12.30.2001
I'm off to Philly for three or four days. I will spend today on a bus. The phenomena of public transportation and the myth of personal space. Where else can you sit shoulder to shoulder with someone and not be obligated to say the slightest thing to them? Anyway, I'll be back soon, have a great new years everyone.
12.29.2001
We climbed today. It was more cold than anything else, but it was good to see Brendan and Schaper, a couple of friends I haven't seen in a while. My brother also came along, and he's really become a lot of fun to hang out with. Anyway, here are a couple pics from today, I should have done something with the lighting to emphasize how unbearably cold it was.
From left to right: 1. my brother, 2. Brendan befriending Winter, 3. the cold, cold rock face, 4. the problem with New England, and 5. Andrew Schaper
8:30 PM
12.28.2001
Despite my constant complaints about the cellular kingdom, I became part of the problem today. Now I can always be reached, making the wishful illusion that hordes people are desperately trying to get in touch with me simply implausible.
Best Scam Ever: We came up with this one last year after Adam Conover tried to demonstrate what a helpful and potentially lucrative prospect it was. Naturally, we took something perfectly honest and exploited it. But then again, nothing sounds justified when put under that light. It was harmless fun, and mildly profitable. Like writing tabloids. Like comic relief for the active consumer.
The website to which I refer is of course Epinions.com, a site that employs you to post reviews of items you've bought, paying you a small amount each time someone reads your review. But significantly more fun than reviewing our own possessions was reviewing various things we'd never heard of -- ridiculous items that people genuinely wanted to know about. Alex once wrote a review of a paper shredder, just because he was really bothered by the idea of people having documents so important that they needed to be shredded, and not because he knew the slightest thing about paper shredders. Then he copied and pasted it as a review of something like ten different paper shredders, just to maximize profit. Epinions caught on after a day or two, and wrote him a mildly threatening letter.
All in all, in our short period of fascination with the concept, I made somewhere in the range of twenty-two dollars. And I only wrote one or two serious reviews. So, if you have some time and are interested in making money very, very slowly, give it a try. It's like blogging, only for pocket change.
Recent Songs Worth Repeating Beethoven - Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13 - Pathetique
Beethoven - Piano Sonata No. 23, Op. 57 - Appasionata
Elliott Smith - No Name 3
Blogger is finally back up. God knows that crackers need access to three months worth of my tired ramblings.
My digital camera showed up, and I love it. I really need to get out and play with it more, because as of now, I've really only chased my cats around the house testing it's various functions. I'm pretty sure that the camera must make some truly awful noise outside of my range of hearing, because the larger of my two cats can't seem to be near it for very long, and even when he is, he presses his ears backward in what can't be comfort.
12.24.2001
I just finished wireless networking my house, and it only took me way too long! (I spent literally all of yesterday trying to get the damn thing to work, only to finally figure out that the hardware was disfunctional). I even resorted to calling the customer support people, only to have them tell me that I should quit, move out of my house, and start over in another part of the world.
I'm so sick of myself right now. I'm so tired of the way I think, I can't stand these days of being alone with my thoughts. It reduces me to nothing, I reduce myself to nothing and it tears me apart. It just seems to be the way I think. And when I don't have a fair share of beauty reflected back at me, I fall apart. I'm so uncontrollably sad right now, I can't keep my eyes from blurring with water. God I'm sick of myself.
I talked to Lauren tonight, she's another close friend and ex-girlfriend (Collect all three!). She's one of the few people that I want to see right now, and talking to her tonight, I could hear how much more I need her right now than she could possibly need me. I love talking to her, but the sound of my voice in the phone, especially in talking to her, just makes me hate myself more. It's really unbearable. I can feeling myself welling up and I just feel so pathetic. Something about the sound of her voice just lets me break down. And I need to break down, I just wish I didn't always have to break down on her. She's one of the few people I talk to who actually listens, and I absolutely love her for it. I don't think she knows how much she means to me and I wish she did.
12.22.2001
It's been a while since I've told a story, and I'm remarkably bored, so here's a good one from a couple months ago.
Along the lines of the four-square phenomenon came Another Fucking Newspaper, a cheap satirical newspaper of Bard-related life, mostly aimed at knocking the other Bard newspapers and the unnecessarily serious atmosphere that is dirty-hippydom. My friend and four-square co-founder Jon Capone and I put the small paper together one day to advertise four square, it was sort of the natural progression from our earlier signs, which were losing their edge. Anyway, the newspaper went well, people seemed to enjoy it, and we got a kick out of it. So we decided to do another one for the following week.
There are a lot of clubs at Bard, many of which have a sense of humor (except for maybe the Free Press, because the Free Press is just not funny). Some clubs are tougher than others, there are definitely some clubs you do not mess with. The Wom*n's Alliance is one of those clubs. The club is big, established, and seemingly more serious than most of the other lazily-run collections of dirty semi-activist hippies and depressives. They also have a reputation 'round Bard of being exclusive, elitist, and confrontational. So when we decided to write a satirical article about them, people literally warned us to be careful.
The idea for the article was relatively simple: we would write an article detailing recent changes to the club's platform, except in areas where we would have quoted them, we would substitute their reactions to our being at their meeting. Example:
When asked about the Wom*n's Alliance's new Menstrual Health Workshops, spokeswoman Kim Thompson commented, "This is a women-only meeting, we'd like you to leave. Now." Also, because the title of the club substitutes a star (*) for the "e" in "Women," (to take the "men" out of "women," no pun intended) every "e" in the article would have been substituted with a star, just because we're jerks.
To be fair though, and not to work on assumptions, Jon and I went to this year's Menstrual Health Workshop, honestly expecting to be turned away at the door, and fueled with a few actual quote examples of their exclusivity, and it turn justified in writing the piece.
The second we walk through the door of the meeting, we are immediately handed large slices of vegan cake. Jon, being a vegan, was blown away. The women then pulled up a couch for us, and literally welcomed us in. I then belly danced with them for forty-five minutes (it turns out that I completely lack hips, and consequently the ability to move them gracefully), while Jon sat on the couch eating his vegan cake, which was, as a sidenote, pretty decent cake for being made out of god-knows-what. After the belly dancing, we sat in on the discussion of tampon-alternatives. I learned all sorts of things! They were incredibly friendly to us the whole time, they weren't even a little bit exclusive. Before we left, they gave us more cake, and invited us back.
So, we never wrote the article, and Jon and I are now proud members of the Wom*n's Alliance.
Well, to complicate the matter of the stolen digital camera, I've already managed to replace it. I first thought about what I'd do if I stole a camera, and wanted money for it. So I checked on eBay, and got sucked in to bidding on a much better camera at a really low price. So now I have a new camera. You know, like someone to grieve the loss of the old camera with me.
12.20.2001
Going to the dentist is always interesting, because it's quite clear that my dentist doesn't like me. It raises the obvious moral dilemma of whether or not he should really be the one with the high speed drill in my mouth. But I don't really blame him for not liking me, I'm a pain in the ass to the dentist. I'm so preoccupied with not having to have my wisdom teeth out, that I want to understand exactly what problem they're posing as they are. They're largely in already, they don't hurt, they seem to have enough room, so what's the problem? But like many professionals, I think he'd prefer a much more docile, unquestioning patient Again though, I don't blame him, who enjoys opposition -- especially when you work in a profession that: A. has the highest suicide rate, and B. is statistically the most hated profession.
But regardless of his feelings, my teeth hurt, I'm tired, and I think that someone stole my digital camera. I really need to get out tonight.
In searching for a relevant graphic for this post, I managed to find a cut-out template for a tooth hand-puppet. Click the above picture and go wild.
12.19.2001
So I decided to start my Christmas shopping today. Who knew that the commercial world would be so crowded? I went to the mall, the center of the madness, and honestly, I absolutely loved it. So many frantic people! The first few minutes there were among my best of the week, just watching people scamper around looking for gifts, it was a beautiful comedy. Crowds like that are such a sensory experience, I love that. People brush by you and you can just feel their determination. I had to stop and sit at one point just to take it all in. So many colors and smells and the fantastic looks on peoples's faces -- it was great. I honestly enjoy crowds of people that I don't know, it's just an infinite wealth of immaterial sensory information, none of which needs to be regarded for more than a few seconds, all of which bombards the senses, creating this marvelous divine comedy. I'll probably go back the day after tomorrow, but this time with something to write on.
So I'm reading this, and the actual logical thought that comes to me is, "Wait a minute, girls are the summation of time and money, not the product! This proof is all wrong!" Then I remembered that I'd found fault in a "mathmatical" "proof" that "girls are evil," and that I'd have to find my Nobel Prize elsewhere.
12.18.2001
Yeah, so I managed to screw up my archive today. I was trying to change the archive so that instead of listing the months by numbers, I would actually say the name of the month. Yeah, so, as I was saying, my archive doesn't exist anymore. The cute thing is that this time I made a copy of my template before mucking up (I like the word "mucking," it's a logical combination of the two other words that I would've used in its place were it not a word) the code, and that even once I restore the code, there are still errors on the page. I know it's bad practice to make changes directly to a template, but there's something satisfying in all-or-nothing, trial-and-error destruction of one's work. If anyone of you geeks wants to talk archive templates with me, IM me, we'll chat.
My bored, atheistic prayers have been answered! Somehow in my attempts to avoid living in the real world, I managed to find a website that allows you to construct your own version of the famous "Psycho" stabbing scene. Now, hear me out before you turn away in disgust. It's really neat. Wait, that's all I've got, "it's really neat"? Oh, god. Oh, god, I'm disgusting. You know what, turn away and don't come back.
On a healthier note, another worthwhile flash-based website that I've wasted too much time on, this one found by arch-nemesis adam conover, is skop.com's "I Know Where Bruce Lee Lives," which allows you to construct and replay complicated Bruce Lee fight scenes and such, complete with musical complements and all sorts of noises and yelling in German (insert random German website here).
Just as a sidenote for those of you who didn't run away at my delight in a website based entirely around stabbing a screaming woman in the shower, my scene had a hip-hop feeling to it. I only wish you could control ("mix," if you will) her screaming.
12.17.2001
Well, it looks like I have the priviledge of another night at home with a movie. When I come home for substantial breaks, the people at Blockbuster (an evil, evil corporation with a strong grip on the neck of the rental entertainment industry) relearn my name. By the end of a break, it's always insulting when they ask for my card. So, I'll be at home tonight. If you want to catch me, e-mail me, and I'll get back to you. What do you want to talk about? Hit me, I'm bored, and I have a good deal of time on my hands.
I came home to Connecticut for the holidays two days ago, and am still feeling around for my place. Because I got out of school before the majority of my friends, I decided yesterday that I might as well visit a couple of them at their schools. So I called Melissa, my ex-girlfriend and long-lost best friend from a few years back.
From the moment I got there it was awkward silence, slowly securing over the course of the night that it was the sound of her comfort that had once fascinated me, and that its absense left me feeling cold and alone in her presence.
In her warm bed, where we slept, myself facing her cold back from the other side of her thin mattress, I could not help but remember when my arm tossed lovingly across her curved side meant something -- meant everything, and we were not held captive by the awkward bars of conversation. Her untrusting stare, the discomfort in her short laugh, the way she could not seem to uncross her arms, all implicating me in small emotional crimes I did not intend to commit, nor ever consciously condoned. I never meant to hurt her, but its clear that years of time still haven't made that enough for her, and I doubt now that things between the two of us will ever be all right again.
I had tender feelings that you made hard
but it's your heart, not mine, that's scarred
so when I go home I'll be happy to go
you're just somebody that I used to know
you don't need my help anymore
it's all now to you, there ain't no before
now that you're big enough to run your own show
you're just somebody that I used to know
I watched you deal in a dying day
and throw a living past away
so you can be sure that you're in control
you're just somebody that I used to know
I know you don't think you did me wrong
and I can't stay this mad for long
keeping ahold of what you just let go
you're just somebody that I used to know
12.14.2001
I know I haven't posted much in the past couple of days, but I promise I'll be back posting this weekend (and from Connecticut). I have a lot of stories...
12.12.2001
You have no idea how much I love four square night. I actually sit here in anticipation. And the part that kills me is that there is no way to explain it to you, or to anyone else for that matter. But it's an incredible event, by far the most warm I've come upon at Bard. You leave with a sense of connection, or at least I do. I love four square night. And while I know this sounds completely ridiculous, it's something that really has to be experienced. Ooh! Ooh! And Alice is coming all the way from Simon's Rock to play, and arguably to also see her boyfriend, the evil Adam Conover. But if I had to choose between dating Adam and dating four square, you know whose man I'd be.
Songs I recently haven't been able to take off of repeat:
Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Carry On Elliott Smith - Coming Up Roses Chemical Brothers w/ Beth Orton - Where Do I Begin Blind Melon - No Rain - I remember exactly where I was when I found out that Shannon Hoon had died. I was sitting in a minivan, listening to the radio, waiting for my parents to finish their coffee after dinner in an Italian restaurant in LA. I remember what I was wearing. I was thirteen years old. I remember just staring blankly at the dashboard of that car, slowly filling with sorrow. That may have been the first death that affected me. I had a lot of great memories attached to Blind Melon songs, I just couldn't believe that he was dead. When they got into the car, I didn't tell them what had happened. I wasn't up to them not understanding. Listen to "No Rain," if you haven't recently, it's such a happy song, but in the most honest way possible.
This is my last bad day of the semester. I have three finals. Tonight, I'm probably just going to get ridiculous. But it's Wednesday, and everyone else still has more finals, so I may have to get ridiculous at the library if I want to be with my friends. I'll work on that.
Actually, tonight is four square night! You have no idea how comforting that is. It's like therapy for the soul. Oh, and it's significantly cooler than getting ridiculous by yourself at the library.
12.10.2001
"There is a considerable difference between the perceptions of the mind, when a man feels the pain of excessive heat, or the pleasure of moderate warmth, and when he afterwards recalls to his memory this sensation, or anticipates it by his imagination. These faculties may mimic or copy the perceptions of the senses; but they never can entirely reach the force and vivacity of the original sentiment. All the colors of poetry, however splendid, can never paint natural objects in such a manner as to make the description be taken for a real landscape. The most lively thought is still inferior to the dullest sensation"
- David Hume, An Equiry Concerning Human Understanding
Quick, somebody get on yahoo and search for "girls gone wild wet t-shirt contest own personal nude pics." That's right, baby! Number one! Now if only I had all those things...
6:45 PM
Now, close your browser, open up Paint (under Accessories on your Start Menu), and draw me a picture! I can't believe we haven't done this yet. And if one of you doesn't do it, we're just going to have to use a picture from the real explodingdog website. And I'm sure that would open us up to the possibility of some sort of unnecessary lawsuit. That we wouldn't win.
Well, it's Monday. Dammit. I managed to move my philosophy final to tomorrow. Dammit. So I'm going to have to spend all of today in the library studying for that, right up until I take the exam. Then, when I finish that exam, I have to go straight back to the library to read six chapters for my Drugs and Human Behavior exam which I have the next day. Right after that exam, I have to go back to the fucking library again to study for a statistics exam I have later that day. After that, I get to come home and do a Number Theory takehome final. But Thursday should be nice. Did I say nice? I meant drunk.
12.09.2001
I've spent all day in the library (or at least all of my waking day, which began at one), studying for my philosophy exam and reading photo books. Not out of hunger, more out of boredom, I went to dinner as early as possible.
I'm not sure why I did it, or even where I found the confidence, but at dinner I decided that I would sit down with someone that I'd never met before, and have dinner with them. It was awful! It was painfully awkward, right from the moment I sat down. We introduced ourselves, then she and I spent the majority of dinner staring over each other's shoulders, pretending we weren't sitting across from each other at a small table. Every few minutes or so, one of us would ask some disgustingly typical small-talk question, which would then be answered by both of us in turn, without any remote animation, only to return seconds later to our familiar awkward silence. Our lack of interest in each other was appallingly obvious. Eventually, I feigned some object of interest in another portion of the dining hall, and put us both out of our misery by leaving the table.
12.08.2001
Yeah, so I was going to install all sorts of neat applications and such, like an area of the page where you could literally lick your screen and actually taste the images, but Adam's server doesn't support anything! I found an applet that gives out free money, a form that gives you the name and address of your soulmate, and an image mapper that actually simulates a orgasm -- all requiring different scripts and databases that our server doesn't support. So, I guess what I'm saying is that this site will never be as fun as I'd hoped. And I was really looking forward to the free money.
Here's me, with the money you could have had if Adam's server weren't run by a child with an Atari console.
I have to spend all day in the library studying for my four finals (which, just for your amusement, are still all on Wednesday). I'm not disappointed at all though, I love the library. I sit on the third floor, because that's where the photo books are. And whenever I feel like I've accomplished enough in whatever book I'm reading or paper I'm writing (ten to fifteen pages if I'm reading, two or three if I'm writing), I read a couple photo books. I do it so often that it's becoming difficult to go and pick out three books without my already having read at least one of them.
As a matter of routine, and as a relfection of how much work I've done, I find my favorite picture in each book, and leave it open somewhere in front of me. The end result is that by the end of the night, whatever table I sit at becomes a cove of open photo books, like a fort built of other peoples' art.
Remember when you used to build forts out of couch cushions and just hang out in them? Remembering how comforting that was? Well, it's still comforting, and decidely more beautiful with photos than cushions. And whenever I'm bored of number theory or tired of staring at neurotransmitters, I always have that to return to. It's beautiful.
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrasment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life. But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons there are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin.
So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change, I'm going to change. This is the last of this sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you; the job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nineto-five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die.
- Trainspotting, though 7/10 of you probably have the poster
12.07.2001
A picture from last night. I'm not sure how to begin to explain the ridiculousness of my friends and I, so I just won't try.
Oh Photoshop, what imagery can't you make obvious?
But seriously, if I had to choose which of my friends was the reincarnation of Christ, it would probably be Jesse Kataya (above). Here's a man that doesn't take himself seriously. Christ would have let us put pick-up sticks in his hair.
(This post, and equally any remotely introspective post, sounds better with a Thomas Newman background. If I had the FTP space, which I don't, I would have posted "Any Other Name," but since I have limited space, download Thomas Newman - Wasted Air (right click on link and "save target as" to save the file to your computer). If you have a chance though, download "Any Other Name.")
I always thought stages in life would be more obvious. TV and culture have this fantastic way of simplifying existence by breaking life into soluble blocks. And as I think back, that's just not real. I don't know what I expected when I was twelve, but I think that on some level I honestly expected my own thinking to drastically change when I became a teenager. I at least thought there'd be some new significance to it.
The same is true with half of the other "significant" events in my life. In the middle of my senior prom, I realized that it was just a dance, that I probably wouldn't remember much of it, that I had been force-fed the false significance of the dance, and that the prime rib they served was significantly better than I had expected (it's funny that when I think of prom, my first thought is always that the steak was excellent). Leaving home for college certainly didn't have the bearing I expected. Neither did making love for the first time, graduation, or the ability to buy cigarettes.
And the part that gets me is that when I think back, I'm still the same person I was when I was twelve. I mean, granted, I know a few more words, have hair in all sorts of new places, and have a few new perspectives, but the internal voice, the self, is the same. And I guess I just expected it to be different. Consider yourself right now, now add parenting into your life. New laundry to do, certainly more obligations, but would you be a different person? No, you'd be the same person with kids. That's how aging feels to me.
And college and graduate school and careers and marriage and a starter home and kids and a dog and a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, I just doubt they feel as significant as you might expect when you're experiencing them.
So I guess my moral is that culture is high-lighting the wrong points. And I guess I just expected something different. Not necessarily more, just something different.
"Our parents said nothing, so that we sensed how ancient they were, how accustomed to trauma, depression, and wars. We realized that the version of the world they rendered for us was not the world they really believed in, and that for all their caretaking and btiching about crabgrass they didn't give a damn about lawns."
- Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides 12:42 PM
12.06.2001
I just looked in the mirror, and it's definitely shaving day. Shaving is just one of those things that I don't enjoy, so I do it as rarely as possible. You know how you have a mental image of yourself? Well, mine doesn't have a beard, so when I pass a mirror, I go, "AHH! I have a beard!" Most days, I usually get distracted by something before I can shave, forgetting within moments about the beard, and go back to the contented ignorance of my smooth and hairless mental image. I don't think that will fly today, I'm just too damn unshaven.
Well, it's that time again. Another four square hangover. Uggghhh...I feel awful.
10:55 AM
12.05.2001
Alright, we just registered for next semester's classes, and my schedule is a dork festival.
1. Seminar in Cognitive Neuropsychology (my major)
2. Introduction to Neuroscience
3. Independent Research in Neuroscience
4. Research Methods and Design in Psychology
and last but not least,
5. the second half of Inorganic Chemistry
All my hopes of one day being cool? Down the drain. But I do have Tuesdays and (practically) Fridays free. And you can't beat that.
12.04.2001
You were the first one to teach me about ripening fruit by putting it in a paper bag. And you said you liked my hat when I wouldn’t wear it because I thought it was a fashion fraud. I wore it. One time I was so amazed by your presence in my life that I drove my lawn mower in circles out of glee. When the storms came, you suggested that we sit on the porch in rocking chairs to enjoy the humidity.
I admit that I lied about washing your flannel shirt because I liked it with your smell on it. Maybe you knew and didn’t say anything. You understand the things that I do.
You are warm to me. You make coming home worth while. And getting up, for that matter. I like you most in the morning, when your tangled hair floats in the breeze of our window fan before settling on my arm again. I like it when we stay in bed late and you wear your sleepy smile, nestling back into the craters you created in the bed. I don’t have a time that I like you least. Even when you are drunk, I am enamored.
When you get excited, your eyes light up like the little sister I never had discovering a miniature pony in our yard on Christmas morning. You don’t eat candy, but I do because it reminds me of your taste. And you have that habit slowly blowing smoke out in a perfect “v” that turns me on so much. I could watch you do that for hours, but I might explode first.
I learned to like Van Halen because you do. I eat with chopsticks, fumbling through my slowly diminishing hunger because you like a long dinner. I know all the right wineglasses now that you started bringing wine home everyday, and I love when we get drunk and laugh for hours. I drive slowly so I don’t crash and miss a night with you.
Your probably don’t see me, but I feign sleep and peek from beneath the covers as you sit Indian style in front of your mirror, putting on makeup and moving to the rhythm of routine. When we are in bed, I sometimes endure the aggravation of itches so as not to wake you. I open the door slowly on my to work in the afternoon, wincing at every creak so you will not feel alone as you nap.
Anytime I want to, I can recall the feeling of you on my lap and the warmth left by the backside of your legs. I get your newspaper for you so you do not have to have cold feet. I worry because your apartment building has a foyer with no lock that leads to your door. I kiss your tattoos as if I might never see them again.
You don’t see me cry for you, but I do. Maybe you hear the cracks in my voice and the fade of my sentences, but I won’t let you see the tears because nothing is wrong. It is joy, and I can’t even begin to explain it, even if you asked me to. I don’t have any words for those moments, but when I hug you longer than usual, you know why.
I pick what you like, because making you happy makes me happy. I see your beauty in the sway of the willows, and in the rolling breaks of the ocean that span past the reach of sight. You give me comfort like summer cottages with rickety hinges from my childhood vacations, toasty slippers by the bedside that a loved one quietly placed during my nap, and fresh soda bread that only my Aunt Alice can make.
Dose it out slowly, and go easy on me. I am a foolish man, and my dreams run me into walls.
- Ezra Fowler
Okay, so what....I'm a depressive person. I like being depressed. It's a hell of a lot more satisfying than being happy. Happiness seems so shallow and worthless. It's a high, granted....but it's just a shallow plane with no levels. Being depressed however, lets you see things in a whole different light. There's hills and valleys with different shades of grey.....and of course it all makes much more sense if you're listening to Pink Floyd.
I've been working on a book for a while now, and it's turning out to be a really painstaking process of revision after revision after revision. I've thrown out big sections, I've redefined the plot a couple times. I do half of my writing on the back of napkins. I just look forward to finishing it, or even to getting into a steady habit of writing that might actually serve as an effective means to an end I can't seem to come closer to. But a lot of my projects are that way. And it annoys the hell out of me.
Well, with the addition of my number theory final, I officially have all four of my finals on the same day next week. WHAT?! Something has to be done about that, I just don't have that kind of processing power.
I wake up with the same flavor in my mouth every day. I assume it's tarter, or plaque, or one of those other things that toothpaste marketing assures me I have. But what if it's something more significant, like failure? I'm not sure I'd recognize (literally, it's too early for metaphors) the flavor of failure. Yet I wake up to it every day, and just don't know any better. Well that's just great.
12.02.2001 Recent Searchengine Queries That Have Referred Me Visitors: 1. Google: porn +"bard college" 2. Yahoo: "Bard college" AND nude 3. Yahoo: we want you uncleben (I really want an explanation for that one, I just don't understand what they were looking for)
and finally....
4. Yahoo: ANIMAL ORGY (you know this guy was disappointed).
5:35 PM
I met my first girl, her name was Sally.
Was that a girl, was that a girl. That's what people
kept asking.
Is this font too small? Better than the other size? Any feedback would be appreciated. I'm talking to myself.
12:09 PM
12.01.2001 Commoner: We all want to forget something, so we tell stories. It's easier that way.
Commoner: Well, men are only men. That's why they lie. They can't tell the truth, even to themselves.
Priest: That may be true. Because men are weak, they lie to deceive themselves.
Priest: If men don't trust one another, then the earth becomes a hell.
Commoner: Right. The world's a kind of hell.
Priest: No! I don't want to believe that!
Commoner: No one will hear you, no matter how loud you shout.
Current mood: Coldplay - We Never Change, Cat Power - You May Know Him, Mazzy Star - Blue Light, Bill Frisell - Coffaro's Theme, lucidity, lonliness, emptiness, tiredness.
We were talking about this last night: What if you learned that you are testicular cancer. Not that you have it, but that you are it. Like you are the physical embodiment of its essence. When I was a child, I had a book called The Stranger in which a farmer hits a man with his car, only to take him home, and later learn that he hit the embodiment of Fall with his pickup. So clearly, as long as childrens' fiction is based entirely on empirical evidence and fact, people can in fact be the embodiment of abstract concepts. So what if you were testicular cancer? I'm not sure exactly how you'd find out, but I assure you that that day wouldn't be an easy one. And would your suicide be the end of testicular cancer? What if you were fear or insecurity or dizziness? Or cat-scratch-fever or the color brown or longing? The possibilities are endless, really. And if you were happiness, your death would be more significant than you could ever imagine.
