I might post later again tonight since this isn't new material and because I want to try writing something happy. I like challenges. However, I was browsing through some old files and I came across this, and I was shocked to see how nicely it complements my current mood. This is something I wrote last year (two semesters ago) right before summer break. I had a rough school year- the roughest yet, to be sure- and I just couldn't wait to get home. If I would have kept a blog that year, it would have been TWICE as self-indulgent and pathetic as this one. So, here's the story of my year in a composition. I wrote it for a creative writing class. The assignment was something like, "Write about an object that triggered a change in you." I chose my Alexander statue. It might be a little confusing. The original paper helped establish time and perspective with italics. It's also a little TOO sacharine, a little corny at parts, too, but it's got that same rawness I've unleashed in a couple of these posts- always liberating. Oh, some background- Alexander the Great is my personal hero, always has been. I tried to represent my internal grievances and disappointment through an imagined dispute between myself and Alexander, who speaks through the statue. It's really a clash between the new and the old, the boy and the man.
The Statue and the Man
It’s time to go back to Fraser, time to spend hours, days, months getting sunburned with a good book in my hands, my hands growing black against the bleached pages. It’s time to see old high school friends, to pledge to jog every morning with them until fifteen pounds are gone, to pretend I haven’t changed. I’ll be back in my room soon to play my keyboard, resurrect my stereo, and fall asleep underneath dinosaur-themed curtains that should have been removed and replaced when I was at college, if not when I learned how to walk. I expect some awkwardness. That much is sure. My family will have to accommodate a new me, my friends will have to accept my changes, but they’ll learn, and we’ll make out all right.
But what of Alexander?
A statue sits in my room, a bust, to be precise, of Alexander the Great. It’s milky white, like a boiled oyster shell or like one buffed by eons of sandy undertows. I missed it while I was gone. At first, I could still feel its steely stare, calling me to greatness, asking me to pick up a sword and shield, showing me the glow of the unconquered, unseen horizon, just like I always had. I could feel it in everything I did. Certainty and resolve were my aegis. Ambition was my torch. I was going to be a scientist, a physicist, and I was going to find worlds within worlds.
Summer starts this Wednesday when I toss my computer and bike into my father’s van to again find Fraser and lemonade, and ice cream, and thunderstorms, and pools, and Frisbees. Friends, family, jobs, habits- all waiting for me to pick up where I left off, to jump back in.
But what of Alexander?
He’ll know. The man who sleeps beneath his gaze is a strange one. The person who dusts his shoulders is different, is foreign. The new man will avoid phone calls and family dinners; he’ll listen to his music louder than the boy of last summer did. He’ll dread tomorrow and his next two hour car ride upstate.
Slowly, things began to shrink- my ego, my ambition, my congeniality, my certainty, and my view of the ends of the earth. College showed me limits, college showed me reality. It took the spear out of my hand and replaced it with a job application. It removed my brothers-in-arms and substituted them for fat, droopy sacks- inhaling smoke and vodka and expelling puke and piss. The statue that I envisioned to be seated on my desk seemed smaller than the one I had at home, less detailed, less powerful, less magnificent. Shrunk.
Spring seemed to help a lot. In a last-ditch effort to fix my life at college, I obliterated my schedule. I could again feel the pricks of independence, and the short, excited, pulsating breaths they fostered. I started acing my classes and showing interest. No conqueror on my desk yet. I planned next year, science-free, tried making friends, consulted advisors, and applied for scholarships. Not even a helmet. Some wounds need more than a quick bandage.
I’ll be in the Upper Peninsula in June to paddle down crystal rivers, duel voracious salmon, and feel the tops of mountains under my toes. The jerky will be a salty delight; my flashlight, a scalpel to slice away the thick dark that hides most interesting creatures. I’ll breathe the same air, memorize the same tracks, and visit the same bait shops.
But what of Alexander?
He knows it’s no salvation or escape, only diversion. He’ll notice how the vistas produce shorter gasps; the sunsets, less sighs. The ghosts of the year will remain. Without wonder, all things, even nature, lose their luster.
Poker pots, used car lots, chocolate, and Slurpees.
Blockbusters, gut-busters, pool tables, “hello cable!”
Head pressed against the seat, I dream of heat, of barbequed meat,
Sand beneath my pale and shivering feet.
My computer and bike thump against the van walls.
They’re just as elated to escape Holmes Hall.
The frost of February, the dark of December,
These are the only things I remember.
With nothing to do, there was nothing to say.
So, I sat, silent, and wasted my life away.
Books and magazines! I’ll have time for the multitude. My library card is going to be scanned more than Paris Hilton’s American Express. There’s a fantastic, old swing that hides behind the building. If you can stand a splinter, you can find heaven. There, I’ll forget, delete, and dream.
But what of Alexander?
Books are great, but they can stifle life. They can leave you content with inaction, speculation, and indolence. Over the last eight months, they softened him with the brush of every page. Life shouldn’t be paper, but marble, white marble!
Curiously, I began to cherish the exams and the papers. Homework and studying were celebrations. They were privileges, divine invitations to do something.
There will be yelling and hugs and stories and shrugs. I can’t wait to see my family. We’ve been close all my life, confiding in one another, drawing strength from each other’s uncompromising individuality- our identity had always depended on how un-identical we were. Once again, I’ll have to sweep my sister’s teeny-bopper magazines out of my room and pry her cosmetics out of drawers. J.J., my brother will be gripping his football, clenching its laces, before I even set down my dirty clothes, and, of course, I’ll oblige him. My father will have a fruity, alcoholic beverage with three ice cubes bobbing in it, to raise at my return, and my mother will probably have too many bags, keys, coupons, papers, and order forms to really give me the over-solicitous pokes, prods, and embraces that all mothers are prone to.
But what of Alexander?
“Stand down, stand down, men! A welcome? Bah! Seize the interloper!”
Summer always fixes things, the student’s sanity-saver. Everyone fantasizes about chucking their back-pack into a cobwebbed corner. The crash of pool-side cannonballs is deafening before exams are even mentioned. No one can fight the call of summer. It’s when the sun and the earth finally see each other through the clear blue glass of warm skies and suddenly rejoice. Moreover, it’s that time of year when accomplishment and ambition, after building and developing all year, are finally bolted onto their final pedestal for all to see and marvel at. Diplomas and report cards last the whole summer, their radiance sufficient to condone all types of sloth and joy.
I scoffed at the honors college. Would a GPA reduction really keep this caboose on track? Harder classes and the challenges they brought were welcome to the intellect, but a deeper, more fundamental, side of my mind knew that I needed something else: renewed purpose, a jolt of ambition, a fire to set my spirits ablaze. No gold-leafed borders will encircle my name on the mantle this year.
I’m no Alexander.
He’s no conqueror, not anymore. Will he ever know marble, what it’s like to set enemies on fire with a stare or to launch thousands of men into oblivion and eternity with but a word? Summer offers him sleep, not success. The fire is on his skin, not in his heart. Let’s hope next summer, I find him more familiar.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Alterity
Week Two was a grind. I'm kind of comatose right now from all the Spanish. This post may or may not make sense.
Well, I fought it, and I fought it hard, but it's back. This disconnectedness, this black cloud that follows me. Things started getting overcast at about 11:00 PM, but I ignored it, showed some faith. But it's here, and it's a doozy, a downpour. This disconnectedness I feel, like there's no gravity, like I'm sliding off the world. And through it all, there's this sickening feeling, something akin to silent dread, disgusted shock at myself: if I woke up tomorrow with no one, in another country, I wouldn't care. I know it's just a feeling, and, therefore, something too fleeting to bring me to my knees, but it's getting close to crippling, and it's only been here for two days or so. Sometimes I feel like things just happen near me. The grades I get, the people I meet, the games I play, the things I say-they all just swirl around me, like an atmosphere of personality, one that could be dissipated by a cold front or a storm, a clean slate, a rejection of everything and everyone. They cling so tenuously.
I'd like to see all the big questions answered, especially "what are we supposed to live for?". Lately, people seem to be embracing an sort of eudaimonism, a "live for happiness. Live for yourself." I can't agree. I can't see the point of such a life, just like I can't see the point of having a point. My eyes are glazing here. Is this growing up? It feels like being mummified.
There are some pretty girls on this floor. I was trying to smile more, to take extra long to open my door in hopes of an impromptu run-in with one, and now I don't care to remember their names. Just. Like. That.
I have this friend. He's been here for two years. I've known him a long time. I see him quite a bunch. Last year, some girl really fucked him up. Dumped him for one of his friends he'd known since high school, and then came back to him, vacillating between the two at least three times. Before I came here, I told a mutual friend of ours that I'd help this guy "rejoin the world." Pretty words from an idiot with no sense of irony.
My roommate is a good guy. Guys are so leery of showing any kind of encouragement or praise for one another. I think it's because society has hunted the ego to extinction. One is embarrassed just to use the word "I". We're snorted at for talking about ourselves, praising ourselves, being excited for ourselves. Could it be traceable to the American Way- the competition, the pressure, the stress, the feelings of inadequacy? Maybe. Or maybe it's something more current, more concrete. Americans used to be renowned for their manliness, their swagger, their confidence, their long-striding, coon-cap wearing pioneers. Now, we're plagued by a sheepishness stemming from all the international animosity we've incurred. We're shaken. Our men wear girl pants now. David Bowie penned the writing on the wall. I'm sure the concurrent gender confusion is pertinent to this debate, as well. Gender is as much a choice for today's man as what type of car he wants to drive. Anyways, Joe seems to have that confidence that so many have lost. He'll tell guys to relax, to take a break, that they're working too hard, instead of hurling epithets or doubts regarding the guy's penis length. He doesn't strike when a flaw is betrayed. Take my other friend. He's been hounding me with texts lately to hang out. I've known him for awhile. He came over yesterday with some of his girl friends. Nervous and surprised, my tongue got wound in knot of Gordian proportions, and instead of bailing me out, switching the topic, defusing the awkwardness, my friend moves in for the kill, socially slaying me in front of the ladies. Maybe this is an analogue to the time-honoured cock fight. Now that assault is a fine, men fight over women with sharp tongues, not blades. Joe wouldn't do that. I like that.
"Just do, Alex. Don't think. Run in, guns a'blazing, and DO." I was doing that at first. It was working, even with everyone pegging me with questions of how I was liking my new school. "It's different," was all I said (lame answer, I know.). But I can't poke a hole in this cloud with insouciance, with living-in-the moment. It's only a strategy that works for those who have something to enjoy, who already have a clear mind. It's preventive, not restorative. It's an anti-fogger, not a window scraper.
Sartre talked about 'beings-in-themselves' and how humans naturally want to become one. An example of someone acting on that urge is a waiter who impersonates the ideal waiter. He bows like a waiter should, smiles like a waiter should, looks like a waiter should. He's no longer Joe Schmo, he's a waiter. These 'things-in-themselves' are like rocks. We long to be rocks. No needs, wants, motives, thoughts, just a pure ontological satisfaction. Maybe this is the horror that marshals the dark clouds. Maybe this is what I hate, why I can't tell counselors one career option. I don't want to be a 'being-in-itself'. Not a waiter, or a writer, or a lawyer, or a philosopher. I want to be a 'being-for-itself'. Haha, or maybe this is just a very eloquent excuse from a lazy asshole.
Keeping up with this Gloomsday Report, Sharks beat the Wings yesterday in a 6-5 victory. BUT, most of my favorite Wings picked up a point, which is always the consolation prize in a high-scoring defeat.
I can't talk about classes right now. I'll go into cardiac arrest.
Winter is like solitary confinement. Not only does it actually confine you to your room with the extreme temperatures, but it also denudes your senses. It's a room with white-padded walls. There's no smells, sights, tastes, feelings, or sounds. The cold and the snow mask, cover, dull, numb, and dampen each one respectively. My robust winter jacket is even starting to feel more like a straight jacket. My mind is rotting.
Browsing through my memories, I can't think of one person I'd like to be talking to right now. Ever get mad hunger, but you just don't know for what? Shit, I could extend this to just about anything.
I love people until I get to know them, like books- I won't read them twice. Once I know what some one's about, what makes them click, I move on. Could I be the most fucked up person on earth? Possibly. Other interpretations of this phenomenon: I get so fucking angry to see someone with a personality, a good grasp of who they are, a mission, opinions they believe wholeheartedly, and I get jealous. Yep.
Well, I fought it, and I fought it hard, but it's back. This disconnectedness, this black cloud that follows me. Things started getting overcast at about 11:00 PM, but I ignored it, showed some faith. But it's here, and it's a doozy, a downpour. This disconnectedness I feel, like there's no gravity, like I'm sliding off the world. And through it all, there's this sickening feeling, something akin to silent dread, disgusted shock at myself: if I woke up tomorrow with no one, in another country, I wouldn't care. I know it's just a feeling, and, therefore, something too fleeting to bring me to my knees, but it's getting close to crippling, and it's only been here for two days or so. Sometimes I feel like things just happen near me. The grades I get, the people I meet, the games I play, the things I say-they all just swirl around me, like an atmosphere of personality, one that could be dissipated by a cold front or a storm, a clean slate, a rejection of everything and everyone. They cling so tenuously.
I'd like to see all the big questions answered, especially "what are we supposed to live for?". Lately, people seem to be embracing an sort of eudaimonism, a "live for happiness. Live for yourself." I can't agree. I can't see the point of such a life, just like I can't see the point of having a point. My eyes are glazing here. Is this growing up? It feels like being mummified.
There are some pretty girls on this floor. I was trying to smile more, to take extra long to open my door in hopes of an impromptu run-in with one, and now I don't care to remember their names. Just. Like. That.
I have this friend. He's been here for two years. I've known him a long time. I see him quite a bunch. Last year, some girl really fucked him up. Dumped him for one of his friends he'd known since high school, and then came back to him, vacillating between the two at least three times. Before I came here, I told a mutual friend of ours that I'd help this guy "rejoin the world." Pretty words from an idiot with no sense of irony.
My roommate is a good guy. Guys are so leery of showing any kind of encouragement or praise for one another. I think it's because society has hunted the ego to extinction. One is embarrassed just to use the word "I". We're snorted at for talking about ourselves, praising ourselves, being excited for ourselves. Could it be traceable to the American Way- the competition, the pressure, the stress, the feelings of inadequacy? Maybe. Or maybe it's something more current, more concrete. Americans used to be renowned for their manliness, their swagger, their confidence, their long-striding, coon-cap wearing pioneers. Now, we're plagued by a sheepishness stemming from all the international animosity we've incurred. We're shaken. Our men wear girl pants now. David Bowie penned the writing on the wall. I'm sure the concurrent gender confusion is pertinent to this debate, as well. Gender is as much a choice for today's man as what type of car he wants to drive. Anyways, Joe seems to have that confidence that so many have lost. He'll tell guys to relax, to take a break, that they're working too hard, instead of hurling epithets or doubts regarding the guy's penis length. He doesn't strike when a flaw is betrayed. Take my other friend. He's been hounding me with texts lately to hang out. I've known him for awhile. He came over yesterday with some of his girl friends. Nervous and surprised, my tongue got wound in knot of Gordian proportions, and instead of bailing me out, switching the topic, defusing the awkwardness, my friend moves in for the kill, socially slaying me in front of the ladies. Maybe this is an analogue to the time-honoured cock fight. Now that assault is a fine, men fight over women with sharp tongues, not blades. Joe wouldn't do that. I like that.
"Just do, Alex. Don't think. Run in, guns a'blazing, and DO." I was doing that at first. It was working, even with everyone pegging me with questions of how I was liking my new school. "It's different," was all I said (lame answer, I know.). But I can't poke a hole in this cloud with insouciance, with living-in-the moment. It's only a strategy that works for those who have something to enjoy, who already have a clear mind. It's preventive, not restorative. It's an anti-fogger, not a window scraper.
Sartre talked about 'beings-in-themselves' and how humans naturally want to become one. An example of someone acting on that urge is a waiter who impersonates the ideal waiter. He bows like a waiter should, smiles like a waiter should, looks like a waiter should. He's no longer Joe Schmo, he's a waiter. These 'things-in-themselves' are like rocks. We long to be rocks. No needs, wants, motives, thoughts, just a pure ontological satisfaction. Maybe this is the horror that marshals the dark clouds. Maybe this is what I hate, why I can't tell counselors one career option. I don't want to be a 'being-in-itself'. Not a waiter, or a writer, or a lawyer, or a philosopher. I want to be a 'being-for-itself'. Haha, or maybe this is just a very eloquent excuse from a lazy asshole.
Keeping up with this Gloomsday Report, Sharks beat the Wings yesterday in a 6-5 victory. BUT, most of my favorite Wings picked up a point, which is always the consolation prize in a high-scoring defeat.
I can't talk about classes right now. I'll go into cardiac arrest.
Winter is like solitary confinement. Not only does it actually confine you to your room with the extreme temperatures, but it also denudes your senses. It's a room with white-padded walls. There's no smells, sights, tastes, feelings, or sounds. The cold and the snow mask, cover, dull, numb, and dampen each one respectively. My robust winter jacket is even starting to feel more like a straight jacket. My mind is rotting.
Browsing through my memories, I can't think of one person I'd like to be talking to right now. Ever get mad hunger, but you just don't know for what? Shit, I could extend this to just about anything.
I love people until I get to know them, like books- I won't read them twice. Once I know what some one's about, what makes them click, I move on. Could I be the most fucked up person on earth? Possibly. Other interpretations of this phenomenon: I get so fucking angry to see someone with a personality, a good grasp of who they are, a mission, opinions they believe wholeheartedly, and I get jealous. Yep.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Bildungsroman
Happy New Year!
Well, I think I've waited long enough, so I'll just dive right into this. I wanted to give myself a full week here before an entry, so now that I have, here it is. This entry might seem routine, but I guess it should. I have a lot to cover.
I'm here in Ann Arbor. There's about four inches of snow on the ground, and they're calling for up to ten more. My room is cluttered, cozy, and sandwiched between at least three girl rooms on each side. Our room overlooks a frat house and some other equally raucous buildings. People watching has never been so easy. Our Xbox Live is up and running. My roommate and I played for about six hours yesterday. Though I promised myself not to play it the first week, I let it slide on account of the male bonding it facilitated. I know the system. I've got a good feel for the place. It's not too tricky of a campus. Smaller than state, getting to class isn't really a problem. Finding them is. The buildings seem tossed around this campus like a bunch of toy soldiers spilled onto the floor. Sometimes I feel more like an archaeologist amongst ruins than a student. This hall really sucks. Location-wise, it's just about perfect. I'm close to everything I need to be close to. It's the people. My building is actually a residential college. I've been in these before, but none as quiet and dead as this one. The RA's are Nazis. They all patrol en masse,like a pack of junkyard dogs, probably to keep their courage up, seeking and destroying anything above 80 decibels. I couldn't even play video games last night past eleven with the door open. They told me it was "quiet hours" and that I had to stop. There's a lot of building going on around here. Every other plot is a construction site. Yesterday, there were two men goofing around. One was up on the scaffolding, and one was below, dodging back and forth while his friend above threatened to drop a wrench on his head. "Oh shit!" the guy said when his wrench slipped out of his fingers. I quickly turned to watch the hapless ground crew guy get impaled, but he was fine and evidently as surprised as me. He looked up with a confused look, laughter booming from the jackass on the scaffolding. "Hur hur, you won't believe this, but it went right down the stink hole!" Three seconds later, an absolutely LIVID construction worker erupts from the adjacent outhouse, nursing his arm. Tee hee.
Classes are awful. I tested into fourth semester Spanish here, as I'm sure I've said, and I'm starting to have some serious doubts. If my instructor wasn't so damn nice, I'd have dropped before we exchanged "Holas". On the plus side, I think we're all equally confused. It's not us who are driving this train, though. I have an American Cultures class, too, that I couldn't escape due to this stupidfuckingdamn "Race and Ethnicity" requirement this institution is so proud of. On thursdays, I have to sit through a two hour discussion. It's led by this Peruvian Martha Stewart who drones on and on, spit-balling with us like it's fucking talk radio. Typically, she'll just look around, nod, and then introduce some broad, controversial concept like capitalism. She'll say, "Capitalism...," then pause, waiting for some irrational tirade from her circle of victims. I can't stand classes like that. Make a lesson plan, don't waste my money. You provide the fucking service for me. After that, there's a freshmen writing class, which is going to be the most banal bullshit imaginable, and an English course on the coming of age novel, probably the only class I like. There's a really cute girl in there who claims to be a master of Taekwondo. I'd probably let her roundhouse kick me. I kind of destroyed any hopes of making friends in that class, though, when the instructor asked me to explain the plot of "Dune," which might be the nerdiest work of fiction ever. My explanation went something like this, "Well, the Atreides clan recieves dominion over the desert planet Arrakis from the Padishah emperor of the Corrino line. However, the prievious hosts, the Harkonnen clan, were really colluding with the emperor to trap the Atreides there and murder them. When the duke is murdered, his son, Paul Atreides, must assume leadership over the native people, the Fremen, and fulfil his destiny as the Kwisatz Haderach, a sort of messiah foretold by the Bene Gesserit order, to conquer the universe." And her answer,"....Well, yeah, sure. That sounds like a coming of age novel to me..." After that, we started talking about Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. So, there ya go, Frank Herbert. You write classics in my book!
I haven't been eating much. Most people pile it on when they're stressed. I'd say I do the exact opposite. This week, it's been pills for breakfast (Supplements, people! Don't worry!), oranges to keep from fainting, and then dinner at like 7:30.
My roommate is a really nice guy. His name's Joe. He's a Jew from St. Louis. A jolly fellow, he's usually sitting at his desk watching anime or playing Xbox with me. I accidentally told him that the cafeteria really "Jewed me on the piece of salmon they put on my plate," but he just laughed. He's not really the type to jump on the defensive when the opportunity presents itself. He's easy going. Yesterday, he joined me and my friend Alex on a tour of Ann Arbor, the second of many I'll probably take. Ever wonder how a city can have so many restraunts? Like, how can all of them profit? From the little chicken shacks, to the plush cafes, there's at least ten of every kind of restaurant here. It must have something to do with where they're located. They all must be perfectly spread out for each one to own all the business in its little hungry ward. However, I've seen pizza places not fifty feet apart, as well. Hmmmmm.
Another good thing about Joe, he likes metal. My first roommate was more into banjos and thugs; my second, whatever Billboard told him to be into. Yesterday, Joe was listening to Steve Vai, which was duly noted by me.
The shower heads here come up to about my nipple. So, fetus-like, I'm forced to double over to wash anything above my stomach. I know this hall is really old, and 6'0 men were a little less common back in the FDR administration. Hm, either way, I think I'm going to look for a YMCA when it comes time for my conditioner (I really have to rub this one in under a constant stream of hot water.)
This Ipod is excellent. After a week of stealing software, I finally threw up my hands and bought a reputable program to convert my music files. Once it was over, my regret was extinguished. I feel like I'm in a movie where all the long walking scenes have the perfect companion from the soundtrack. That's what Ipods do! They give your life a soundtrack! Pretty awesome. This one also has Wi-Fi capablities, which I originally scoffed at as just one other stupid gimmick feature that all the techies would marvel at, but it has been useful and fun! Yesterday, when I was lost, I accessed my school's website for a map. While waiting for class, I scour youtube for funny videos. I like having strangers hear me laugh. I think it's the perfect introduction. I've tried to laugh before every class I have because it can say so much so well, "I'm cheerful. I have a sense of humor. I'm a little goofy. I'm not quiet. I don't really care what people think. I enjoy the little things." You know, all the basic steps in the small talk dance.
Am I adjusting well? As well as I can. Do I like it more here? Not yet, but I think I will. Confident? No. Happy? No. Optimistic? For the first time in a long time, yes.
Well, I think I've waited long enough, so I'll just dive right into this. I wanted to give myself a full week here before an entry, so now that I have, here it is. This entry might seem routine, but I guess it should. I have a lot to cover.
I'm here in Ann Arbor. There's about four inches of snow on the ground, and they're calling for up to ten more. My room is cluttered, cozy, and sandwiched between at least three girl rooms on each side. Our room overlooks a frat house and some other equally raucous buildings. People watching has never been so easy. Our Xbox Live is up and running. My roommate and I played for about six hours yesterday. Though I promised myself not to play it the first week, I let it slide on account of the male bonding it facilitated. I know the system. I've got a good feel for the place. It's not too tricky of a campus. Smaller than state, getting to class isn't really a problem. Finding them is. The buildings seem tossed around this campus like a bunch of toy soldiers spilled onto the floor. Sometimes I feel more like an archaeologist amongst ruins than a student. This hall really sucks. Location-wise, it's just about perfect. I'm close to everything I need to be close to. It's the people. My building is actually a residential college. I've been in these before, but none as quiet and dead as this one. The RA's are Nazis. They all patrol en masse,like a pack of junkyard dogs, probably to keep their courage up, seeking and destroying anything above 80 decibels. I couldn't even play video games last night past eleven with the door open. They told me it was "quiet hours" and that I had to stop. There's a lot of building going on around here. Every other plot is a construction site. Yesterday, there were two men goofing around. One was up on the scaffolding, and one was below, dodging back and forth while his friend above threatened to drop a wrench on his head. "Oh shit!" the guy said when his wrench slipped out of his fingers. I quickly turned to watch the hapless ground crew guy get impaled, but he was fine and evidently as surprised as me. He looked up with a confused look, laughter booming from the jackass on the scaffolding. "Hur hur, you won't believe this, but it went right down the stink hole!" Three seconds later, an absolutely LIVID construction worker erupts from the adjacent outhouse, nursing his arm. Tee hee.
Classes are awful. I tested into fourth semester Spanish here, as I'm sure I've said, and I'm starting to have some serious doubts. If my instructor wasn't so damn nice, I'd have dropped before we exchanged "Holas". On the plus side, I think we're all equally confused. It's not us who are driving this train, though. I have an American Cultures class, too, that I couldn't escape due to this stupidfuckingdamn "Race and Ethnicity" requirement this institution is so proud of. On thursdays, I have to sit through a two hour discussion. It's led by this Peruvian Martha Stewart who drones on and on, spit-balling with us like it's fucking talk radio. Typically, she'll just look around, nod, and then introduce some broad, controversial concept like capitalism. She'll say, "Capitalism...," then pause, waiting for some irrational tirade from her circle of victims. I can't stand classes like that. Make a lesson plan, don't waste my money. You provide the fucking service for me. After that, there's a freshmen writing class, which is going to be the most banal bullshit imaginable, and an English course on the coming of age novel, probably the only class I like. There's a really cute girl in there who claims to be a master of Taekwondo. I'd probably let her roundhouse kick me. I kind of destroyed any hopes of making friends in that class, though, when the instructor asked me to explain the plot of "Dune," which might be the nerdiest work of fiction ever. My explanation went something like this, "Well, the Atreides clan recieves dominion over the desert planet Arrakis from the Padishah emperor of the Corrino line. However, the prievious hosts, the Harkonnen clan, were really colluding with the emperor to trap the Atreides there and murder them. When the duke is murdered, his son, Paul Atreides, must assume leadership over the native people, the Fremen, and fulfil his destiny as the Kwisatz Haderach, a sort of messiah foretold by the Bene Gesserit order, to conquer the universe." And her answer,"....Well, yeah, sure. That sounds like a coming of age novel to me..." After that, we started talking about Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. So, there ya go, Frank Herbert. You write classics in my book!
I haven't been eating much. Most people pile it on when they're stressed. I'd say I do the exact opposite. This week, it's been pills for breakfast (Supplements, people! Don't worry!), oranges to keep from fainting, and then dinner at like 7:30.
My roommate is a really nice guy. His name's Joe. He's a Jew from St. Louis. A jolly fellow, he's usually sitting at his desk watching anime or playing Xbox with me. I accidentally told him that the cafeteria really "Jewed me on the piece of salmon they put on my plate," but he just laughed. He's not really the type to jump on the defensive when the opportunity presents itself. He's easy going. Yesterday, he joined me and my friend Alex on a tour of Ann Arbor, the second of many I'll probably take. Ever wonder how a city can have so many restraunts? Like, how can all of them profit? From the little chicken shacks, to the plush cafes, there's at least ten of every kind of restaurant here. It must have something to do with where they're located. They all must be perfectly spread out for each one to own all the business in its little hungry ward. However, I've seen pizza places not fifty feet apart, as well. Hmmmmm.
Another good thing about Joe, he likes metal. My first roommate was more into banjos and thugs; my second, whatever Billboard told him to be into. Yesterday, Joe was listening to Steve Vai, which was duly noted by me.
The shower heads here come up to about my nipple. So, fetus-like, I'm forced to double over to wash anything above my stomach. I know this hall is really old, and 6'0 men were a little less common back in the FDR administration. Hm, either way, I think I'm going to look for a YMCA when it comes time for my conditioner (I really have to rub this one in under a constant stream of hot water.)
This Ipod is excellent. After a week of stealing software, I finally threw up my hands and bought a reputable program to convert my music files. Once it was over, my regret was extinguished. I feel like I'm in a movie where all the long walking scenes have the perfect companion from the soundtrack. That's what Ipods do! They give your life a soundtrack! Pretty awesome. This one also has Wi-Fi capablities, which I originally scoffed at as just one other stupid gimmick feature that all the techies would marvel at, but it has been useful and fun! Yesterday, when I was lost, I accessed my school's website for a map. While waiting for class, I scour youtube for funny videos. I like having strangers hear me laugh. I think it's the perfect introduction. I've tried to laugh before every class I have because it can say so much so well, "I'm cheerful. I have a sense of humor. I'm a little goofy. I'm not quiet. I don't really care what people think. I enjoy the little things." You know, all the basic steps in the small talk dance.
Am I adjusting well? As well as I can. Do I like it more here? Not yet, but I think I will. Confident? No. Happy? No. Optimistic? For the first time in a long time, yes.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Post-Op
I'm feeling pretty good. The surgery was just magical. I've had nitrous oxide before. I can remember giggling while watching the surgeon pull membranes out from under the base of my tongue. This was different. I had the drip. I didn't even have time to see where they put it in my arm, though. I was out almost instantly. It was like the switch went from "on" to "off" with one little poke. I woke up 20 minutes later feeling like I had been asleep for three seconds. Unbelievable. They did an incredible job, too, or it could be that I'm just a lucky S.O.B. I have had zero swelling and zero pain. I remember my sister had to hold her bloated cheeks up with her hands for an entire week. She was popping vicodins like M&M's, and she kept complaining about how it seemed like she was sucking on a bar of copper. That's not even the worst of it. Within a week, she developed dry socket, which is when the underlying bones and nerves become exposed. She had to go in for a second surgery and everything. I don't know if she ate anything but bloody mashed potatoes this August. I just finished a sandwich :D.
Haven't been up to much. Hung out with my cousins yesterday. My cousin Johnny is 22, so three years older than me. We've always gotten along pretty well. He was telling me about how his university is on strike, leaving all the students in some kind of weird academic purgatory. Two classes shy of graduating and already enjoying a second "victory lap," as he calls it, my cousin seems to have been royally fucked. Although, he didn't seem that crestfallen. I guess there really is no reason for him to be particularly bitter about the whole fiasco. It truly is out of his hands. It's probably just best for him to keep rolling with the punches until it works itself out.
Been watching a lot of movies. I'm imposing some sort of quota on myself for my last week at home because I haven't finished my book yet. I thought I'd be done with the fucking series by now. Saw Memento today. Fantastic movie. I really liked the Non-linear story-telling and all the twists and turns. Terrific climax, as well. The hour-and-a-half of head scratching is worth it. The ending had a unique feeling, as well. Far from hopeful, but not quite bleak, I guess it was just thought-provoking. I also finally bit the bullet and sat through The fucking Godfather. DO NO TAKE THE GODFATHER'S NAME IN VAIN, haha, I know. It's so canonical and sacrosanct, I don't even deserve to watch it. However, I feel that if we all took the time to watch it again, we might want to chip off a couple stars. IT'S SO FUCKING LONG. The whole middle part of the movie is stupid filler. Why does Michael need to start a family in Sicily? I cheered when that car bomb went off. That said, I liked the bravura performances from Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. The rise of Michael Corrleone did not go unappreciated. I really liked the scene in Vegas when Michael straightens Freddy out. There was great tension there as we see Michael put on the Don pants.
My uncle got me an Ipod yesterday, and it's next to useless until I can figure out how to remove these fucking DRM tags. I have about six-thousand legitimately acquired music files that can't be transferred to iTunes for downloading to my Nano until I get rid of the tags. The bitch of it is, there's tons of free software out there to jettison the tags, but I feel like my computer is one piece of shareware away from tripping the smoke alarms. The search continues...
I realized I haven't written about my mental state in awhile, which is a shame because sometimes I think it educes the best writing from myself. Hm, I guess I'm growing more and more indifferent. Living for today? More like ignoring tomorrow. I'm driftwood; I'm dead leaves. Take me where thou wilt! The straps are starting to loosen, the shackles break. There's less and less tying me to anything. Whichever. Whatever. Whenever. A couple weeks ago, I was upset with the classes waiting for me in Ann Arbor. Now, I could really care less. Sometimes I think this could be good for me. Am I learning to relax? Is faith making a resurgence? Funny, I don't feel lazy yet, by any means. Can apathetic people be active? It's weird how horrible a stigma laziness carries in this country. Every new generation is condemned for its laziness. Anyone who doesn't succeed is lazy. But really, what's so bad about it? Aren't robots the only things that work without incentive? Once survival is taken care of, shouldn't we slack off? Isn't it a bit deserved? I used to have such grand hopes for myself. Whatever I was going to do, I was going to be the best at it, I was going to write the book on it; people were going to fly me from half-way around the world to do it, classes would be taught about me doing it. Now, I feel like Lester from American Beauty. I'm like regressing into a sixteen-year-old drive thru attendant, who relishes his responsibility-less job.
This may very well be my last post before 2009, which will probably be one of the most important years of my life. Can't wait to get started.
Haven't been up to much. Hung out with my cousins yesterday. My cousin Johnny is 22, so three years older than me. We've always gotten along pretty well. He was telling me about how his university is on strike, leaving all the students in some kind of weird academic purgatory. Two classes shy of graduating and already enjoying a second "victory lap," as he calls it, my cousin seems to have been royally fucked. Although, he didn't seem that crestfallen. I guess there really is no reason for him to be particularly bitter about the whole fiasco. It truly is out of his hands. It's probably just best for him to keep rolling with the punches until it works itself out.
Been watching a lot of movies. I'm imposing some sort of quota on myself for my last week at home because I haven't finished my book yet. I thought I'd be done with the fucking series by now. Saw Memento today. Fantastic movie. I really liked the Non-linear story-telling and all the twists and turns. Terrific climax, as well. The hour-and-a-half of head scratching is worth it. The ending had a unique feeling, as well. Far from hopeful, but not quite bleak, I guess it was just thought-provoking. I also finally bit the bullet and sat through The fucking Godfather. DO NO TAKE THE GODFATHER'S NAME IN VAIN, haha, I know. It's so canonical and sacrosanct, I don't even deserve to watch it. However, I feel that if we all took the time to watch it again, we might want to chip off a couple stars. IT'S SO FUCKING LONG. The whole middle part of the movie is stupid filler. Why does Michael need to start a family in Sicily? I cheered when that car bomb went off. That said, I liked the bravura performances from Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. The rise of Michael Corrleone did not go unappreciated. I really liked the scene in Vegas when Michael straightens Freddy out. There was great tension there as we see Michael put on the Don pants.
My uncle got me an Ipod yesterday, and it's next to useless until I can figure out how to remove these fucking DRM tags. I have about six-thousand legitimately acquired music files that can't be transferred to iTunes for downloading to my Nano until I get rid of the tags. The bitch of it is, there's tons of free software out there to jettison the tags, but I feel like my computer is one piece of shareware away from tripping the smoke alarms. The search continues...
I realized I haven't written about my mental state in awhile, which is a shame because sometimes I think it educes the best writing from myself. Hm, I guess I'm growing more and more indifferent. Living for today? More like ignoring tomorrow. I'm driftwood; I'm dead leaves. Take me where thou wilt! The straps are starting to loosen, the shackles break. There's less and less tying me to anything. Whichever. Whatever. Whenever. A couple weeks ago, I was upset with the classes waiting for me in Ann Arbor. Now, I could really care less. Sometimes I think this could be good for me. Am I learning to relax? Is faith making a resurgence? Funny, I don't feel lazy yet, by any means. Can apathetic people be active? It's weird how horrible a stigma laziness carries in this country. Every new generation is condemned for its laziness. Anyone who doesn't succeed is lazy. But really, what's so bad about it? Aren't robots the only things that work without incentive? Once survival is taken care of, shouldn't we slack off? Isn't it a bit deserved? I used to have such grand hopes for myself. Whatever I was going to do, I was going to be the best at it, I was going to write the book on it; people were going to fly me from half-way around the world to do it, classes would be taught about me doing it. Now, I feel like Lester from American Beauty. I'm like regressing into a sixteen-year-old drive thru attendant, who relishes his responsibility-less job.
This may very well be my last post before 2009, which will probably be one of the most important years of my life. Can't wait to get started.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Greek Chorus
Saw a rusty car laying by the road today- a Detroit memento mori. There's nothing like the season of light to illuminate the gloom floating above everyone's heads. I never realized how brave adults were. Those smiles they wear, the traditions they cling to, the myths they encourage, the troubles they forget- a selfless facade for their kids. How easy it would be to toss the hot chocolate for some scotch and let the weather and the economy ruin everything, but they carol on. It's not scorn I'm showing here, or sarcasm. I'm geniunely moved. But maybe it's the season? Maybe there is such a thing as the magic of Christmas?
Orientation for U of M was on Tuesday. If I was offered a full ride to Harvard tomorrow on the sole condition that I had to go through their orientation, I'd decline without even blinking. I can't stand getting patronized for a whole fucking day. The damn program directors made all of us sing the fight song twice. Now, I know it's kind of exciting for a 17-year-old kid to sing his fight song for the first time, but our group was a bunch of battle-hardened sophomores and juniors. We even had a married lady from Florida. Needless to say, our 10:30 AM rendition of "Hail to the Victors" was not much more than a grumpy whisper, and the one following it, which they made us do because the first wasn't loud enough, was nothing but rhythmic groans and nasty stares. Before all the song and dance, I had to take a language placement test. Mi espanol es muy mal, but by some miracle of God, I got placed into their fourth semester of Spanish. DIOS MIO! I'm totally screwed. The last time I heard a Spanish sentence was when Shakira was on the radio. And there's just no way to "wing" fourth semester Spanish. Can you wing Med. School? This is a REAL class, something I really am not equipped for. Then, they made us go get our pictures taken for our new ID card. I tried to do my patented "gay face," but the lady at the computer told me to knock it off. There goes my easy conversation starter for Ann Arbor chicks, I thought. Next, they marched us out into the penguin-piss cold campus to look at any building with an embarrassing story attached to it. Sometime after the fifth stop, a VERY unsettling thing began to happen to me. All right, so it's ball-negating cold outside, and I'm standing next to some statue listening intently to instructions on how to approach the statue and how to cross its shadow and what to do if I haven't taken my first blue book exam before arriving at the statue nexus, when I started to regret drinking a liter of water during the exam. So, we walked on, ignoring all bathroom stops along the way, for about another twenty minutes, when something incredible happened to me: I could not tell whether or not I was pissing myself. It felt like I was, full-stream, too. I spent the last ten minutes of the tour looking not at the guides but at my crotch with total and utter amazement. When we finally reached the Union, I left the group to their Q and A session while I raced to the bathroom. In there, I tried to see if my reason could cook up any answers. All I could come up with was the numbness sort of played tricks on my hardware, creating the sensation of peeing. It just felt so REAL! Maybe coupled with the nerves of an orientation with a bunch of strangers at a strange new school, it was magnified to the point of feeling real. It's just that I've been numbed by cold hundreds of times, but never have I felt like I was pissing myself. Maybe I should grab a pack of Huggies to see me through Jan. and Feb. just in case. Holy Christ, was I scared!
Ever feel like you're getting only anesthesia when you need the cure? Man, I hope this transfer works. I'm a restless dude. What can I say? I get sick of everything so fast. People, especially. How awful is that? Eh, but such is the price of honesty. You have to face some kind of ugly truths about yourself.
Wings beat the Sharks 6-0. Merry Christmas to you too, God!
I guess one of my friends had been telling people that I was gay. When I asked him why, he said something like, "Can you blame me?" Hmmmm, I chewed that over for awhile. First of all, I'm not gay. What I tried to figure out was what would make me seem gay. I'm not girly, not really, not in tastes or mannerisms. I am sort of chatty, and my voice is high. I never had one of those gruff, half-asleep monotones I hear on most guys. So, next I looked at my behavior, insofar as what I do around girls or to get girls. I looked at my last two years of college and realized I hadn't made any serious advances towards any girls. Yeah, I thought, that might seem gay. Well, there's a perfectly good explanation for all of it, and it doesn't involve me crashing through any closets: I haven't met a single girl I would date. And why is that? Ohhh, there's a number of reasons. I don't know how boring or trite they are, but I'm giving them nonetheless. Well, first off, I guess I am sort of picky. I'm attracted to a strange type. I like loners, people with a very strong sense of independence and identity. Those are the girls that are the same around everyone, never warm and bubbly in large groups, but dismal and quiet one-on-one. I also can't date women that have sun beams streaming off their faces, either. I'd be breaking her heart every day. I like sober, logical girls, girls that my mopey ass has to cheer up. I like when I'm constantly doing the spirit-lifting, not the other way around. Otherwise, I feel like I'm just some chore, some gloomy head-case in need of a shrink-girlfriend. Also, she has to have wide interests. Some people phrase this as a girl "who can have an intelligent conversation," but what the hell does that even mean? "Wide interests" is more clear and way less cliche. I like girls that know a bit about everything, that have a nice smattering of trivia, not some piece meal obssessions. Curiousity is a big one, as well. I like those people that have to run to their computer to look something up on wikipedia before they forget what it is, who call their friends at 2 AM to answer some question that's keeping them awake. It shows a strong tie to this world. There's nothing worse than those apathetic assholes who shrug and sigh their days away. The luckiest person in the world is the one who has the most wonder. At my orientation this week, I remember being jealous of the girl from Florida because she had never seen snow before. You should have seen her face when we told her it was going to snow that night on the way home from Ann Arbor. Quirkiness is a big plus, as is humility. There is nothing more attractive than an eccentric, scatter-brained girl sandbagging you with her smarts. Physical features? Ha, last year, I could have given a laundry list of them. What I really like, though, is dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. That would include all Meditteranean and Levantine peoples. But, really, this is secondary.
I've been seeing people do end-of-year lists and stuff, but I'm not sure if I have the energy for those. I guess I'll just go ahead and say 2008 was the worst year of my life, and I'm glad it's in the history books.
Had to go to the mall today. We really need to start thinking about legislation concerning the proximity of pungent candles to one another because when you get three Holiday Huckleberry's on the same shelf, it kicks up something fierce into the face of the passerby. There's not a lot of things that can make me vomit from a single wiff, but the entrance to Bath and Body Works is one. Also, I believe that the government should raise a committee to study Spencer's Gifts. If that place can stay in business, so the fuck can America! I mean, come on! They must have the most narrow demographic in capitalism! No one buys that shit except for frat boys and their begrudged girlfriends. The government should forget about the Big Three and start investing in shirts with dick jokes.
I've been trying to be more creative with this blog. It's been fun for me. So, here's a poem I just wrote on the fly. I don't really like it, but like I've said before, just writing anything helps. It might seem kind of pretentious, but I've had it in my mind ever since someone explained Nietzche's dichotomy to me.
Apollonian Anomaly
String the lyre.
Pluck the strings.
Draw the bow.
Ride the sun.
And how long can you last before your order is gone?
Rejected, replaced, and finally removed
In the face of a world dark, lit by torches,
flames brushing the dancers, their shadows flashing on the walls.
Your music, your chords, your keys, your arpeggios
can't face the drum, the drum, the bang bang of the drum-um.
Grab this krater and take a long drink.
Gift of the Gods it is.
Immerse yourself in the great spirit of this world.
Belong to these lives, young and beautiful.
Dissolve your golden locks, your handsome face, your Arete.
Destroy the difference.
Dawn from my brow.
Poems from my tongue.
Medicine from my hand.
I am the male ideal.
You can't go on, my brother.
You may know the truth, but you can't see the secrets.
Put your light away and sway.
This is the moment you are alive.
Be here, here stay.
Come down, fly down, be here at the center.
Waves, shivers, trembles, shakes, shifts will
change you, make your heart light, your eyes close
your voice loud, your breath fast, your tongue loose.
Silence the genius, awaken the beast.
Dance, animal!
I see wonders.
I make miracles.
I bring you hope.
Ascend, reach my cloud!
You fool, you poor fool. We stay because want to.
The earth is dirty, but it brings pleasure to our feet, and
the satyr hoof grinds it into an intoxicating powder.
Be gone with your ichor and your ambrosia, then.
We'll trip over the roots of the earth, we'll crawl on all fours.
Rocks and fires scratch the skin,
But this ecstasy burns and burns still within.
Your cloud can stay. We may see it in the morning.
But for now, let mist shroud us, darkness envelop.
No more light from you, you have lost.
We dance on, heedless, mindless, deathless!
But death you are.
Orientation for U of M was on Tuesday. If I was offered a full ride to Harvard tomorrow on the sole condition that I had to go through their orientation, I'd decline without even blinking. I can't stand getting patronized for a whole fucking day. The damn program directors made all of us sing the fight song twice. Now, I know it's kind of exciting for a 17-year-old kid to sing his fight song for the first time, but our group was a bunch of battle-hardened sophomores and juniors. We even had a married lady from Florida. Needless to say, our 10:30 AM rendition of "Hail to the Victors" was not much more than a grumpy whisper, and the one following it, which they made us do because the first wasn't loud enough, was nothing but rhythmic groans and nasty stares. Before all the song and dance, I had to take a language placement test. Mi espanol es muy mal, but by some miracle of God, I got placed into their fourth semester of Spanish. DIOS MIO! I'm totally screwed. The last time I heard a Spanish sentence was when Shakira was on the radio. And there's just no way to "wing" fourth semester Spanish. Can you wing Med. School? This is a REAL class, something I really am not equipped for. Then, they made us go get our pictures taken for our new ID card. I tried to do my patented "gay face," but the lady at the computer told me to knock it off. There goes my easy conversation starter for Ann Arbor chicks, I thought. Next, they marched us out into the penguin-piss cold campus to look at any building with an embarrassing story attached to it. Sometime after the fifth stop, a VERY unsettling thing began to happen to me. All right, so it's ball-negating cold outside, and I'm standing next to some statue listening intently to instructions on how to approach the statue and how to cross its shadow and what to do if I haven't taken my first blue book exam before arriving at the statue nexus, when I started to regret drinking a liter of water during the exam. So, we walked on, ignoring all bathroom stops along the way, for about another twenty minutes, when something incredible happened to me: I could not tell whether or not I was pissing myself. It felt like I was, full-stream, too. I spent the last ten minutes of the tour looking not at the guides but at my crotch with total and utter amazement. When we finally reached the Union, I left the group to their Q and A session while I raced to the bathroom. In there, I tried to see if my reason could cook up any answers. All I could come up with was the numbness sort of played tricks on my hardware, creating the sensation of peeing. It just felt so REAL! Maybe coupled with the nerves of an orientation with a bunch of strangers at a strange new school, it was magnified to the point of feeling real. It's just that I've been numbed by cold hundreds of times, but never have I felt like I was pissing myself. Maybe I should grab a pack of Huggies to see me through Jan. and Feb. just in case. Holy Christ, was I scared!
Ever feel like you're getting only anesthesia when you need the cure? Man, I hope this transfer works. I'm a restless dude. What can I say? I get sick of everything so fast. People, especially. How awful is that? Eh, but such is the price of honesty. You have to face some kind of ugly truths about yourself.
Wings beat the Sharks 6-0. Merry Christmas to you too, God!
I guess one of my friends had been telling people that I was gay. When I asked him why, he said something like, "Can you blame me?" Hmmmm, I chewed that over for awhile. First of all, I'm not gay. What I tried to figure out was what would make me seem gay. I'm not girly, not really, not in tastes or mannerisms. I am sort of chatty, and my voice is high. I never had one of those gruff, half-asleep monotones I hear on most guys. So, next I looked at my behavior, insofar as what I do around girls or to get girls. I looked at my last two years of college and realized I hadn't made any serious advances towards any girls. Yeah, I thought, that might seem gay. Well, there's a perfectly good explanation for all of it, and it doesn't involve me crashing through any closets: I haven't met a single girl I would date. And why is that? Ohhh, there's a number of reasons. I don't know how boring or trite they are, but I'm giving them nonetheless. Well, first off, I guess I am sort of picky. I'm attracted to a strange type. I like loners, people with a very strong sense of independence and identity. Those are the girls that are the same around everyone, never warm and bubbly in large groups, but dismal and quiet one-on-one. I also can't date women that have sun beams streaming off their faces, either. I'd be breaking her heart every day. I like sober, logical girls, girls that my mopey ass has to cheer up. I like when I'm constantly doing the spirit-lifting, not the other way around. Otherwise, I feel like I'm just some chore, some gloomy head-case in need of a shrink-girlfriend. Also, she has to have wide interests. Some people phrase this as a girl "who can have an intelligent conversation," but what the hell does that even mean? "Wide interests" is more clear and way less cliche. I like girls that know a bit about everything, that have a nice smattering of trivia, not some piece meal obssessions. Curiousity is a big one, as well. I like those people that have to run to their computer to look something up on wikipedia before they forget what it is, who call their friends at 2 AM to answer some question that's keeping them awake. It shows a strong tie to this world. There's nothing worse than those apathetic assholes who shrug and sigh their days away. The luckiest person in the world is the one who has the most wonder. At my orientation this week, I remember being jealous of the girl from Florida because she had never seen snow before. You should have seen her face when we told her it was going to snow that night on the way home from Ann Arbor. Quirkiness is a big plus, as is humility. There is nothing more attractive than an eccentric, scatter-brained girl sandbagging you with her smarts. Physical features? Ha, last year, I could have given a laundry list of them. What I really like, though, is dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. That would include all Meditteranean and Levantine peoples. But, really, this is secondary.
I've been seeing people do end-of-year lists and stuff, but I'm not sure if I have the energy for those. I guess I'll just go ahead and say 2008 was the worst year of my life, and I'm glad it's in the history books.
Had to go to the mall today. We really need to start thinking about legislation concerning the proximity of pungent candles to one another because when you get three Holiday Huckleberry's on the same shelf, it kicks up something fierce into the face of the passerby. There's not a lot of things that can make me vomit from a single wiff, but the entrance to Bath and Body Works is one. Also, I believe that the government should raise a committee to study Spencer's Gifts. If that place can stay in business, so the fuck can America! I mean, come on! They must have the most narrow demographic in capitalism! No one buys that shit except for frat boys and their begrudged girlfriends. The government should forget about the Big Three and start investing in shirts with dick jokes.
I've been trying to be more creative with this blog. It's been fun for me. So, here's a poem I just wrote on the fly. I don't really like it, but like I've said before, just writing anything helps. It might seem kind of pretentious, but I've had it in my mind ever since someone explained Nietzche's dichotomy to me.
Apollonian Anomaly
String the lyre.
Pluck the strings.
Draw the bow.
Ride the sun.
And how long can you last before your order is gone?
Rejected, replaced, and finally removed
In the face of a world dark, lit by torches,
flames brushing the dancers, their shadows flashing on the walls.
Your music, your chords, your keys, your arpeggios
can't face the drum, the drum, the bang bang of the drum-um.
Grab this krater and take a long drink.
Gift of the Gods it is.
Immerse yourself in the great spirit of this world.
Belong to these lives, young and beautiful.
Dissolve your golden locks, your handsome face, your Arete.
Destroy the difference.
Dawn from my brow.
Poems from my tongue.
Medicine from my hand.
I am the male ideal.
You can't go on, my brother.
You may know the truth, but you can't see the secrets.
Put your light away and sway.
This is the moment you are alive.
Be here, here stay.
Come down, fly down, be here at the center.
Waves, shivers, trembles, shakes, shifts will
change you, make your heart light, your eyes close
your voice loud, your breath fast, your tongue loose.
Silence the genius, awaken the beast.
Dance, animal!
I see wonders.
I make miracles.
I bring you hope.
Ascend, reach my cloud!
You fool, you poor fool. We stay because want to.
The earth is dirty, but it brings pleasure to our feet, and
the satyr hoof grinds it into an intoxicating powder.
Be gone with your ichor and your ambrosia, then.
We'll trip over the roots of the earth, we'll crawl on all fours.
Rocks and fires scratch the skin,
But this ecstasy burns and burns still within.
Your cloud can stay. We may see it in the morning.
But for now, let mist shroud us, darkness envelop.
No more light from you, you have lost.
We dance on, heedless, mindless, deathless!
But death you are.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Calm after the Storm
Man, it's been awhile since I updated, but I bet most people can guess why. Finals sort of left me incapacitated. Studying left me too drained to do much of anything, really. The farthest I was willing to go was for coffee, which Shaw Hall kept about four hundred feet, as the crow flies, away from my room. You gotta love the stuff. I mean it's awful! AWFUL! Aw shit... I can see this sudden caffeine addiction as a gateway into hard drugs. How easily I'm seduced by a jolt of energy! During finals week, I was chatting with some friends in the cafeteria, and there was a moment where I had to guess what I was saying based on their facial expressions. It was like something hijacked my brain. Speaking of addictions, I could use some will power now while I'm home.. Yesterday, I ate about four chocolate chip cookies in one sitting, and it took me about an hour. What I do is pick the cookie apart, prying chocolate chip after chocolate chip off the body of the cookie until it's gone. I've heard that anorexic people do the same thing, except they stop when they've had just enough to fight their hunger. I don't stop until I'm about to throw up. So, it really doesn't do anything except waste time and piss people off. No one wants to eat a cookie that looks like a piece of Swiss cheese- holes where the chocolate is supposed to be. Speaking of food, since I've been back, I've witnessed an ecosystem out of whack. My vacant role in the food web has really started to wreck havoc on the cubbard. There's piles of dried peas, dried cherries, nutri-grain bars, hummus containers, almonds, and blackberry yogurt laying around, a testament to the extinction of the Alex. But, since I've been reintroduced into the wild, things are starting to look better. I sure as hell have enjoyed making up for lost time. Eating is my favorite.
In addition to taking finals, I spent all of last week finalizing my transfer to U of M. Looks like I'm going! Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited, and I've tried to be optimistic when answering them, but the truth is I'm nervous and scared as hell. No more restlessness for me, this is it. If I don't like it, I'm stuck. I'm signing in blood this time. In all honesty, I think I'll hate Ann Arbor just as much as East Lansing over time. However, here's how I rationalize it. Instead of staying in one place and letting my hatred fester for four years, isn't it better to start over for my second half of school? That way, your hate intensity never passes the two-year mark! Haha, and to think that's what I've been smiling about these last few weeks. The chance at a brand new hate cycle. Aw well, at least I'm not getting my hopes up. I'm letting realism take the reigns for awhile. I've got orientation tomorrow. This late in the game, I'll be lucky if I get a class with a chair in it for me. I'm taking our lawn seat just in case. I'll be looking pretty fly in the back of the room with my drink holders, smelling like beer and bug spray.
I only asked for one thing for Christmas: The National Genographic Project kit. I've been wanting to get involved with this project for years. I think it's scheduled to conclude in 2010. For those who don't know, it's a massive team of researchers going around the world to collect DNA samples from the most disparate peoples on Earth. I've seen clips of guys in white lab coats swabbing the cheeks of witch doctors. Anyone can contribute, though. All you have to do is order the kit. It comes with a DVD explaining the project and just what it is that your DNA will tell the project. After you send in a cheek swab, which should contain a couple good, DNA-packed cells, your results can be accessed and tracked through their web site. As more people send in information, your results become more comprehensive. I'm not sure about what they tell you EXACTLY, but I know you find out which haplogroup you belong to, and I know you get to see a map of your ancestor's route out of Africa. Men can elect between a mitochondrial DNA test, which traces the DNA passed down from mother to mother, or a Y-Chromosome DNA Test, which traces the DNA handed down from father to father. I asked for the mitochondrial test. My mother's mother's family was Hungarian, and Hungarians have quite the mysterious genetic and historic origin. Maybe this test could shed some light on where the Magyars came from. Some theories posit that the Hungarians came from Central Asia. God, it would be so awesome if that were true! What a surprise! I'd do their testimonial for free: "I look like a normal, white guy, but you'd never guess that I'm Asian! Thanks National Genographic!"
I think within four hours of getting home I was stealing music. Man, how I missed it all these months! MSU's network moderators are very good at catching people. So, all semester long, I kept a list of albums I needed to steal. I'm almost through the list now. Do I ever feel bad about it. Yeah, yeah I do. It's not fair to the artist, but I don't think the future lies in digital sales anyways, at least not for rock bands, so what I'm doing isn't of that much importance either way. Pop and R & B artists can make a killing off their latest iTunes single, but rock bands that focus on the album as a whole are sort of incompatible with this new type of market. Now, it's not that I want to see the album format go away so that I can divest myself of guilt and just buy my band's singles on iTunes. That's probably the furthest thing from what I would want. All I'm saying is that since CD sales are secondary, bands should just give up the fight against pirates. Let us steal your music. Focus on your tours. Put on awesome shows. Tours are the cash cow. We understand if it takes you three years in between albums. Take your time on your tours, and earn some money.
My Red Wings are sort of in a funk right now. Their goaltending is a little shaky, and they seem to be having some trouble when penetrating the neutral zone. A lot of their plays have ended at mid-ice, which is very uncharacteristic of Detroit's powerful, fast, and puck-controlling offense. We play San Jose on Thursday and then the Black Hawks on the 30th and on New Year's, so I should be in for some good hockey throughout my stay at home.
Nick was very friendly towards me during our last week together. I think it was because I told him that I was leaving for good soon. Visions of a double room all his own must have been swirling through his mind all week. All that extra space to buffer him from humans. Ah, I shouldn't be mean. We were very different, Nick. I don't know how we could be matched in the same room, let alone the same planet. I was very relieved that our hand shake last week didn't lead to a matter-on-anti-matter explosion.
My sister had a carolling party yesterday, so I had to move all the stuff I brought home from school plus some other junk into my bedroom for the facade of tidiness. My room looks like a flea market with a bed. There is just so much shit everywhere. Just walking from the light switch to my bed yesterday felt like a game of fucking minesweeper. My feet are bruised from it. One can barely see my Alexander the Great statue through all the dead, rejected plants, and columns of Cosmo Girls. I've put 24 hours on the clock. If my room isn't cleaned by someone, then it's getting cleaned by the blow torch.
That's it, for the most part. I haven't really been up to much- video games, food, and waiting for everyone else to get home. I just had to update since it's been so long. I'll be updating more, though, since I have all the time in the world for the next month. Well, it's getting late. I should go see what long BBC nature specials are on.
In addition to taking finals, I spent all of last week finalizing my transfer to U of M. Looks like I'm going! Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited, and I've tried to be optimistic when answering them, but the truth is I'm nervous and scared as hell. No more restlessness for me, this is it. If I don't like it, I'm stuck. I'm signing in blood this time. In all honesty, I think I'll hate Ann Arbor just as much as East Lansing over time. However, here's how I rationalize it. Instead of staying in one place and letting my hatred fester for four years, isn't it better to start over for my second half of school? That way, your hate intensity never passes the two-year mark! Haha, and to think that's what I've been smiling about these last few weeks. The chance at a brand new hate cycle. Aw well, at least I'm not getting my hopes up. I'm letting realism take the reigns for awhile. I've got orientation tomorrow. This late in the game, I'll be lucky if I get a class with a chair in it for me. I'm taking our lawn seat just in case. I'll be looking pretty fly in the back of the room with my drink holders, smelling like beer and bug spray.
I only asked for one thing for Christmas: The National Genographic Project kit. I've been wanting to get involved with this project for years. I think it's scheduled to conclude in 2010. For those who don't know, it's a massive team of researchers going around the world to collect DNA samples from the most disparate peoples on Earth. I've seen clips of guys in white lab coats swabbing the cheeks of witch doctors. Anyone can contribute, though. All you have to do is order the kit. It comes with a DVD explaining the project and just what it is that your DNA will tell the project. After you send in a cheek swab, which should contain a couple good, DNA-packed cells, your results can be accessed and tracked through their web site. As more people send in information, your results become more comprehensive. I'm not sure about what they tell you EXACTLY, but I know you find out which haplogroup you belong to, and I know you get to see a map of your ancestor's route out of Africa. Men can elect between a mitochondrial DNA test, which traces the DNA passed down from mother to mother, or a Y-Chromosome DNA Test, which traces the DNA handed down from father to father. I asked for the mitochondrial test. My mother's mother's family was Hungarian, and Hungarians have quite the mysterious genetic and historic origin. Maybe this test could shed some light on where the Magyars came from. Some theories posit that the Hungarians came from Central Asia. God, it would be so awesome if that were true! What a surprise! I'd do their testimonial for free: "I look like a normal, white guy, but you'd never guess that I'm Asian! Thanks National Genographic!"
I think within four hours of getting home I was stealing music. Man, how I missed it all these months! MSU's network moderators are very good at catching people. So, all semester long, I kept a list of albums I needed to steal. I'm almost through the list now. Do I ever feel bad about it. Yeah, yeah I do. It's not fair to the artist, but I don't think the future lies in digital sales anyways, at least not for rock bands, so what I'm doing isn't of that much importance either way. Pop and R & B artists can make a killing off their latest iTunes single, but rock bands that focus on the album as a whole are sort of incompatible with this new type of market. Now, it's not that I want to see the album format go away so that I can divest myself of guilt and just buy my band's singles on iTunes. That's probably the furthest thing from what I would want. All I'm saying is that since CD sales are secondary, bands should just give up the fight against pirates. Let us steal your music. Focus on your tours. Put on awesome shows. Tours are the cash cow. We understand if it takes you three years in between albums. Take your time on your tours, and earn some money.
My Red Wings are sort of in a funk right now. Their goaltending is a little shaky, and they seem to be having some trouble when penetrating the neutral zone. A lot of their plays have ended at mid-ice, which is very uncharacteristic of Detroit's powerful, fast, and puck-controlling offense. We play San Jose on Thursday and then the Black Hawks on the 30th and on New Year's, so I should be in for some good hockey throughout my stay at home.
Nick was very friendly towards me during our last week together. I think it was because I told him that I was leaving for good soon. Visions of a double room all his own must have been swirling through his mind all week. All that extra space to buffer him from humans. Ah, I shouldn't be mean. We were very different, Nick. I don't know how we could be matched in the same room, let alone the same planet. I was very relieved that our hand shake last week didn't lead to a matter-on-anti-matter explosion.
My sister had a carolling party yesterday, so I had to move all the stuff I brought home from school plus some other junk into my bedroom for the facade of tidiness. My room looks like a flea market with a bed. There is just so much shit everywhere. Just walking from the light switch to my bed yesterday felt like a game of fucking minesweeper. My feet are bruised from it. One can barely see my Alexander the Great statue through all the dead, rejected plants, and columns of Cosmo Girls. I've put 24 hours on the clock. If my room isn't cleaned by someone, then it's getting cleaned by the blow torch.
That's it, for the most part. I haven't really been up to much- video games, food, and waiting for everyone else to get home. I just had to update since it's been so long. I'll be updating more, though, since I have all the time in the world for the next month. Well, it's getting late. I should go see what long BBC nature specials are on.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
More stuff
Just a quick post, I wrote two more poems to submit along with "Dear Atticus" for this contest. I didn't explain "Dear Atticus" in the last post. I just kind of threw it in there. Well, Cicero used to write copious amounts of letters to his best friend, Atticus. He'd sort of fill him in on what was going on in his life, as well as tell him all his personal thoughts. You know, it might have been the first blog. Atticus would then send letters back (Kind of like comments!). I always thought their correspondence was touching. SO, in light of that, I wanted to give it a dark, cynical spin. In my poem, the narrator is sort of this friendless, lonely guy. At the end, there's this biting dramatic irony that seems to say, "Yeah, friends don't exist," because the fact is Cicero WAS executed, alone and confused, the victim of fate. Sorry dead Atticus, I'm sure you were a great friend, but I couldn't resist turning you on your head for the sake of a really depressing poem. You're sort of the non-existent, fantasy wish of someone getting "executed" by crushing loneliness :/. "Always be the best..." was sort of Cicero's life motto. It's a line from the Iliad, actually. That stanza just sort of says that the ambitions and the glory that Cicero realized in his political career meant nothing by themselves. He measured his life by his happiness, something he found with Atticus, his buddy. This stanza-and also the one where the narrator gets a tentative but very wrong feeling that Atticus is actually out there, which shows you just how crazy the narrator has become- sort of sets you up for the crushing irony at the end, where you have to listen to the narrator while knowing he's being duped. Sad. For the new poems, yeah, they're both rough (I think the deadline for the three-poem submission is like January 30), but I wanted to post them anyway. The first one is a fun poem about the loss of innocence, and the second is sort of a humanist manifesto. I tried to draw parallels between Judgement Day, especially its depiction in Yeat's "The Second Coming," and the events in the poem. In my poem, the Day of Reckoning becomes the Day of Awakening- a far more hopeful and redeeming kind of day, don't you think? And that's really the point of the poem and humanism, from what I understand of it: believe in man and his science; they are good things.
“The Last Stick of Gum”
A pack of gum purchased
For less than a dollar
Is all one needs daily
To get through the hours.
Your senses ignite on each
Minty fresh, flatly pressed
Slice of relief-
Tasty, stretchy, bright blue
Cushion for teeth.
All thoughts soon lose shape.
Your words are now muffled in
The pulse of the chewing.
Consciousness, blissfully
Sleeps.
But darkly it clings to the tin foil-wrapped, paper-sheathed
Sliver of transient ecstasy,
Bound for the liver where it will reign hell
With the machinery of madness on
All of your cellular shells-
Alive or dead, ordered or not.
Put down the phone, are no use the pills.
It slips past the microscopes,
Prisms and X-rays,
To invade the chewer,
Who smiles with abandon,
Noting the sweet flavor.
Hey, Is that cinnamon?
Eyes closed
Mouth open
Mouth closed
Then open
Pop!
Suck!
Laugh!
SHOCK!
Rumbling furnace chills
Spread from the gut.
Maybe this gum package
Wasn’t quite shut?
Face pulled tight against the worry of sickness,
No longer adding more sticks just for thickness,
The tongue unfurls, blue as can be,
To let fall from a pale grimace
The gum and its deadly refugee.
But the deed is still done,
The pleasure forgotten.
Even the blue tongue tinge
Seems like it’s rotten.
But, oh, this day had to come.
That gum had been waiting
Lurking, clock ticking,
While you relished and savored
the New Longer Lasting.
One can’t chew forever.
A pack of gum purchased
For less than a dollar
Is all one needs daily
To get through the hours.
Your senses ignite on each
Minty fresh, flatly pressed
Slice of relief-
Tasty, stretchy, bright blue
Cushion for teeth.
All thoughts soon lose shape.
Your words are now muffled in
The pulse of the chewing.
Consciousness, blissfully
Sleeps.
But darkly it clings to the tin foil-wrapped, paper-sheathed
Sliver of transient ecstasy,
Bound for the liver where it will reign hell
With the machinery of madness on
All of your cellular shells-
Alive or dead, ordered or not.
Put down the phone, are no use the pills.
It slips past the microscopes,
Prisms and X-rays,
To invade the chewer,
Who smiles with abandon,
Noting the sweet flavor.
Hey, Is that cinnamon?
Eyes closed
Mouth open
Mouth closed
Then open
Pop!
Suck!
Laugh!
SHOCK!
Rumbling furnace chills
Spread from the gut.
Maybe this gum package
Wasn’t quite shut?
Face pulled tight against the worry of sickness,
No longer adding more sticks just for thickness,
The tongue unfurls, blue as can be,
To let fall from a pale grimace
The gum and its deadly refugee.
But the deed is still done,
The pleasure forgotten.
Even the blue tongue tinge
Seems like it’s rotten.
But, oh, this day had to come.
That gum had been waiting
Lurking, clock ticking,
While you relished and savored
the New Longer Lasting.
One can’t chew forever.
“Novus Homo”
Coruscating brilliance from every direction comes
The thunder of mind-fire from the chorus of one-
Song draped in tragedy, anointed in pain,
But beautiful, touching, and pure as spring rain.
Tears glisten at the corners
Of eyes on old men
As the last missile is incinerated, engineered into pens.
Babel’s languages snake through the currents of foam;
Connected, respected, the world is their home.
Up to the sky rear the heads of the children
To greet a new protecter, a sovereign, a savior.
“At last,” they cry. “The Day of Awakening is at hand!”
His voice carries no harshness or burden or lash.
Instead, his words pour forth like dreamy quicksilver.
“‘Round the Alchemist’s fire the abacus did run,
Leaping and dancing,
Landing on the sun.
A Rosicrucian revelation,
A Renaissance revolution,
The dissemination of knowledge
Will spear every nation.
I give you the secrets these staff serpents have whispered
through centuries of ignorance, piety, and fear.
Hear the music of the spheres,
Oh you glorious apple eaters!
Watch the life force split and swirl,
You valiant pilgrims!
Bend earth's fury to your will,
Oh you beautiful fire stealers!
Plumb the stygian depths
Of this planet so fair.
Note the subtle effects
Butterfly wings have on air.
Build tall and build grand.
What great things for your hand!
Opposites, reflections, complements, patterns-
All weave in and out of the fabric of matter.
Here are the keys to the real and the right.
This is your destiny, the one that’s been formed
From centuries immemorial, from atrocities unmatched.
Blood spilt and tongues slashed and stakes set to burning
Cannot stop this holiness that you have been learning.
Take reason and justice,
Natural extensions of my miracles,
And remold the clay
Of your souls.”
Coruscating brilliance from every direction comes
The thunder of mind-fire from the chorus of one-
Song draped in tragedy, anointed in pain,
But beautiful, touching, and pure as spring rain.
Tears glisten at the corners
Of eyes on old men
As the last missile is incinerated, engineered into pens.
Babel’s languages snake through the currents of foam;
Connected, respected, the world is their home.
Up to the sky rear the heads of the children
To greet a new protecter, a sovereign, a savior.
“At last,” they cry. “The Day of Awakening is at hand!”
His voice carries no harshness or burden or lash.
Instead, his words pour forth like dreamy quicksilver.
“‘Round the Alchemist’s fire the abacus did run,
Leaping and dancing,
Landing on the sun.
A Rosicrucian revelation,
A Renaissance revolution,
The dissemination of knowledge
Will spear every nation.
I give you the secrets these staff serpents have whispered
through centuries of ignorance, piety, and fear.
Hear the music of the spheres,
Oh you glorious apple eaters!
Watch the life force split and swirl,
You valiant pilgrims!
Bend earth's fury to your will,
Oh you beautiful fire stealers!
Plumb the stygian depths
Of this planet so fair.
Note the subtle effects
Butterfly wings have on air.
Build tall and build grand.
What great things for your hand!
Opposites, reflections, complements, patterns-
All weave in and out of the fabric of matter.
Here are the keys to the real and the right.
This is your destiny, the one that’s been formed
From centuries immemorial, from atrocities unmatched.
Blood spilt and tongues slashed and stakes set to burning
Cannot stop this holiness that you have been learning.
Take reason and justice,
Natural extensions of my miracles,
And remold the clay
Of your souls.”
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