December Sun & Fun

Grades
School ended last week. I'm not certain about my grades.

 I'm looking to transfer this year. I think my odds are good. At least I'll e going somewhere and not stuck in the same place for another year. I don't care where I end up. I just want to finish my degree. I just want to have a place of my own. And then what?

Training
In February I'm doing this thing called Tough Mudder. It's an endurance obstacle course: 10-12 miles and twenty-something obstacles. Team work is big. You're supposed to help anyone you can along the route. It should be fun.

Before November, I wasn't able to swim. But when I heard that there would be obstacles that required swimming, I decided now was the best time.

I started taking swim classes at a YMCA. There's this cute lifeguard there, but I don't really have any opportunities to talk with her. Plus, I don't even know how old she is. For all I know she can be 25 or 17. I should ask her next time.


I've also joined a gym. I'm now swimming 2-3 times a week. I was so proud of myself this morning when I went swimming. This morning was the first time I was able to swim freestyle and breath at the same time. My speed is nothing to rave about and my strokes/breathing are pretty sloppy, but I'm just happy I was finally able to do it. Pluuus, swimming is a great workout.

Girlfriend
Still no girlfriend.

I have a phobia, I think, of revealing or sharing with other people in real-life. I'm afraid of being vulnerable. I'm afraid of dropping my guard and giving myself to another person. I need to find the confidence that I know I have within me before I start dating anyone. I have this problem with friendships, too. None of my real-life friendships are too personal. I get uncomfortable if there isn't a certain mental distance. Does that make any sense?

Thinking Like a Man

Normality
I'm a normal guy. I have some sinful or evil or cruel tendencies, but so does everyone. That doesn't make me special. Nothing makes me special.

Elementary
When I was younger, my teachers told me I was intelligent. My teachers told my parents what a joy I was in class, how smart I was, what a quiet and behaved little boy they have raised and shouldn't they be proud. When my life got tough, my mother would say, 'You can do it. You're smart.' When I spoke to other people, I wondered if they were smarter than me. If they had knowledge I didn't, I felt threatened. I got nervous. I acted indifferent. Oh yeah? I know that too. Shut up.

Empathy
I'm cruel to people. I cannot empathize with humans. This is how selfish I am. This is how inward my focus is pointed. I scrutinize every micro-fracture of my soul.

Temperament
My personality is studded in bursts of anger and a fear of living alone. My tempers are short.

Obsession
I cannot focus anymore. These feelings are too powerful and too frequent. It is a yearning for the body. Not the mind but the skin. The hair. The smell. Delicate frame. Innie belly button and a soft nude curve. Lifted legs and tender ankle and pointed toes. The kisses and brevity. Simple flesh.

Self-ignorance
When I step back, I know something is wrong here. Something desires fixing. What's wrong with me? Why am I sick? How can I escape?

Stagnation & Development
Back to normal. Unremarkable, ordinary, common, average. I realize this: it will not stop.

Common Culture
The things I like and the things extraordinary people like are exclusive. I have no taste for sophisticate culture; fancy parties and well-to-do people make me wanna barf. I have no exposure to art or music or modern books. The one thing I may have is brief spouts of facts about classic English literature, but it is limited and hardy rings true and is useless. I am part of the average. Not a leader or a saint; not a revolutionary or a martyr; not a hero or a villain. Is it painful? No. I have kind family. I have fun friends. I earn my way and keep my business to myself.

Snapshot
I don't mind waiting in line. I hate rude people. I feel good when a pretty girl smiles at me. I laugh at jokes. I trip over my own feet occasionally. I talk and chew at the same time. I spy on my neighbors. I produce garbage.

Connection
I feel what many people feel. I am what many people are.

As Requested

Lately, there's been a few changes in my life:
--I work-out about three times a week now. Since February, I've gained approx. 20 pounds. I now look like a normal person, and no longer like a healthy skeleton.
--My libido has exploded as a result of working out. What I mean is that I'm now more aggressive. If I see a hot girl, I'll stare at her up and down. Parts of her body are pleasurable to watch: her ass, her breasts, her hips, her lips, her legs, and if she's wearing sandals, her feet. I study her like a painting. I like to feel that squeeze in my groin. Whereas before I would have considered that inappropriate, now I find it enjoyable. I don't know if this is good or bad. Personally, I don't think a quick glance every now and then hurts anyone.
--I've started turning in homework on time. I'm still stuck in a community college, but I'm determined to get out next year--by any means. I have this fantasy of spending a quiet night in my own apartment, sipping wine, relaxing next to my imagined girlfriend, maybe reading, maybe listening to the rain outside. I just want to begin my own life already.
--I'm horny all the time. Seriously. Mornings, afternoons, nights.
--I get angry more. Bad drivers especially piss me off.
--I still don't like the taste of beer.

That's all for now.

'All These Things That I've Done'

At the moment, I feel like a loser. Well, today I woke up feeling like a loser. Since then, things have improved--slightly. But I still feel immense shame, guilt, and helplessness.

There's a certain danger in feeling like a loser. You feel like you don't deserve anything. Any attention or praise is easily misdirected. Achievements or self-improvements are forgotten, discarded, or tossed away. You lose sleep. You worry. The thoughts that float through your mind feel like a physical burden on your body. Everything has weight, and you feel so much of it.

Don't get me started on self-esteem. There's none to speak of. It's gone. It's disappeared ("Bye, bye") as if you had none to begin with. Then you wonder if you did have any to begin with, and what a strange emotion self-esteeem is, since it is only felt when we feel threatened, and if felt at any other time we call it pride and condemn it. Yes, you lose that too. You lose so much and gain so little. But none of it is freeing because all you ever want is your old life back; you crave normalcy like a filling meal. You grow weak, all energy spent into this self-perpetuating hatred machine that chews up your self-worth and spits it on your soul.

Guilt is a dish best served boiling. Scalding guilt is at least forceful, impactful; it doesn't hide in shadows, linger on the edges of a café, groping you down with its heavy eyes. Hard to control guilt, even harder to relieve yourself. You depend on others for this one. You want forgiveness so bad it honestly hurts. It acidifies all other goals. The words of this person are all that you ever want, have ever wanted, and nothing but these simple utterences can lift you out of the mire.

Shame. Squirmy, squiggyly, yellow-faced shame. How awful, how ugly, how terrible a neighbor. Shame is dirty, like a stray dog, but clever. Shame wears a suit, and you can't help but trust him. But you already know he's untrustworthy. He's so charming and suave, what choice do I have? Shame, the terrible; shame, the lame; shame, the monster tearing your insides apart. And worse, you're the one who invited him in.

Update

Up-to-date on my life:
:finals, projects, homework. Remind me to retake psychology, shakespeare, and a certain study class
:i suffered a concussion last week. i'm feeling much better now. I hit my head against the back of my car.
:having a concussion has stopped my workouts, making me nervous I'll become unfit again. Completely unfounded, of course.
:been torn between playing my DS and reading. I want to read; I want to so badly read.
:I've come to the conclusion that I'm a terrible coward when it comes to school. I'm afraid of failing, and so I don't try. When it comes to the fact that I fail, at least I know it was on my terms. It frightens me to think I try my best and still fail.
:I would make a terrible boyfriend. I'm selfish and impatient.
:So there's this pretty girl in my psychology class. And she's really pretty. That's all.
:I realize casual sex is not the best way to start a relationship. Right afterward (I imagine), you'll be like, "Oh, shit! I don't know anything about this person."
:To men, sex is a goal; to women, sex is a means. The most lucid time in a man's life is right after he has sex.
:I realize no one on Blogger will ever know who I am, so what's the point in hiding my thoughts?
:anonymity does something to people: it renders them ghosts, free from society's rules.
:in real life, most people don't want violence.
:anyway, back to my project. Then sleep. Then waking early tomorrow for more project work. Then school. Then coming home and eating. Then...what? I'll probably get some rest. Goodnight.

Jacarandas

I've been wanting to write about this for a while now.

May and June are the months of the Jacaranda in Southern California.

Wikipedia.

I pass by dozens of them on my way to school everyday.They range in size from 10 feet to 60 feet or more. They can be clustered together or dispersed amongst the streets and houses. They leave underneath them bell-shaped flowers that seem to paint the asphalt purple. Sometimes you'll find a cute jacaranda in front of someone's house; another time you'll be driving down a street and spot a 90 foot giant towering over a church. They don't care where they grow; they just want to grow up and drop purple bells beneath them.

I apologize if the next part is too rambly or sentimental.

The jacarandas turn purple and drop leaves every year. In a way, it's a sad time for me. It reminds me that another year has passed, another year is deducted from my life. I never observed the jacarandas when I was younger. I was unaware of the passing of time outside my own life. For me, time was something that got in the way from me being older and having more things.

I tend to recite the first two lines of T.S. Elliot's "The Wasteland" in my head whenever I'm driving to school, observing these melancholy trees: "April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land...." The jacarandas are the lilacs, in a way. April represents spring, the rejuvenation of life (Easter is in spring for a reason). It reminds me that the world is not so rosy, that death is a very real problem, and that we continue to bring life into this corrupted and sinful world. The jacarandas are cruel in that every year they continue to bloom and drop their purple bells onto the concrete sidewalks. Another year passes, another year my disappointments and failures set me back--constant reminders of the difference between what should be and what could be. But the jacarandas bloom every year; they drift slowly and steadily with the passage of time.

In Japan, there are the cherry blossoms, which hold significant cultural importance for the people of Japan. For me, I have the jacarandas. They are not as significant. They are not part of my culture. But they are nice, and they are pretty, and when they bloom, despite the awfulness of the world, I smile. I like the jacarandas despite the reflections they return. I like them because they will never stop blooming. They are outside me, but live within the same world I do. They inhabit space I inhabit. They thrive with me. If they could observe me back, they'd see a human being one year older every spring. They represent the clock-work of plant life. There's always new life in this world, in this undiscovered universe. When it's winter in the Northern Hemisphere, it's summer in the Southern Hemisphere. Where there is radioactive land, there are radiation-resistant fungi.  Life goes on. Plants thrive where and when you least expect them. That's the wonder of life. It replenishes what good there is in the world. If April didn't breed lilacs out of the dead land, then we'd really be in trouble. There would be no way to go on living. But no: the lilacs grow, the jacarandas grow, time passes, we all die, everything begins anew. Cycling forever and ever. It will never stop. Even if we blew up the entire planet, single cell organisms would fly off into outer space on chucks of earth and crash-land on some other planet, and inhabit that other planet, and so the cycle would begin again. The cycle could continue--with or without us. So much depends upon the revival of plants on earth, and yet, so much does not. In reality, it is just us that depend upon it. It is us that are out of the cycle. It is us that will eventually end, not life.

My Personality and My Saturday

There are two sides to me. The predominate side is my quiet, private side. I'm a very guarded person. When someone enters my room, it drives me crazy. Even if I'm in the room with them. There's something about breaking that barrier of door that irritates and discomforts me. My other side, which is about 10% of who I am, is my energetic, "social" side. It's the personality that comes out when I give presentations or when I'm hanging out with a group of friends or go to events with other people. It's the fun, charismatic side of me. It's my let-loose side. The reason I'm not like that all the time is because it is exhausting. I can only be energetic and charismatic for a brief period, and then I'm the quiet, private persona again. I need time alone to gather my thoughts and settle myself into a peaceful state of mind. Being around people puts me out of my mind; my brain is rushing to gather new information every second, and eventually I wear out.

On Saturday night I went by myself to a small theater in Los Angeles to see a play. They were performing A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was nice. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't know where to really stand or go. There were other people around, but I'm not one to approach strangers for casual conversation. I hate, hate small talk. Anyway, the play was all right. It felt a little long at some parts, and I got lost in the language a few times (even though I've read the play one-and-a-half times, and even wrote a paper on it). It was a small theater, so most of the 80 or so seats were empty, and most of the people there were either friends or family of someone in the play, which was kind of funny. I was neither. Like I said, it felt a little long in some places, especially toward the end. I spotted a lot of fidgeting in seats. But it was good. There's really something about seeing a person act in front of you versus seeing a picture on a screen that alters the way you watch. I guess it's more self-conscious. You're aware that at any time, the actor could turn and say their lines to you. In a way, you feel included in the action. Anyway, I didn't cry or anything, and sometimes the humor was kind of dumb, but overall, I had a good time. I'd like to see more plays soon.

My dad in my dreams (Muddy Companion)

I had a really vivid dream about my dad last night.

I was working at some hardware place--Home Depot or Lowe's or wherever. My job was to handle and stack the sod. (Sod is pre-grown pieces of grass, in case you don't know.) And I was sitting in this large, empty warehouse-type room, crying because I couldn't stack the pieces of sod. Everything was falling and breaking apart, and there were pieces all over the place. I didn't know what to do. Then I see my dad, and he starts helping me. He's cutting slices of queso fresco (Spanish cheese) and sticking them to the broken pieces of sod. And as I'm watching him, I begin to calm down. I start doing the same, and pretty soon I have a small pile of sod that's not broken apart. Then more sod comes in, but these pieces aren't broken. They're nice and thick. I start stacking the new pieces. My dad is next to me, watching me as I work. I'm so busy working that I don't immediately notice when my dad leaves. I start to panic, thinking I won't be able to do anything without him. Then some lady approaches me, and hands me something. (This is how you know I play a lot of Dungeon & Dragons.) Even without reading the note she hands me or whatever it was, I know what it is: it's a magical item--like a staff or something--and it's called the Muddy Companion. What is does is whenever I feel overwhelmed or about to break apart, I can use it to summon my dad for help--no matter what. It's like a magical spell. It was like always having my dad nearby. I don't know how I knew all that, because as soon as she handed me the magic item, my mind immediately popped  to the surface of my conscious mind and I woke up crying. Tears were dripping off my face onto my pillow. However, I was smiling because I felt so loved and happy and proud of my dad, and kept thanking him, over and over again for helping me. It was all so real, mixing dream with reality. I was awake, but not in control of my thoughts. I know it was only a dream, but I realized that that's how I actually feel about my dad: proud, happy, and grateful. After I finished crying, I fell asleep a few minutes later still smiling.

Anyway, that was last nights dream.

2 years

I just realized that this month marks the two year anniversary of my blog

Playing Pretend

If you saw last weeks episode of Community (or, like me, you only saw the first half), then you know that in the beginning of the episode Abed was teaching Annie how to use the Dreamatorium.

To be honest, I think that's a really, really cool idea: a zone for endless imagination.

When I was younger, I would play Pretend a lot. Most of my recesses in elementary school were spent playing pretend with my then-best friend (who, coincidentally, shared my name and lived on the same block as me).

What I loved most about playing was that you could anything you wanted; nothing was limited or out-of-bounds. We also played pretend a lot whenever we'd go to each others' houses. I loved playing Power Rangers or Link from The Legend of Zelda (video game series). I loved pretending my sword could deflect bullets. I loved solving mysteries and riddles and taking down to bad guys. I loved pretending I had magic powers and could shoot fireballs and teleport places.

It makes sense, then, that I'm passionate about Dungeons and Dragons. Its a game where friends gather in one place at one time to use their imaginations to be heroes. I know it got a bad rap in the 80s or whenever because people though it was about demons or devil-worship. But the myths couldn't be further from the truth. DnD is a game about friendship and playing Pretend and scaling 500 foot cliffs on the edge of chance. Just because a few people who play DnD happened to like or worship demons or whatever, doesn't mean that the game itself is about those things. Just like not every person of the Islamic faith is a terrorist; just like not every Christian in the United States is a anti-gay, redneck bigot.

What was I going on about?

Update: that girl in my Philosophy class DOES have a boyfriend, as I suspected. No big deal. But what kinda annoyed me was that she was being really flirty the past week or so, hitting or touching my arm and such. I'm sure she wasn't trying to be flirty; it's probably her personality. Maybe? I guess so. But it makes things confusing and complicated. My advice for today: don't flirt with anyone you don't expect to maybe date in the future. Can you now see why guys are surprised when you just want to be friends with them? Even the smallest bit of flirtation will set a guy's imagination running wild. Both sides need to have reasonable expectations to avoid or reduce hurting others.

Thinking, as always

No matter what obstacles and displeasure and let-downs affect us, there is always hope. The disappointments and embarrassments and shame we may feel can never last longer than our hope. Hope is beautiful. Hope is brilliant. We often say one shouldn't dare to hope. But I say you should! You should hope! Hope makes everything better--with time, with patience. Life itself is the hope of progress, order, and fulfillment. With death comes the hope of remembrance, of Heaven, or someplace in between. Hope is our friend, our lover; we are supported by it at all turns of our lives. If we haven't already, we should meet hope, keep hope, and move forward as better people.

 

"Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops at all -"

  --Emily Dickinson

 

 

Easter with Me

In my very humble opinion, I think I'm mother fudging hilarious. But a lot of people don't seem to agree with me.

In my philosophy class, we're talking about the soundness of arguments. We're not really discussing ideas. It's more like schematizing and evaluating arguments.

In my own special way, I'm very egotistical. Last Wednesday, that girl in my philosophy class sent me a text. She asked if I wanted to compare homework after class because we're taking the midterm next week. I said sure. Naturally, I have no reason to doubt her motives: talk about philosophy and compare homework answers so she could get a better grade in the class. But then there's the egotistical side that says, 'She wants you. She wants you. She--wants--you.' I have reason to believe she has a boyfriend. I have reason to believe she wants to get a good grade in the class. I don't, however, have reason to believe 'she wants me.' I don't flirt with her or try anything funny. I don't talk to her outside of class, except for a minute or two directly afterwards. So why do I half-heartedly expect something to happen between us?

I feel so trapped by sex and expectations all the time. I feel like there's something wrong with me because I've never had a girlfriend before--never kissed anyone on the lips before. I know it's all a matter of confidence and effort, but it feels useless at times. I expect it to happen one day, but I'm scared that one day may be long away. I'm frightened that I'm not good enough for anyone; that I don't belong with another person because there's something fundamentally wrong with me. What's wrong with me? Why won't anyone love me? I'm just as kind and can be just as sincere as anyone else--probably even more so! So then, why won't any one love me? Why doesn't anyone like me? Me, the presence; me, the mind shuttled around in this capsule called body; me, the genuine coward and lion-heart. The sincerest, purest form of me calls out for another, wants something other than itself to hold and carry and love. Is it because I'm not good enough?

I suddenly feel very tired and sad talking about this. Don't judge me too harshly.

As for the girl, I expect to do nothing but study.

Normal Update

Today was fun.

We got our exams back in Psychology. I got a 72%: much better than I expected. I'm content with C's.

Then, in Philosophy we got our quizzes back. I got a 14/15. Pretty good, considering I don't read the book or do the practice problems. There's this really strange girl that I talk to after class. Our moms know each other, strangely enough, and so the first day I recognized her. To avoid anything awkward, I kinda initiated an introduction, since we had never spoken to each other before and had only briefly seen each other. Anyway, she's kind of weird. Weird in a off-putting way. We haven't really hit it off; I don't feel any particular comfort or eagerness when talking to her. It's an acquaintance of convenience, really, since in the future we might see each other. She has a sister that's my age (older), whom I had in several high school classes. You know how sometimes telling the truth can be kind of mean? You'll see in a minute. Whenever I think of these two sisters, this thought always comes to my head. The thing is, the older sister, the one my age, is, to put it bluntly, the "ugly one", and the younger one, the one in my philosophy class, is the "cute one". Doesn't sound very nice, right? But it's true. At least in my opinion. I'm only speaking of physical features, of course. The older sister is much easier to talk with, and gives off a much more friendly demeanor (although, with a quirky and reserved girl like her, friendly is kind of a stretch). So, I suppose I wished the younger sister was a bit more friendly, but remained cute. I guess what I just realized is that no one is really what you totally want.

I've been working out for the past month and a half. Nothing much, just an hour three times a week. I'm starting to feel a little bored, but I really can't argue with the results I'm starting to notice.

Things to do for tomorrow:
--read Acts 1 & 2 of Hamlet for my Shakespeare class
--prepare weekly Dungeons and Dragons meeting
--read Philosophy book
--prepare for power point presentation on Thursday
--eat my vegetables
--swing by Barnes & Nobles (maybe?)
--keep loving myself/look forward to stuff

We might have a birthday dinner on Sunday for two of my friends. I'm looking forward to that.

Something simple, something true

Something honest. Okay, honesty time: I am terrified of death. Whenever I hear of an old person dying, reality hits me. They're dead. They're gone, never, ever to return. That's it: they're done forever. I get chills and then feel like crying. Why is death so terrifying? It's permanence, I suppose; it's one situation in our life we cannot possibly change. That's why hope is so important: if we have hope that our lives will change and improve, then we want to keep living. But if there's no hope whatsoever, then what's the point in living? This isn't some bullshit hypothetical question. If you don't think your life can ever improve, and you're miserable, then why are you living? Sanctity of life this, the sin and stigma of suicide that--blah, blah, blah.

Hope saves.

I think of people out there in the world who live to survive, who struggle for food. My life is nothing like that, and I'm grateful. That's the second step, I suppose, in becoming empathetic: first step, recognize the plight of others; second step, analyze your life in comparison;  third step, help.

How do I learn empathy? I have none...If, say, a girl in one of my classes said she was engaged, I wouldn't care. I honestly wouldn't. Same goes if she said she were pregnant. I'd say Congratulations, naturally, because that's what you're supposed to say, but I wouldn't mean it. Do I care about her pregnancy? Not in the slightest. Same goes for friends who complain how tired they are after work. Even big stuff like sickness or death, I don't care. I don't feel anything for them. I only think of how their problems affect me. This is my biggest, most shameful secret.

I'm not a monster. I'm only scared, selfish, and petty. I'm a small boy inside.

Oath

I solemnly swear to acknowledge that I will not die if people don't like me, if I perceive that people don't like me, or even if people ignore me somewhat.

Te Veo

I'm starting to think perpetual anxiety and fear is normal--at least a little bit. I'm in a bit of a trough situation at the moment.

ps: i'm turning 21 next week. god, i'm so young...and stupid.

Life Update

i want to make a blog when i turn 21 about what kind of advice i'd give my kids when I was twenty-one.

Does that make sense?

I want to give my kids the advice of their twenty-one-year-old father.

I'd like to write a book to my future children, while I'm twenty-one-years-old, about life and living.

Of course, it's going to be silly and seriously flawed, and they probably shouldn't actually take most of the advice I'll give, but I think it'll be funny and heart-warming for my kids to read what their dad thought of them before they were even born.

Does that make sense?

Like, why do you want to do this?

Because I like making mental notes about how I am now and thinking to myself, When you're a parent, your kids will think just like you do right now.

I think it'll be something special for them to see what their dad was like when he was younger.

To relate to me as I am now, in addition to as I will be.

Why?

To enlighten them;

to show them that they are not the first to experience turmoil and confusion and anger and horniness and fear and chemically imbalanced joy and withering loneliness:

that they are part of a human chain that is constantly being added to, generation after generation;

that I was once them, and they will one day be me.

In the end, that's okay, because that's the way life is.

Life is so goddamn beautiful

because death is inevitable:

because we are connected to everything only once, and everything is the briefest flash of life.

List of

--Statistics final tomorrow
--Dungeons and Dragons meeting tomorrow; don't have anything solid planned
--spring semester a week from monday
--have to file a graduation request for my AA
--keep checking to see if I've been accepted into university
--file federal aid papers
--think about what i want to do the rest of my life
--think about how to pay for graduate school
--think about how to pay for next year's tuition
--think about finding a job after graduate school
--worry about living with my parents until i'm 30
--worry about making money in ten years
--worry about not having enough life experience if i want to write for a living
--worry about writing for a living
--worry i'm not a story-teller and never can be
--think about why i still blog
--think about why i don't read more often
--worry about becoming dumber everyday
--worry about my car breaking down
--worry about diabetes and other health conditions when i'm older
--think about if i'll ever get divorced
--worry about ever getting divorced
--worry about becoming just another statistic
--think about living my life as i see fit and screw statistics
--statistics final tomorrow

life/death (taxes)

     Everyday is new and different. Thousands of days make up our lives. We can suffer for one day and feel free the next. We can cry for hundreds of days or laugh for hundreds of days, and in only one day everything can change. Life cannot be planned, for life is spontaneous. In its spontaneity, life is wonderful and thrilling and painful and horrific. Why is life so many emotions and feelings combined into one? Why is everyday new and different? Why do some people suffer more than others? It doesn't seem fair. Actually, it's not fair. Why are we concerned with what's fair and what is not fair? Civilization and peace and everyone getting a piece of the pie, no matter how thin. Life is not fair because eventually everyone loses it. We can even plan our own death. In a way, death is the only thing we have control over. We can choose death; I know it doesn't seem like a real choice, but it really is the one thing that when we do it, will stay permanent. But then, choosing life must be a form of control as well. We choose to live or die, wake and sleep, collapse or stand. If our choices are live or die, then we always have a say in the matter of our life as long as we don't choose death. Eventually a stiff wind comes and extinguishes us, but in the meantime, we're choosing to live, to keep going, to post-pone death until we don't want the choice to choose anymore or life gets us first.

John Lennon--Mother

Honest Work-out Goals

I have bony shoulders. This bothers me because one day I'll have a girlfriend, and when I do, I'll want her to feel comfortable putting her head on my shoulder. I don't want to stab her through the eye with my bony shoulder. I guess this is really only a skinny guy problem, but it's still a problem. We can measure the size of the problem, but we can't know if our solutions will be big (or small) enough to solve them. We should still try though.

Over the next semester, I'm going to work-out with my brother's equipment in my backyard. One of my many goals is to have girl-approved-for-head-resting shoulders. Another one is to feel more confident in my physical appearance. A third is to have a stunning jawline. A fourth is create a healthier life-long attitude toward exercising.

Also, I realized tonight I am not emotionally stable enough to have a girlfriend. One day I will be, but not soon.

I'm titling this, 'Breeze through Meadows washed afar on stormy beaches, Part II: The Nervous Awakening'

Sometimes it feels like I'm not the same person everyday, you know? I look at old things I've written and go, Is that how I really felt? Did I really think like that? To be honest, it's embarrassing because I feel so much older and wiser than myself even three months ago. I'm never comfortable with myself. That's not true: I'm comfortable with myself when I don't give a fuck what people think of me. (Should I cuss so much? Sometimes I feel like I need to emphasize things and I guess I'm too lazy to find the words.) When I stop caring about the opinions of others, when I stop filling my brain with their thoughts and their opinions and what I imagine them to think and perceive: this is release. I get trapped in imagining the opinions and thoughts of other people that I don't act like myself around them. I act like them. Or at least how I imagine they act.

Will I ever understand other people? I don't understand people with different viewpoints than me. It sounds closed-minded and perhaps lazy, but sometimes I'm like, How do you think that's a good idea? Or, Why are you so stupid as to believe that? I feel insecure about myself, which is why I'm so quiet around new people, and which is also why I try to withhold judgement: I don't have any moral high-ground with which to pick-off people's faults.

Today, possibly for the first time in my life, I imagined having a family: a wife, a home, and kids. It felt so good. It felt impossibly good, like I was fulfilled for the first time. I realize I'm not a kid anymore; I'm nearly twenty-one, and while that may seem young, no one's gonna cry for me if I fail in life, if you know what I mean. No one's gonna hesitate to throw me in jail or see me as less than a threat like they would a child. I guess all of us twenty-year-olds are somewhere in between adulthood and childhood. Older people expect you to be responsible like an adult, but still see you as less than a person. Like how people treat teenagers and children: less than human. But I'm not a kid, and I'm not an adult: I'm a twenty-year-old nobody living at home. What am I doing here?

That feels like all.

P.S. I wrote this today in my journal: "Let me tell you something about being twenty: at twenty-years-old, everyone is an idiot; but the ones who stay idiots forever are the ones who think they know it all, or the ones who don't risk it or ask questions."

Let's see what Mr. Walt Whitman says

"This is the female form,
A diving nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now
     consumed"

More Honest Thoughts

Sometimes I wonder if anything is really valuable except intimacy. That human contact, skin to skin, hands to hands, chest to chest. That human endurance test called marriage. Those head-aching minor issues. Those fifty years together; or twenty-five years apart. Are these the lows or highs of human existence? What do I aim for? Why do I get up in the morning?

I gotta start being more honest, I just gotta. I feel so bunched up, scrunched up. I feel compressed, and that's never a good feeling. I want to learn how to create moving art. I want to make people cry and laugh. I want to connect with people. Oh God, I want human connections.

What else is there to say? This is what I'm aiming for: that human touch, tenuous connection. But I gotta go to school, and I gotta study for my math quiz tomorrow, and I gotta read more books, and I gotta get new car tires, and I gotta fix my yellow teeth one day, and I gotta buy new clothes, and I gotta keep eating if I don't want to die, and I gotta tell the truth to make myself known, and I gotta keep writing cause my thoughts are flooding me, and I gotta go to sleep soon, and I gotta do my math homework. Goddammit, I gotta do math homework. And then what do I do? I keep going to school and keep doing homework--whether it be math or english or history or human sexuality or shakespeare--and I gotta keep attending class and keep learning and keep avoiding socializing and start socializing more. All of these things I gotta do lead me where? Where's the rest for fulfillment? Will life fulfill me as I move along? It feels like I'm wasting away. It feels like all I was born to do is work until my death.

Oh God, and I forgot about showers! I gotta shower if I don't want to smell bad and people to dislike me. It's my humble impression, however, that 99 out of 100 people will never ever like me. So who gives a fuck about them? But showers--still have to shower at least once every few days.

Just had a thought: one thing at a time until I'm dead or happy.

I'm just gonna stop here.

Honest friend talk

My friends are immature, selfish assholes. But so am I. I guess I deserve them.

hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooow!??!

How can anyone not believe in biological evolution? It's like not believing the Earth orbits the Sun. It's like denying Antarctica exists because you've never seen it in person. Evolution has NOTHING to do with God or whatever else your beliefs are. Notice I said beliefs? That's because evolution is not a belief; evolution is a scientific fact, much like how the planets orbit the sun or the existence of Antarctica are facts. Let me repeat that: evolution has NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with religion. Evolution doesn't explain how or why life started; it doesn't make claims about the origin of the universe. Evolution answers questions like, "Hey, I wonder why there are so many different kinds of plant and animal species on Earth?". Evolution offers insight into why humans walk upright or carry children for nine months or why we have two ears and two eyes, and so many other facets of life. There is so much overwhelming evidence for evolution that I can't believe people are unwilling to listen and learn about this wonderful phenomenon. There should be no more controversy surrounding the fact of evolution than the historical existence of the Roman empire. Look at the evidence. Look at micro and macro evolution. "Well, show me a transitional instance of macro evolution where one species is turning into another." In other words, show me a duck-dog-platypus-whatever. How else can big changes happen without innumerable small changes? It's like me pointing to a mountain and then holding up a single pebble and saying, "That mountain is made-up of thousands of these little guys." And the other person goes, "What? But that mountain is so big and that thing is so small! There's no possible way those things can create something so different in form and structure and shape and design." Why do we need to vaccinate against the flu every year? Because it changes into different strands. Why do antibiotics become less effective against bacteria? Because the bacteria becomes resistant to the drugs. Why do humans share 97% (or so) of DNA with chimpanzees? Because we evolved from a common ancestor. Let me repeat again: evolution DOES NOT disprove the existence of God, much like how the orbital habits of the Earth do not disprove the existence of God. If anything, it beautifully illustrates the complex and evanescent nature of life.

Quick Thoughts

It's only my opinion, but I think that our overall health hinders greatly on our abilities to express ourselves.

For instance, yesterday I was furious because I felt accused of heinous intentions by some strange girl. As much as I tried to talk myself down, I still couldn't overcome my anger. When I got home, I felt like I had to tell someone or I'd explode. So I told my sister what occurred. You know what happened? She laughed and told me to stop being creepy. She didn't think for one second that I was going to hurt that girl; she thought it was all a joke. And, in a way, it really was something trivial I was angry about. Now, sitting and typing this, I don't even care about what happened yesterday.

Another example has to do with my poor social skills. Whenever I talk to people I don't know, I feel nervous and intimidated. It's something I'm barely overcoming. And you know why I'm beginning to have more confidence in myself? It's because I'm talking to more and more people. It does me no good to decide to avoid social interactions; it only leaves me as I am. However, if I go out and speak to as many people as I can, then, slowly, I can build-up confidence in whatever I'm saying and how I'm saying it.

My point is that human begins need to talk to other human beings to remain sane; human beings need to express themselves to remain sane. If we don't release our emotions--joyous or angry or whatever--then they'll rot inside us and we'll have to carry them wherever we go. So, I encourage everyone to shake off fear and speak your mind. In the long run, we'll all be healthier and happier people.

Creepy Guys and Pepper Spray--From the Other Side

Today I was almost pepper-sprayed by some girl I don't know. Okay, here's what happened. Around seven o'clock, I was walking to my car from math class. It was already dark outside. Whenever I'm walking in the dark anywhere, I make sure people--especially women--know I'm there. It's not that I want to be creepy; in fact, it's the opposite reason. I don't want to seem like I'm hiding anything--which, by the way, I'm not. Maybe this is the wrong thing to do; I don't know. But it just seems to me that most women are scared of walking alone at night--as anyone should--because they're afraid of someone popping out of some shadows or running and grabbing them from behind. So what I normally do if I see someone walking ahead of me is to walk slower to maintain a buffer of comfort; I also scrape my shoes against the asphalt to alert them to my presence. Sometimes I cough really loud, or maybe if I'm anticipating seeing someone I start whistling. I pretty much do anything short of yelling, "Hey, I'm right here!" to let them know someone is nearby. Anyway, so I was walking through the parking lot--which is uphill--and I'm tired and hungry and want to go home, when, from out of nowhere, I see a girl to my right walking toward me at a perpendicular angle. There's only a few seconds between when I first see her and when she sees me. She looks up at me; I look back at her: complete eye-contact (was this wrong?). Suddenly, she pulls out her keys and holds them at shoulder-level as he continues walking past me--faster now. I notice she's holding something on her key chain--that's probably pepper spray, I think. It looked like a can of pepper spray. Without saying anything, we pass each other. She gets into her car as I get into mine, and in a few seconds, she's gone.

Immediately, I felt tremendous, pounding anger. Seriously. I felt so..victimized? I felt accused of murder or assault, when in fact I had done nothing wrong. Is it wrong to feel this way? I know she was only doing what needed to be done (I mean, c'mon: alone in a semi-dark parking lot with a weird bearded guy approaching you), but it still hurt my feelings to see that look of anger and defense and terror in that girl's face. I understand her motives; I understand that under different but very similar circumstances she could have been injured. I get it. But it still hurts. I know who and what I am, and I'm not that kind of person.

(Maybe I should buy a referee's whistle.)

so long

So,

-On Thursday we finally had the intervention. Instead of waiting around, we (five guys, including myself) went to Mr. For-whom-the-intervention-is-for's (FWTIIF) house. It was around eight o'clock at night. We said we'd be outside his house at eight, but he wasn't home, and didn't show up until 8:10. So we sat in my car, going over the game-plan. Then, Mr. FWTIIF showed up. I felt very bad because he seemed happy to see everyone together, and he started making jokes and talking about life, as is his custom. No one wanted to do it; that much I gathered while we walked up his driveway. But I knew it had to be done, regardless if anyone backed me up. My friends are incredibly timid, and sometimes I feel the dire need to step-up and fill the role of leader, if only to find our path. /// So we get inside, and say hello to his family as we go into his room. Mr. FWTIIF is cheery and seems excited because we told him we'd be talking about Dungeons and Dragons, and from what our friend who has a class with him told us, he's come up with a brilliant idea on how to write-off a character in the game. He has no idea why we're really there. /// Everyone finds a seat in his small bedroom, wary of not sitting too close to him. I'm fed up with waiting and stalling and I just want everything out and open and over with, so I push past everyone and plop down on his bed. The friend who has the class with him, the only other person who is not timid like everyone else, sits down next to me, and immediately we begin. /// My non-timid friend speaks first. We start off by asking him to listen and not say anything while we speak. He agrees too quickly for my taste, so I repeat the request, slower and with more emphasis. He's even quicker the second time, and trusting to the intention behind his words, my non-timid friend and I begin the speech the group has written. /// We talk, and talk, and talk. We discuss the punctuality problem and how it shows a lack of respect for the group; we go over preparedness to run the story and the number of hours wasted by his time reading the story during gameplay; we go over the issues regarding map-making; we skim over table manners and complain over the total lack of focus of every session. Finally, we end the entire speech by giving him the ultimatum that is the reason we've come here, but also the reason everyone is tense: we demand that he either shape-up to our expectations, or step-down as our Dungeon Master. It some ways, it feels as though we are asking him to stop being our friend. /// Although initially jitteringly nervous, throughout the entire intervention I feel calm and peaceful. My voice sounds even, and my hands are relaxed. Mr. FWTIIF, true to his word, stays silent while we say our peace. But as soon as we are done and our talking drops into silence, he springs. /// In essence, he agrees with everything we said. He's memorized our three major points, and for every one, adds some clarification or sideways rebuttal. I could tell within the first fifteen seconds he felt attacked when we spoke, but now that he's having his own say and we are silent, he's letting all emotion pour out from him. He seems hot, sweating; his movement, even while sitting, is hotly animated--fingers, hands, forward leaning. There's nothing to do but listen fairly. But I know one thing: there's no escaping from this problem now that we've opened a wound in him. /// The group murmurs and agrees here and there, but mostly it is Mr. FWTIIF who speaks. Those bastards, my friends--now that we've handled the speech, they are more apt to speak. Can I blame them for now feeling more comfortable? There is definitely less tension now that our grievances are exposed. Where before were knots in all our stomachs, there is the release of a bowel movement, and now we have to wait and see how big and how much trouble it will cause us. /// Mr. FWTIIF is quick to go over all our points. In the end, it comes down to a decision he has to make, and he knows this. He tries bargaining: "Can someone have oversight over me?" In other words, can someone else be responsible with me if I fall on my ass? Quickly and firmly I tell him no; this is his decision and his responsibility alone. All failure or praise belongs to him at this point. He ponders this a while. If it were me, I'd want more time to think about it. I'd want to weigh the feasibility of changing my patterned ways versus the likelihood of continual disappointment; I'd want to know if there was any other way; to be honest, I'd want to know how big of a screw-up I've been, and if there's anything I can do about it. But Mr. FWTIIF doesn't want more time. He thinks out loud right in front of us. /// He wants to continue being our DM, and like anyone, he wants to believe he'll change his ways to do so. But at the same time, he knows something. He knows he's made promises before and broken them; he knows the kind of flaky person he is, and knows what will happen if our expectations are not met--whether it be the next time we play, or six months down the line. He knows we're at the end of our patience; to come to his house, as a group, and show him the faults we've witnessed, studied, and experienced, is to truly and definitively show what frustrations we've put up with, and with what cold hearts we will cut him off with. He tells us he knows all this, and still he thinks. /// Then, he tells us. It comes faster and is much more anti-climatic than I imagined, like anything in life we imagine vaguely and with fear. But, now I can say, finally, we know. "I don't think I can do it," he says. He will no longer be our DM. /// I ask him if he's sure, and with timidness but also with a hint of certainty, he tells us again. "No, I don't think I can do it." Everyone exhales. This is the news we've wanted, but to hear it out loud from the only person who can say it, is to bruise the arm we've been flexing for so long. Should one be happy or sad? Or, perhaps, disappointed? /// While everyone is busy defining their feelings, something unexpected happens. Now that the fighting tension is gone and the blood pumps away from our faces, we sit back, relax, and suddenly we begin smiling. Everyone is tired; everyone is mentally drained. No one wants hurt feelings, so let's not hurt feelings, we seem to agree. To smile is to feel relief for the first time in days, at least for me. I'm haunted no more; I'm anxious no more. What I dreaded I have seen; what misery I held I now release from my heart and feel the peace of the storm after. In the end, no one is hurt more than a scratch and a bruise. We laugh; our past selves seem afraid for increasingly fewer and fewer reasons. Grins spread all around, and when everything is said and done, only an hour has past. An hour gone in a few moments.

epilogue: we drove to get something to eat at Carl's Jr. There, we needed to decide on a new DM (Mr. FWTIIF would still join us as a player). No one jumped at the opportunity; no one wanted it. The people who did want to do it seemed motivated only by the fact that no one else wanted to do it. It was awkward and desperate. I had enough of the timidness for one night. You know how I told you sometimes I feel like the only one able to step-up and become the leader? Right then, I felt like the group needed a leader, and I saw my friends as helpless. So I stepped-up, and said I wanted to be Dungeon Master. When asked how much I wanted to do it, I replied, "Completely." If no one would want (or admit) to desiring the job, then I would. We then had a vote. There was an easy agreement. In a second the voting finished, and I had become Dungeon Master.

Just an update

Yesterday, my friends and I were going to have an intervention for our other friend. It's not about drugs or alcohol; it's about his punctuality when we play Dungeons and Dragons. Yeah, I don't know if I've said this before, but I play Dungeons and Dragons. (I think I must have at some point.)

If you know about Dungeons and Dragons, then you already know what a DM is and his/her role in the game. If you don't know, then imagine the DM as being the referee and narrator of the story, and everyone else is a character in the story. Anyway, so our other friend, the one for whom we were having the intervention, was our DM whenever we would play, but unfortunately, he is one of the flakiest people I have ever met. Possibly the flakiest.

In the end, nothing happened. The guy didn't show up at the appointed time. After an hour of waiting, everyone agreed to call it a night. I don't know if it's the end or the beginning of things.


On Sunday, I went whale watching with my immediate family and my aunt's family. We went down to Newport, a really wealthy beach city. The boat couldn't have been going faster than twenty-five or thirty miles per hour, but it was still so windy and icy out on the ocean. The sun was out between the clouds only for a few minutes in the two and a half hours we were on the boat. At one point, it rained for fifteen minutes.

The ocean is so big, so entirely, uninterruptedly big. All I could think about was how the Pilgrims and early settlers from Europe could travel across the ocean in huge wooden boats, and that even only after an hour, I started to feel sea sick. We saw two gray whales, a mother and her newborn. We followed them for an hour. There was this one boat that got too close to the mother and newborn and scared them into changing course, so our captain sped up to them and blocked them from moving any closer to the whales. Then that boat sped off toward the beach, and everyone on our boat cheered. There was also a rainbow over the ocean after it had stopped raining.

Students Who Want Everything Easy

I'm deciding what classes to take Spring semester. In the course of searching, I've realized I will probably fail to transfer out of my community college this year, unless the class I need is offered but not listed in the catalog. It's a game of wait and see. I register next week. I don't want to spend another year left behind. I really, really don't.

On the other hand, I'd rather fail a million classes a millions times each than become consumed with transferring to a "reputable" university. The reason I say this is because during the figuring of my classes tonight, I would often use Rate My Professor to determine who's class I should take. You have to listen to every reviewer with one eye open and one eye closed, if you know what I mean, and aggregate the common complaints and compare them to the common praises. Anyway, as I was reading the low reviews of a possible Economics professor, I noticed a lot of them offered the same advice: "DONT TAKE THIS GUY ITS IMPOSSIBLE TO GET AN A. IF YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR GPA AND WANT TO TRANSFER TO A GOOD UNIVERSITY LIKE UCLA OR BERKELEY, DON'T TAKE HIM THERE ARE EASIER PROFESSORS". There were more of these than I thought there would be, around a dozen or so. It made me think, then it made me angry. Is that all you care about? Your freaking grade and precious GPA are more important than learning the material and being challenged? The more I thought about it and the more similar reviews I read, the angrier I became. You got your first C in this class? Who cares? Stop blaming everything and everyone but yourself. It's really, really annoying. The one word that immediately describes how I feel is disgust. There's nothing wrong with caring about school and your grades, and even your GPA; but when you start complaining something is too hard for you, that it should be easier for you, that, somehow, you're entitled to get an A even if you never learned a freaking thing, then that's when an anger bubble arises inside me.

Strange

I remember in second or third grade hanging around the old playground equipment during recess with some other kids.One of my classmates started shaking the loose metal poles, and out of the joints came dark brown water. "Look, chocolate milk," he said. I believed him.

I remember in fifth grade sitting with a girl in the field of my school during Back to School night. We talked about this other girl who liked me. Some time later, it got dark. I remember my mom asking where I'd been.

I remember being at a middle school dance inside our cafeteria. Right next to it was an outdoor eating area with concrete benches and tables. I tried so hard to be part of this group of guys. I remember I'd follow them inside, they'd talk or something, and then they'd go back outside. It was stupid. It felt so degrading having to follow them around. They didn't even talk to me that much. We didn't really have anything in common. Also, I remember that I didn't know any of the popular songs they were playing, but the guys around me did, so I swore to myself that I'd listen to the radio and memorize the lyrics and stuff. I gave up after a week or so.

I remember playing tag in my middle school after school. I forget why we were there, but a bunch of kids were hanging out and we decided to play tag. I wore a lot of that AXE crap--I sprayed it on everything--so I remember sweating and smelling sweet but in a gross way. Then these girls started saying how so-and-so girl and I would look cute as a couple. Well, so-and-so girl was there with us, and everybody pretty much pressured her into doing something. She took me aside and explained to me that she didn't think of me that way. I don't recall being mad or upset; it felt too surreal. I might be incorrectly remembering this, but I believe someone told me later that so-and-so girl didn't think I was cute.

I remember in freshman year of high school, sitting on the wrestling mats on the stage of our gymnasium during badminton practice. I was holding a composition notebook and pretending to sketch. I cannot draw--at all. I thought I was being aloof and mysterious. Some girl came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I pretended to be annoyed and shy. Actually, I was annoyed and shy. I told her I wasn't doing anything, so she left me alone.

Last one is a funny one: I played saxophone in middle school. Band was my fourth period, right before lunch. My third period was on the other side of the school. My band friend had a class near my third period. I can't even fathom the events that began this, but we used to race across the school to see who got to the band room first. I recall that we'd walk on opposite sides of the classrooms. (The classrooms were in rows, three joined classrooms per row, around ten or so rows in total. My school was open-air.) Usually we'd fast walk, but sometimes, if it was close enough, we'd sprint. He had the instrument advantage because he played the flute and I had to lug around my saxophone. But I had the weight advantage because I've been thin all my life. It was fun. Eventually, though, we stopped racing because one morning we were running down the hall, and either he ran into someone, or I hit someone with my saxophone case, which caused them to fall over. It was an accident that wouldn't have happened if we weren't running, so we stopped racing. The most fascinating thing about this was that neither of us really acknowledged that we were competing; it sort of came about and ended non-verbally.

Last, last one: In sophomore year of high school, I had math class right after lunch with this girl I really liked. She was friends with one of my friends, so we were sort of friends, sort of not. For this reason, we'd hang-out during lunch, and remained talking with people until the one minute bell rang, and we'd rush off to class. Well, one time we were really late. Since I was still a school boy back then, I really, really did not want to be late. We're half-jogging, half-running to our class. We're outside the classroom, when the girl I really like trips and falls, and all the loose papers in her notebook come flying out. I stand in the entryway, watching. The final bell rings, and I panic. I don't help her up. Instead, I go inside, put my stuff down, and return to the doorway. Not knowing what else to do, I tell this girl to hurry up or else she'll get a detention. Her face is bright red. She slinks inside. To this day, I still wish I'd helped her up.

What is Soul?

My initial answer to the question "Do people have souls?" is no. But then I started thinking that I wasn't being very open-minded, and what one person defines as soul can be an entirely different thing or form or state of being than another person. So my questions to you are "What is a soul?" and "What does it mean to have a soul?". You may think Soul can only be one thing, and everyone else is wrong, but try to bear with me. There's a lot to be learned from different opinions.

You have to consider there is no clear and unified definition of soul. Try Googling soul and see the innumerable hits it generations; even the Wikipedia page alone is rife with differing opinions on the subject. Here is the summary definition that is given at the top of the Wikipedia entry:

A soul – in certain spiritual, philosophical, and psychological traditions – is the incorporeal essence of a person, living thing or object.... Soul can function as a synonym for spirit, mind or self;[3] scientific works, in particular often consider soul as a synonym for mind.

But then if soul is incorporeal, how can it be measured? And if it can't be measured, then how can you determine if it is large or small? Can it fit inside a person, or can it not fit inside a person? Is it neither large or small? Then, in a way, it is all-encompassing or no-thing; it is, or it is not. So how can every human have an individual soul? If anything, Soul is Soul, and everything lives in it. Or there is no Soul, as far as the above definition describes it (unless you are calling mind or brain Soul, which some may consider different things, but that's neither here nor there).

Doesn't it seem to you that definitions are inherently meaningless because they are human creations? Names, especially, are intrinsically meaningless because they are pure human creations--humans create languages, languages are filled with names. Languages are flawed, imperfect. But what is perfection? I think an apt definition of perfection is flawlessness, or something without flaws. But what are flaws? Pimples, cancers, plagues, crooked noses, yellow teeth: these are all flaws, wouldn't you say? But how do we know they are flaws? Because humans call them flaws. Who says pimples are flaws? Well, biologically, pimples may be seen as signs of poor health (let's just say culture has no influence in this). This is practical: a human with a pimple is a flawed human. But our biology is simply chemicals and electricity, isn't it? So couldn't we, theoretically, alter the brain to think pimples are not flaws?

But let's go way beyond all this and think of flaws and perfection another way. Let's say, for instance, nothing alive existed in the universe: no plants, no animals, no cells, and especially no humans. There is no consciousness or awareness. Would flaws exist then? Even God, who is perfect, would not recognize flaws because He would need a language to define existence, and as I pointed out earlier, language is flawed. But not God's language, you might say. How can there exist flaws if only God exists?

(I have a question relating to this: if God is perfect, then shouldn't everything he created be perfect? No, you may say, because Satan made everything imperfect. But God created Satan--God created everything, as is my understanding of Christianity. Couldn't you say God even created flaws--if flaws actually exist--because he created everything? So if God created everything, including time and space and matter, then that means everything is perfect. If this is the case, I think we should seriously re-evaluate the world. As J.D. Salinger would say, the Fat Lady is everyone, or God is everything, or Jesus Christ is inside everything, or Buddha-hood is within us all, or we are all Vishnu and Shiva and Dharma. Flaws are not within humans because we are products of a perfect God, or perfect consciousness, so we are therefore perfect. But when we think in terms of perfect versus flawed, we lose sense of this. Nothing and everything is perfect.)

Without human consciousness, there are no flaws, there is no beauty, everything just is. This, I think, is Buddha-consciousness, and it's damn near impossible to achieve it. So you begin to see how much humans depend on definitions and names, in a practical perspective, yet how meaningless they really are.

Why care? Why do anything?

Look, I'm being honest here. I will not reach Buddha-consciousness in my lifetime. That's fact. I need to play the game of life so that I won't starve to death and my family will have a house to live in. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't try to live as harmoniously and as happily as I can, just because I can, so that I will be happy living on Earth among humans. It's not perfect, but it's the only path open to me. Do what good you are capable of doing, and let go of the rest.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this strange and unstructured draft of opinions and confusion.

(Please excuse any typos--I'm a little too tired to check for any.)