's 200-year-old prohibition law. Even though it's 13-years-old, the episode still holds up for it's brilliant jokes and tight story structure.
As I sat in my desk chair, munching on my sandwich and drinking a warm glass of milk, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic. I grew up on the Simpsons; I acquired my comedic chops from these characters. And today, as I watched them, the same as they were over a decade ago, I realized that the jokes, writing, and stories never change--only I do. And I think there's something to be said about that.
I was watching the Simpsons while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk today. I love this show. It's absolute wit, genius, and entertainment in half an hour. It was the one where Springfield enforces it's 200-year-old prohibition law. Even though it's 13-years-old, the episode still holds up for it's brilliant jokes and tight story structure.
As I sat in my desk chair, munching on my sandwich and drinking a warm glass of milk, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic. I grew up on the Simpsons; I acquired my comedic chops from these characters. And today, as I watched them, the same as they were over a decade ago, I realized that the jokes, writing, and stories never change--only I do. And I think there's something to be said about that.
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