"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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
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.
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