Faucetclock: Rants and Musings

More on the application of one's energies

2008-02-07T17:45:00.000-08:00

If one devotes his life to a cause, must he choose between: a) living body and soul in a way that allows him to move toward his goal with every action he undertakes (if this is even possible), or b) divide his energies and live his life with an awareness of his tendency to repeatedly distract himself from his goal, and thus live with the guilt that he inflicts upon himself as a result of the faltering nature of his attention and work-ethic, or c) recognizing that even those actions that are seemingly ineffective - with regard to the attainment of his goal - may actually cause him to work more effectively when he is working directly toward his goal, because such "distractions" improve his mind, by supplying it with a diversity of stimulus on which to fixate, and refresh his attention-span by way of providing his mind with breaks that may keep the information and thoughts required in the process of working towards his specific end from becoming dull and from being abandoned altogether.

If the latter is the case (that is, if distraction is actually beneficial), then should distraction be sought out in extremes, or in ways that are purely mental, or in small quantities? Would huge distractions lead to huge amounts of mental rejuvenation, or must a balance be sought? Should distraction only be sought in the mind, and should every kinetic or tactual activity pertain only to the desired end? Or do activities and undertakings that extend beyond the mind, and subsequently to the body and one's actions, provide the mind with more inadvertent inspiration than thoughts alone? Can any of this be known, or must it be guessed at? And is trial-and-error even an option here, or will it create a pattern that may or may not allow for the greatest amount of productivity and may or may not be able to be altered or broken? As with most things, it seems that balance is probably best, although I must admit that I constantly wonder whether I should eliminate friendships that do not directly inspire me or aid in my work, even if the notion of doing so seems brutal and unkind.

Furthermore, if one's goals may (potentially) do any good for large numbers of people, or have any kind of positive effect on the world that might be more beneficial than friendship itself in some way, then doesn't one owe it to the world to pursue these goals instead of fleeting friendships, just because of the chance that they may be able to, in achieving or pursuing their goals, maximize their potential for positive influence on the world? Is the risk worth it? What if one fails in one's goals and also isolates his or her self? Then he or she has had no influence on others in a positive way at all.

Perhaps some people don't have much of a choice, and can only be pleasant company beyond a certain casual degree if they are simultaneously pursuing larger goals with potentially larger influence on mankind, because their disposition is such that they are unhappy or grumpy when not pursuing such things.

On an (almost) unrelated note, does prejudice stifle or feed the human will to produce or create? In a Darwinian sense, it seems that those who are persecuted are likely to want to reproduce in abundance (sometimes regardless of whether they can realistically support their children). Does the same happen with regard to ideas or creative/mental/philosophical endeavors, or does biology overshadow such "luxuries" as art and thought? Also, if injustice does encourage mental and creative progress, which in turn encourages cultural and political progress, then perhaps it is a positive thing in some way. I'm not saying that huge injustices or prejudices should be condoned or even tolerated, but this is still interesting to consider.

On the pursuit of knowledge, possible worlds, and ideal worlds

2008-02-07T17:07:00.000-08:00

Might the attainment of knowledge be potentially precluded by the search itself? It seems possible to me that knowledge - true knowledge - can only be arrived at by way of accident (although accident of the kind that has probability on its side and will most likely occur, unless it is actively sought out). It seems likely, too, that this knowledge, which is stumbled upon by the non-seeker, can only be stumbled upon as such if information uncovered by those who do seek is made available to them. Then another question surfaces: Must this knowledge be presented in a disguised form? I ask this because it is a known fact that the degree to which human pride keeps the common individual from being receptive to knowledge attained from others is quite extensive.

If this is the case, then a) knowledge, as an end-product, must be comprised of parts, and that b) these parts must be supplied by those who actively seek knowledge (perhaps aware of the futility of this search) and presented perhaps in a disguised form, and that these parts must be stumbled upon by someone who is inactive in the search for knowledge and subsequently, only by accident, and only by those who do not seek it out, can knowledge be obtained.

Another question that might be raised as an aside: If the seeker does not seek knowledge, per se, but rather scattered information, can he come to attain knowledge? My answer would be no, for if the seeker takes the time to think, "Why, I will not attain knowledge by looking for it, so I will look for it in pieces," then he is still consciously searching for knowledge and only succeeds in redirecting this process and, in doing so, masking his ultimate end. The seeker cannot work backwards: If he has begun his searching with a desire for knowledge, then he has already affirmed the fact that every action taken thereafter, however disguised, is in some way an effort meant to actualize this goal. These pieces, from which the mentally lazy may accidentally benefit, can only be produced as excrement forged in the process of seeking knowledge: Not knowledge as may be found in small pieces, but the grandiose, ever-discussed Knowledge, with a capital K.

The seeker, then, is able to continue this process of seeking only by telling himself one of two things (and if he does not, he will have a hard time justifying to himself the seemingly-pointless way in which he passes his time, and will, in finding that he cannot shut off his mind and halt its progress - however slow or misdirected this progress may be - wish himself peace in the form of mental quietude, or death, but will likely choose neither): a) that he will defy the odds presented by case-studies of brooders from the past, and be the first to come to some kind of end-point in this quest for knowledge, not through managing to stop his thoughts, but rather through the process of cognising itself, or b) that it is noble and altruistic to seek out knowledge and produce information that may subsequently be useful to those who do not yearn for the attainment of what it may give them (that is, some kind of epiphany), and that it is either his contribution to society and culture, or his obligation, or his destiny. It is almost impossible for a thinker in the truest sense (that is, the thinker who makes not only habit but also past-time or career out of such mental searching) to be ambivalent regarding the fate of his world, for it is only natural for one who spends so much time thinking about the intricacies of his surroundings to become inextricably attached, emotionally and mentally, to said surroundings. Furthermore, the thinker, through the process of considering all possible worlds, cannot help but imagine the best-possible-world of all of these, and he will make it his task to figure out how to make this world exist. Furthermore, he will be unable to imagine that this best-possible-world might only benefit himself (i.e., a tropical paradise in which food is plentiful and work is unnecessary, but only for him) because his thought-processes will inform him that the potential for the absence of guilt is, in itself, enough reason for him to wish such a paradise on all of his peers and cohorts, inferior or superior (or obliterating such concepts altogether) and thus he will idealize a world that is best for all, even if such a world might be possible only in lowering its perfection for him as an individual (for it seems there must be some limits on happiness for one if happiness must be had for all, just due to personal differences that exist between people and the need for compromise that such differences presents).

The philosopher may be further pained in realizing that the best possible world is not one that provides maximum happiness to everybody, and that the concept of love alone (and the subjectivity of its nature) is enough to keep the highest degrees of happiness from ever coming to exist, and furthermore he may be pained in coming to realize that the only recipe for an ideal worlds seem to be either: a) A world in which everyone has an equal level of happiness and responsibility, in which this level of happiness is as high as it can possibly be without infringing upon the happiness levels of others, or b) a world in which everyone reaches their peaks of happiness at different times, in perfect increments, so that the same number of individuals are happy all the time, and happy to the highest degree, and then later becoming less joyous so as to allow others to be their happiest for some time, in a cyclical manner. It is human nature to need some kind of occasional dominance or superiority to be happy, especially if they see others with power or superiority. Since we are already aware of such a concept as superiority, we as individuals will crave it, and we will not be content never experiencing it, and thus the second possibility for an ideal world (that supplies maximum happiness to individuals in various increments) most likely and realistic and applicable.

If we could all wake up in our respective time-zones one day and have no concept of inferiority or superiority, then we would never crave to experience the latter, but since the presence of human memory keeps this from being possible, we are left with no possible utopia except one that allows for rotating shifts of inferiority/superiority or dominance/submission, or we must create a world in which people truly feel that their lives are more meaningful if they are the underdog in either of these realms.

2008-01-17T22:17:00.001-08:00

If I were to not write these things (or take part in some equivalent: a discussion, or a stint of painting, or the writing of a song, or the writing of something else), then I would, to some degree, hate myself and hate everything around me. The constant processing of things is all that allows me to be slightly at peace with things, not because things are necessarily worthy of dislike, but because they are constantly crying out for analysis and interpretation and transformation. It is the responsibility of every individual to do his part in reflecting back the world to itself, for his own sake and for the sake of all things.

giant machine and persecuted conscience

2008-01-17T21:47:00.000-08:00

My own realizations shock me sometimes. The topic that my thoughts always come back to is the topic of solitude, not in a general sense but with respect to its importance as a catalyst for creative endeavors. I know that there exists some kind of a balance between interaction with others and solitude, and I know that both are equally essential in their own right for the creative individual, but something about the former leaves me nauseous at times, and longing for time alone, and this longing for time alone is a thinly-veiled longing for creative output and intellectual input. Interactions with others leave me hungry for something, and this something makes itself known in a fierce way that keeps me up at night stressing over nothing in particular, but everything at once.

Does being a creative individual (and i mean this in a broad sense that encapsulates all mediums and art forms and that counts intellectual pursuits as creative pursuits, for the soul of the artist and the soul of the intellectual are, in my opinion, necessarily inseparable) require a degree of self-loathing in order for the creator to be productive? If I find myself in a place where I feel too much comfort, I begin to despise myself, for in this comfort I am not driven to write, and I am not driven to learn, or compete, or to make music, or to move forward in the career world with the kind of passion that I want to possess. I crave this kind of unsettledness, and I crave this sense of urgency. I crave this sense of "something is not right" and "something needs to be done". for this is the drive that causes me to create, and to write' and this is the drive that gives birth to passion in the soul. I feel more lost when I do not feel this drive, for when I feel content, I forget where I am on the path of my life, and where I am becomes more of a point surrounded by nothingness than a specific point on a line, or a ray, that links my past to my future. I cannot exist as a point, no matter how euphoric the nature of that point is. Rather, I need to exist as a ray, constantly looking toward the future and, somehow, constantly fearful of the future (although not in a way that overwhelms me and renders me stagnant). I need to exist as a ray pointing toward the future, fearful of the future in a way that makes me constantly aware of the importance of doing those things about which I am passionate. I cannot exist in a way that allows me to forget about my reasons for educating myself and writing and making music. I need to constantly, or at least sporadically, feel ill at ease and uncomfortable, for in this uncomfortableness I am reminded of the need to push on, and continuously work on things, and continuously search within my own mind for truth, and continuously create. I need to constantly or sporadically hate where I stand with regard to myself and my peers, so that I constantly feel inclined to work harder. I must keep doing this in order to feel happy, even whilst knowing that I will never reach a point at which I will feel proud of my work, or satisfied with my work; at least not for long. It is strange that the artistic and intellectual drive is such: Even while fully aware that that which is created will never be satisfactory for the individual who creates it, the individual himself cannot help but continue to try to make something that satisfies his own judgment. Logically he is aware that this is impossible, yet he fools himself into thinking that he could be wrong, and subsequently presses on again and again, always dissatisfied, and always eager to try to make something better, or to do more, or to work harder, not because he thinks he can ever be content (for he does not want to be content: as an artist, contentedness is the equivalent of death), but because he hates himself when he is not working, and because he loathes his past creations, and only in working does he feel he is moving beyond this level of productivity and quality that he so despises. In seeing end products of new projects, he does not find contentedness or peace of mind. Only in the act of working itself does he find any sort of solace or quietude of his inner-voice.

The artist and the intellectual know this, and if they are one and the same they know this all too well. This individual, an embodiment of the mind and the soul and the heart, and the desire of all three to break free from something that they know they are forever trapped inside (perhaps this thing is he body itself), is fully aware of the futility of all of his efforts, not in the minds of others but in his own mind, for he will never create something that will render him content enough to cease his efforts. He is aware of this, yet he continues, for he knows that not attempting is worse than seeing a series of failed attempts forever until his death, and he cannot bear not to attempt to defy the limitations of his own body and mind any more than he can bear not to sleep or eat. In fact, sleeping and eating sometimes come secondary to the artistic drive.

The artist/intellectual has within his soul an infinite well of creative energy, despite his body's finite supply of physical energy, and the two are constantly at odds. The individual hates these limitations. Just as art in general is perhaps an attempt to defy one's own mortality, the daily acts of creation and thought and analysis are each respective attempts at defying the body's own needs for rest and sleep and quietude. In this day and age, these acts become not only attempts to defy the body, but attempts to defy the structure of society, and the conventions of how one is supposed to live.

The artist reflects upon the large machine that is the economy, the political world, the media, the world of pop culture, and collective conscious, the world of science, and the world of religion, and the world of technology (and so on in this fashion) in such a way that is unpleasant in the eyes of that which it depicts. It shows a side of things that are perhaps otherwise hidden, and it often shows a negative side of things. This is as necessary for the advancement of the sciences and culture as institutions themselves, but despite the necessity of such a process, it is hated by those who see themselves reflected as a result of the process. The artist and the intellectual fight each day for survival, emotionally and physically, and constantly run the risk of being exterminated. The artist and the intellectual must fight many fights: the fight to stay alive and afford to eat (a fight imposed by the difficulty of finding work and simultaneously making art), the fight against the monotony of the job required in order to do so, the fight against the inner-critic and his hatred of the self, and his hatred of the self's work, and his hatred of the self's lack of productivity (often due to previously mentioned job and the need for such in order to survive), the fight against the rest of society's persecution. Much of society hates the artist and hates the intellectual, for he represents something uncomfortable (which makes sense, for his very existence is the result of discomfort and the tendency to create this discomfort for himself on purpose), and also because the artist and the intellectual expose to the rest of the world truths about their own nature that they themselves where unable to see for themselves. This is the ultimate slap in the fact, for it shows those who are content to be stagnant and comfortable that they should not necessarily be so content to be as they are.

all at once, fearful and bold

2007-10-23T00:55:00.000-07:00

The trees against the night seem to form a wall around a nest, like spires atop a castle wall, and I am sure we are not the first to lie near each other as we fly;
to sleep, and to wake, on the wind. You are downy and, all at once, in mind and in flame, I am fearful and I am bold.

I would like to treat every day as if it were a vision quest. The people who cross my path will have wisdom for me, if I a can be careful enough to listen. There will be wisdom found within myself, if I can stop and look around long enough to find it. And there will be beauty all around me if I do not try to shape it with my own hands and if I let it approach me like a rainstorm. The ideas and people and notions and adventures that will enter my life will do so if I let them, and if I am open enough to the world around me, they will become a part of me.

That which is honest is beautiful, and that which is inspiring is simultaneously new and familiar.

I'm sitting in my room at this stolen hour - one that should belong to my sleeping self but which I am hijacking so that I might us it as time for meditation - and I'm thinking about the images of the seasons, and the unstoppable energy of life, and I'm listening to Bonnie "Prince" Billy and recognizing that some of the most beautiful music comes with the juxtaposition of utter sadness and utter joy. And are they really so different? I think perhaps not. And this is beautiful.

2007-10-21T14:14:00.000-07:00

to drown the soul in a mountain of work? some days this sounds quite perfect. to stay busy is to pass the colder months and the colder times with more efficiency. what is it in the world that makes me more capable of loving with every let-down? what is it about colder days that fills my heart with more determined love and seriousness?

some mornings make me want to go adventuring, and take in paintings through my eyes, and galavant around with hot tea in my mittened hand, and look at people and look at parks covered in frost. i can wake up feeling blue and turn it into fuel for my fight for a real and full life.

i'm trying to detach myself from notions, and from people, and from memories, and from a need for anything. i'm trying to be as wild as an african lion.

just some brainstorming at 6 a.m. the other night...

2007-09-04T02:09:00.001-07:00

Darkness seeps in through the walls, and you become aware of it, as much as you know that darkness cannot seep through anything, for it is already there when everything else is shut out. It is the other things – everything else – that seep into its domain, and sometimes the darkness is hospitable and other times it is not. Darkness is that which forces us to decide whether we must dig things up from the back of our brains that we have tried not to think about, or whether to shut off the brain completely. Sleep is the decision to shut off the brain. Insomnia is too much of the act of dredging, and the results thereby caused. It self-perpetuates. Lateness to work is that which results from the sleeping realization that shutting off the conscious brain is not such a bad thing, and that it is, in fact, preferable to the contrary (wakefulness).

Nighttime is “Oh, God, I’ve not wanted to be alive even once today until just now, and now the unfortunate truth of the matter is that my being awake at such a late hour will cause me to be late for work tomorrow, or absent at work tomorrow, or just mentally absent at work tomorrow, or absent at every part of work except for the three-foot-radius area that surrounds the espresso machine.”

Dreaming is the act of addressing a pressing matter (or sometimes multiples of such) that has not yet been fully explained or presented. The pressing matter is certainly pressing, and the urgency real, but the details are missing prior to action. The ardency with which the matter is addressed is admirable, and since there is no concrete way in which to address the matter due to its absence, most of the addressing is, by necessity, hypothetical, and therefore as perfect and efficient as can be imagined. For that which is only imagined might as well be imagined to be the best there isn’t (but could be, if efforts were worthy and sufficient).

Day is the distraction of the brain by way of little tasks that claim to be pieces of bigger tasks, but which for the most part seem to just be distractions. Consciousness and wakefulness are forums in which one undergoes the replacement of these little tasks with other little tasks, sometimes because certain replacement-tasks are deemed more worthy, and other times because one grows tired of a task and seeks a change, even if this change takes on the form of regression.

Work is getting to your espresso machine on time, and becoming familiar with the rate of the second-hand and minute-hand and the fonts used on the various clocks around the office. Work is not being allowed to replace tasks with other tasks. Work is wanting only to replace tasks with more-worthy tasks but having to settle for web-surfing or computer solitaire. Work is the plugging-in of a tube to your heart and slowly draining fluid from it, in such a way that you don’t notice it being done until, at a later point in time, you call upon the powers of the heart and find them gone.

Love is the discovery of reserves of heart powers that one didn’t know still existed. Love is the state of being thrilled over the discovery of such powers, and as a result wielding them recklessly and all-too-quickly, just because they feel so good when held in the palm of the hand. Love is the tears shed when such powers are exhausted, because the weeper has just witnessed the beauty and glory of his own might, and sees that, in the end, this beauty and glory existed only for its own sake. And love is the realization that beauty and glory, existing only for their own sake, are amazing things in and of themselves. Love is the willingness to wield things recklessly even if there is no possible gain. Love is not directed at a person, but instead at the world, and often through somebody who embodies some aspect of that world. Love is preferring to be in the arms of somebody that you hate, but love, than someone you like, but don’t. Love is a silver tiger with iron teeth and a beautiful arched neck that is bleeding. Love is the tiger gnashing his teeth despite the pain and refusing to sleep it off. Love is the willingness to respect the fight, and yet recognize what is lost in the death. Love is the act of mourning what can never be born, yet what might have been possible. Love is idealism, and idealism is art, and art is love. Love is the deepest, most sorrowful cry whose cause is not realized; whose parent is appalled.

7.31.07

2007-07-31T23:44:00.000-07:00

i'm learning a couple things pretty brutally at the moment:

1) if you care about someone, let go of them completely
2) strive be happy, even despite reasons not to be

in other words, become cold and complacent. stoic in the face of all things. kind and loving, yet in need of nothing and desiring nothing. it's hard to let full-fledged joy in without letting in the hurt to an equal degree.

the greek stoics believed in a natural order to things. they emphasized the fact that personal hardship does not matter and should be taken in stride, since there is a larger order to things: one that is right and just, and bigger then ourselves, and one that we cannot begin to understand. we should strive to understand that negative and positive impetus are not to be responded to with joy or despair. we should trust in the order of things and know that we are a part of something that we cannot understand, and bear this duty and this place in the world with pride.

i'm good at showing bitterness, and i'm good at showing joy. i'm worse at expressing love or compassion. and i'm bad at showing people that i need them, or that i'm willing to open up to them, or that i'm willing to risk something for them or become vulnerable for them. i'm so closed off, yet so willingly affected by things all around me. i love letting things in to my core so that they might inspire or meld or shape or influence me. so that i might be stronger, or wiser. i am bad at letting things out of my soul. so i have so much brewing in me of such amazing proportions, and i cannot let such things loose and share them with the people that i want to share things with. i can know and sense what i have to offer someone, yet i have a hard time letting myself truly give that to them, for fear of losing that bit of my soul altogether. it's strange: i can't gain someone in my life without leting them in, but i can't let them in if there is a chance that they won't ever really be a part of my life. so i keep them in a strange middle-ground, when perhaps what i need to do is tell them to leave my life entirely, or tell them to respect boundaries or what-have-you.

but this goes against my philosophical and ethical beliefs. i think that there is so much grey area and so much legitimate feeling that nevertheless should be given credit and attention. some of the most fleeting and elusive things can also be some of the most beautiful. think of a mirage, for example. or a rainbow. or a beautiful dream that cannot be fully remembered upon waking. why is the intangible so incredible?

i've felt the intangible become tangible. i've felt the elusive become close-at-hand. and it's something like grabbing stars out of the sky. it feels like it should be illegal or physically impossible. yet there it is. and yet the sky misses its stars, and sometimes i wonder if i should leave the sky alone in the first place.

7.30.07

2007-07-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

reading through old entries, i realize that i speak so often in terms of ultimates; things that are quantified; things that are finite, things that possess more of some quality than any other thing i have previously encountered, whether it be a quality of impactfulness or amazingness or any other similar such thing.

foolish, i say. i have felt awe before, and i will feel it again. i have felt magic and love before, and i have felt the need to be alone before, and i have felt sickness and health and anger and all of it. i can only write about the different forms of sadness or the different uses of isolation for so long before it seems that i am running in circles and getting nowhere.

here's what i want to write about:

things can be replaced. never verbatim as they were, but close approximations. friends are lost and friends are gained. wounds heal and gaps are filled. nothing is the same, but why would we want it to be? happiness goes and returns. old loves return with the seasons and with the holidays. things lost are never lost, even if they are never again seen.

despite this, i am willing to give new things in my life a chance; willing to place them above memories, since memories are just that, and since the things that created the memories are gone. i'm willing to attempt to live for the now. not for the now alone, but for the now more than for the past.

things are so simple sometimes.

7.12.07

2007-07-12T00:28:00.000-07:00

just had the most amazing few-days' worth of conversation with my buddies in spider friends. took dean and justin to chipotle yesterday night and bought them a communal burrito, and we talked about music and life and, most particularly, the symbiotic nature of those individuals involved in the world of music, and the willingness of people to help one another out when they see that the cause of the other individual is true and sincere, and the "fake it till you make it" policy and the truth behind it.

played a show tonight and then had to literally run off-stage and out of my house afterwards in order to do a training closing shift at armadillo. came back after work and had a pabst, courtesy of spider friends, and discussed the same sorts of things some more. tentative plans for touring, and the following phenomenon: the universe seems willing to provide to those who care about something and those who are willing to make sacrifices and put in a lot of work for that which they care about. if the cause is legitimate, and if the motives are real, it almost takes effort to fail at anything.

dean says, "hit by a car in a few hours and dead today? stoked." because he knows he's gone out there and really put his all into what he cares about, and because he's given up all the filler in life in order to do so.

you know what? i agree. dead tomorrow? stoked. because i've been honest with myself and with others. those that i've cared about have known, and that's all i can ask of anyone. those things that i've wanted to do, i've begun to do. and i'm even more stoked if i do have a full life ahead of me, because there's an infinite number of experiences to be had and people to know and places to see. i fully condone those who pursue the arts and who live exactly the way they feel one should live, even if it means bypassing offers for money or lucrative jobs or security or comfortability. giving something that really matters to the self is worth so much more than dollar bills when the individual is lying on his death bed. man on his deathbed cannot quantify his millions of dollars, but man on his deathbed can feel good knowing that he has not given up on the things that he has cared about, and knowing that he has put real, solid effort into his endeavors.

dean told me he thinks i need more people to try to pull me over to the dark-side. by "dark-side", he means the world of expression and creation and full-blown pursuit of music and artistic expression. i told him i think i've lived my life for a long time now hoping more people would try to convince me to do so.

7.11.07

2007-07-11T03:36:00.000-07:00

3. (By Swedish poet Lars Forssell)

And tomorrow we will awaken
A whistle from the street
The charwoman who shouts

And you will wash yourself behind the curtain
And when we go out we will have won

7.11.07

2007-07-11T03:04:00.000-07:00

i used to view my days as installments in a long period of waiting. waiting for what? i was never sure. but i was sure that it would be something. perhaps i thought it would even be something remarkable.

what is not remarkable? i can't imagine my life going in any direction that is not interesting, or strange, or surprising, and i think the same might be said of anyone. even the prospect of utter failure is interesting. but i think that failure is harder to achieve than some manner of success, and the kind of success that i am aiming for, namely spiritual peace and a general sense of freedom and happiness, is something for which the search seems to be as gratifying as the attainment.

anyhow, the longer i waited, the less it felt like waiting, and eventually the waiting became somehow the opposite of that. instead of anticipating the future and doing so by way of the present moment, i found myself upheaving the past, by way of the present moment. soon i exhausted this activity, too, and i reached a place wherein i was neither channeling the past nor the present, but some handshake that existed between the two. the present, i suppose, but not just the present as it existed on a linear plane. rather, the present as it existed in more dimensions than i could count or fathom. deja vu became, by its very definition, a recurring theme in my life, and i began to dream dreams of epic proportions, about war and love and loss and journeys through the woods and along the banks of rivers. the people were always familiar, and the laughs were always identifiable.

anger became an easier alternative to sadness or loneliness, and then eventually productivity became an easier cure for anger and angst than anything else. and thus sadness was transormed into anger, which was transformed into anxiousness, which was transformed into a sense of urgency, which, on better days, was transformed into productivity. perhaps the order of these is off, but the gist is there.

if i view myself as being where i am for my own sake, and if i experience what comes as it comes, then what comes is sort of a bonus feature tacked on to the end of something that cannot end, and that is in and of itself already gratifying.

i've stopped waiting for things to become easier, because they're never easy, and god knows they never will be, and i've started understanding how to use that which is difficult and how to deal with it and how to turn it into something that is beautiful or laughter-inducing or enjoyable in some regard. and when there is nothing outside of my room to spark my interest, there is always the imagination, from which things can be drawn and manifested outside of their prior constraints, so that they may suddenly exist and take form in the tangible world outside my mind.

and amidst all of this there is love, a kind that i just keep discovering within me and keep finding all over my figurative hands as i realize how much certain people in my life mean to me. and i love them for their flaws and for how difficult they are and for the fact that they don't know what they are doing any more than i know what i am doing, so long as they are doing things or attempting to do things with their days and with their actions. those that enter my life may floor me or win me over or stun me or gradually, over time, make me fall in love with them. who knows. and those who leave my life are gone for a reason, even if it is a reason that i cannot have the ability to understand, and that is what it is and although i may miss them, i will have known them for a time, and that is something to be glad for.

i recorded a song this evening (late-night, to be more accurate), and then felt a sudden need to go outside and walk about. i left my house in heeled boots that elevated me and made me feel light and nimble. i walked several blocks, and it began to sprinkle rain, and as much as i liked the idea of forcing myself to walk miles in the rain just for the spiritual test or some-such that such an undertaking might turn out to be, i convinced myself that it could wait for another night, and i went back home. i enjoyed that rain-smell, though, maybe not for what it is but for the fact that it is so familiar.

how is it that people who are so new can seem so familiar? how is it that people who are not so new can seem foreign and then suddenly familiar? how is it that talking to an old friend can feel like meeting someone for the first time, and being excited about such a meeting? the world presents me with things that are bigger than my scope of understanding, and although this should terrify me, it somehow instead fills me with a sense of comfort. my only fear is that i will never find the words to express the things that i feel at the times that i should. and so this translates to the following: my only fear is that people will never understand how much i care, in whatever way i care. but perhaps these things are not meant to be articulated, since they cannot be pinned down, since they are constantly changing. and this is both a beautiful and a tragic thing.

it's still raining outside, and the rain has filled the air with a kind of energy much like that which occurs when the last of one's lungs are drained of their air due to some kind of excitement that does not allow the individual to take the time inhale before he exhales, in laughter or in gasp. the entire outdoors is on a last gasp that will be followed by the intake of air and the intake of something else. things feel as though they are changing, and the notion of change seems more promising than the notion of constancy. the outdoor air sits wet and heavy and positions itself outside my door with bated breath.

i learned today that the word "nothing" came from the two words "not hing". "hing" was another word for "atom"; a word used to describe small parts that made up the universe, particularly in the writings of early philosophers who were considered pluralists or atomists. "nothing" was considered that which existed where atoms did not; or where "hings" did not. something that was empty was "not a hing". it was nothing. i love words.

7.8.07

2007-07-08T20:41:00.000-07:00

i know that love exists because i feel it every day, as joy or as pain or as a feeling of peacefulness. i feel it when i watch artists perform. i feel it when i see a close friend contort his face because of shyness.

i remember a moment from my distant past. it was a moment where i cried harder than i ever had before or ever did afterwards. i don't remember why. but i remember that it was anger and despair. i think it was a response to some kind of family dynamic that just wasn't positive. the main reason that this stands out in my memory is the fact that, when i cried at this specific time, i put on sgt. pepper's lonely heart's club band and screamed every lyric to every song as tears drained into my open mouth. i think i shook because i was so angry. yet listening to that album was the only thing i could do. it was a strange thing to listen to an album that brought me so much joy, yet to do so at a time when i felt everything opposite of that joy. so i felt all things all at once.

that's how i feel often... all things all at once. lately i've felt simultaneous senses of calmness and urgency, love and anger, desire for connection and desire for solitude. it feels natural, as if this is how things are supposed to be felt: in conjunction with their opposites. heraclitus says that the universe relies on the unity of opposites and a symbiotic relationship between harmony and strife, each as important as the other.

i've been feeling a lot of love for the people around me, but i don't know where to channel it. into music, i suppose. music channeled it into me at some of my worst moments as a kid, so maybe i can channel it back. it's nice to think of things as cycles.

7.2.07

2007-07-02T03:22:00.000-07:00

sometimes, i push away those who actually care about me. in doing so, i isolate myself. so then being alone is a choice i have made, and an action caused by my will, rather than something uncontrollable. then, in isolation, i go through a series of self-imposed spiritual quests of my own design. walks out into the fields at hours of the night during which it is somewhat dangerous. walks further than i have gone before, into remote areas filled with new kinds of energy. bike rides at night. long hours in my room alone, thinking and listening to music. hours lying in fields staring at the sky and pondering, or just trying not to think at all. staying awake for multiple days at a time until i cannot stay awake anymore. sleeping during the day and waking before the sun sets. taking sleeping pills to sleep when i cannot, but should. spontaneous adventures via bus to places i haven't been, or to places i want to revisit. time spent wandering around parts of cities that are foreign to me.

i shun that which is familiar and reliable. i hate that which i am unable to make familiar. and i seek out that which is unfamiliar in all forms, because i never know what i will find there, either tangibly or in my thought processes as response or reaction to the things that i find.

i seek experiences that frighten me, and experiences that push me, and experiences that are challenging in that endurance or mental strength or emotional strength or self-sufficiency are the only ways out. i sketch out adventures for myself, and then i take on the adventures. i do so alone, and i love the alone-ness of it, yet i wish there was a way to share something as beautiful as alone-ness with another person.

the state of being alone and doing things alone is something magical, and it is also one of the only things that can never be shared entirely with another. perhaps i am drawn to others who are similarly alone, because caring for such a type of person is the closest thing to sharing isolationism with someone else.

perhaps i am drawn to those i will never be close to, because in staying far from someone i am sharing with them some kind of loneliness that is too beautiful to be kept entirely to oneself but too comfortable to be abandoned.

perhaps it is at the point where i realize i am not so alone, and that the other person is not so alone, when i lose interest in the person in question (whomever they may be at the time), simply because i can no longer share with them that which is such an intrinsic and inherent part of my life; that which is the foundation of so much of what i do and feel: isolation.

it would be a pity if i could care the most only for those who are also usually alone, just because i need to share my alone-ness in this removed way.

6.13.07

2007-06-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

1) attempting to control a situation almost necessarily results in the opposite response from that which is desired.
musings on this observation:
-if luck exists, perhaps it is exclusively existent for those who have faith in its existence.
-wanting a specific outcome shows a desire for power, and thus a lack of faith in/ subservience to the forces of luck

2) the degree to which some people are happy is so much greater than the degree to which some people are unhappy.
-this both argues for luck and against it:
for luck: if there was not such a thing as luck, everyone would essentially have the same fortune
against luck: if there were luck, it would go to those who deserved it/ needed it, and not to those who have already had prosperous times.

i love the following (taken from wikipedia):
"Knock on wood, spoken expression used as a charm to bring good luck. In medieval times, it was believed that there were spirits living in the trees. One would 'knock on wood' for the spirits, to gain protection from bad luck."

5.18.07

2007-05-18T05:13:00.000-07:00

i've become a strange nocturnal creature, as a result of having very little structure or schedule in my life these days. it will all change when my quarter-off comes to a close in june, but until then i am free : free to be as i will, and as i wish, for probably the last time in my life, at least to such a degree. that is, when again will i be able to be entirely nocturnal? shouldn't i jump at the opportunity now, for curiosity's sake if nothing else?

it's strange that, when given free reign to sleep and wake as i please, my body shows preference for this kind of cycle. it makes sense for me, because i like peace and quiet, and i like time alone to work on music, and i like getting a lot of undisrupted reading and writing done. i can't focus well around other people, and i get in the creative mindset needed for songwriting most frequently in the dead of night. there's nothing wrong with it, except for the fact that, if i do crave interaction, there are few people i can call; and if i get hungry, my only options are odwalla bars or trail mix or oreos, from the corner store a block away. i'm not complaining, really.

i think of daytime as a time for socializing, enjoying the sun, conversing, experimenting, taking-in, absorbing, and learning. i think of nighttime as a time to process that which has been absorbed, and to channel it into whatever project i undertake for the night: a song, or a bit of writing, or a book, or a thought process. nighttime is also the time during which i write papers and essays for class and during which i do the bulk of my reading. it's not the best way to be, because when i am up all night reading, i am generally tired in class and don't absorb the lecture as much as i might like to.

i think of temporary nocturnalism (which is really just an exaggerated version of my previous habits) as something halfway between blocked-out-meditation-time, a personal experiment, a test of will, a test of my own boundaries, and an observation of nature vs. nurture (with regard to the sleeping habits that are instilled in us, and whether they are actually intrinsic or learned/ taught). granted, human beings in general seem to naturally be diurnal, but what is MY natural sleep tendency? and what factors contribute to it? is it different now than it might have been when i was younger/ than it will be when i am older?

according to wikipedia, "'Night owl' is a term for a person who tends to stay up until late at night. Usually, night owls keep awake past midnight, with extreme night owls staying awake until 5:00 or 6:00 AM." it looks like i'm an extreme night owl. because i can be and naturally am inclined to be so? or because i want to be? perhaps both are essentially the same motivation.

famous night-owls (also according to wikipedia): bill clinton, winston churchill, j.r.r. tolkien, and glenn gould.

here's an article on coping tips for night-owls.

here's an article on lack of sleep as viewed as a disease or disorder.

this article attributes it to genetic mutation.

i read another article - a ridiculous and totally stupid article - on nocturnal individuals, on the internet this evening. it can be found here, if you have any desire to read something totally trivial and quite heavy on the oversimplification/ if you want to turn your brain to slush: the truth about nocturnal people

here's my favorite idiotic exerpt from it:

Things happen that are out of our control and some of them happen at night. Society needs nocturnals to work emergency jobs. Firemen, paramedics, doctors. In the winter, we need someone to remove the snow and ice from our streets.

Society also needs nocturnals for convenience. We've become accustomed to having 24-hour stores and fast food chains. We enjoy having fresh baked goods in the morning. Service men and women perform maintenance on the internet sites we frequent. They often do this in the middle of the night to create as little disruption as possible for the rest of the world.

The next time you meet a nocturnal, remember he is just like everyone else except he lives at night.

alright, so it's okay that i don't sleep at night because nature selected me to be a donut-baker or a burger-flipper or an ice-remover. i'm glad nature considered such things as donuts when it drafted its blueprints.

5.17.07

2007-05-17T04:09:00.000-07:00

a few of the kinds of nights that i remember the best (and with fondness):

1) the night that is still, in every way in which a thing can ever be still. the air is still, and somehow time itself feels still. the people are, in vast regional majority, also still. and the pressures of daily tasks rest their heads, as only the urgent wanderings of the mind seem to take the wheel and sail for a while. in this stillness, movement itself is something more than it is during the day. because it seems to jump out from that which is immobile, as if it were life being borne out of nothing, it is so unexpected that it changes the essence of its surroundings although they do not visibly change, move, or show any kind of reaction to its motion. the contrast alone between motion and stillness is enough to make stillness change (and somehow appear more still); change being a kind of motion in and of itself.

2) the nights that are fierce with pounding rain. my mother used to put kettles on the floor in calculated places, in the house we lived in for a time. they would catch the rain, and the rain would make some kind of clatter on the roof and an entirely different kind of clatter - one that was somehow more invasive, albeit less audible - would be made as the water fell from the roof into the kettles. these nights were often coated in the kind of black that nature seems to usually reserve for things like coal and tar, due to felled power lines or similar such setbacks. my father, at his house, which was not the same house as that which was filled with kettles, would light candles all around the house, and i would take a hot shower by candlelight and, in doing so, wonder why i didn't do so more often.

3) the nights that did not end until daylight... first experienced as a child during sleepovers when conversation took priority over sleep; later experienced just in order to see if i could stay awake and fight the arms of tiredness. again, such nights were experienced as a teenager, when i roamed cemeteries at night or flung toilet paper rolls over the limbs of trees or drove with friends to random locations or rested on my back in fields with friends or with boys or with only my discman and a few CDs stuffed into a backpack. these were the kinds of nights experienced just in order to isolate them from the concept of day. these were nights that felt like stolen bits of freedom, shared with others or kept secret. these nights were later tainted by parties or booze or awareness of such things as car accidents or troubled friends. but sometimes the feeling tasted on such nights returns full-force and cannot be ignored in any way.

4) nights of a dark, looming, all-encompassing, supernatural breed of fear. nights that had to be shut out with sleep or hot tea or hugging arms. shadows out of which terrifying shapes could be imagined. nights in which things that were still were made to move by will of the mind or by sheer paranoia. nights that made daylight seem warmer than a womb when it graced the land with its presence and rested on her shores.

5.10.07

2007-05-10T04:31:00.000-07:00

Depictions of extra-terrestrial sightings over time:

circa 1710:

woodcut of aerial UFO battle, circa 1561:

1350:

ancient cave-painting:

cave-painting of astronauts fighting:

3000 B.C.:

Nepal:

6000 B.C.:

5.9.07

2007-05-09T16:31:00.001-07:00

5.9.07

2007-05-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

when i was a kid, i used to go lie at the top of my driveway in Alta Sierra after dinner and stare at the night sky. sometimes i'd stay up there for half an hour; sometimes as long as three hours. i'd meditate on the vastness of things and think about where my life might take me. i'd force myself to stay there longer than was comfortable, so as to challenge my own spiritual will.

at my mother's house, i used to walk around in the snow while listening to music on my cd player, and i'd find the biggest field possible and sit right in the middle of it: as far away from things as i could possibly get. i was young - fifteen or sixteen - and sometimes i would cry, or sometimes i would feel myself filled with the most overwhelming sense of awe and beauty and wholeness, feelings inspired by the silent beauty around me and its stark contrast to the busy nature of my mind.

the amount of soul-searching that i scheduled for myself as a kid, in ways similar to this, is plentiful. i didn't reach many breakthrough conclusions, but i learned to be in awe of things even without understanding them, even when feeling subordinate to them. i learned to be familiar with a state of mind in which i could toss things around and counter them with the apparently-linear timeline of my days, and infuse them with whatever silent wisdom my surroundings had to offer me. there was a calming essence to such moments, and it was the act of escaping to nature, escaping to seclusion, and escaping to music that got me through a lot of tough childhood stuff.

i was talking to my dad the other day about a conversation i'd had with an old friend regarding the topic of childhood, particularly negative aspects of it. my dad said, "weird", and i asked what he meant by that. he said, "i don't know. it seems weird to rehash things like that." i think he's got a point. as essential a part of the self one's past might be, perhaps just as essential is a willingness to let things go. some things will always bear influence on the individual, whether the person realizes it or not, but some things can be tossed to the wind for later sense-making or for total disregard. maybe the point at which disregard of past baggage does not seem like the act of cutting off of a limb or a sad removal of something essential is the point at which it is necessary. i won't disregard memories like my walks in the snow, but i won't think about all of the same things that i used to ponder when i took such walks. growth is about taking on the new and not about dwelling on things that hurt in the past.

5.5.07

2007-05-05T07:14:00.000-07:00

"Clenched Soul" by Pablo Neruda

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

4.29.07

2007-04-29T23:31:00.000-07:00

it's undeniable as of now: i cannot predict my emotions any more than i can predict the rain.

jarvis cocker was incredible. probably the best show i've seen in over a year. i'd forgotten what it was like to go to a show where i didn't feel obligated to pretend to be enjoying myself, and where i didn't feel obligated to pretend i wanted to move my head and body around (most of the obligation comes from ticket costs, i would assume). instead, i moved around without willing myself to do so, and i couldn't will myself to stop. furthermore, i was singing along to his songs and screaming and grinning and laughing and clapping so hard that my hands stung. i ran into a bunch of nevada city people there, which was really nice. drank a few and hugged a few and lurked a few and couldn't stop talking about how sexy jarvis cocker was.

after the show, i ran into dana and some other davis people at delirium in the mission. then i hung out with a new friend and got very little sleep and woke up far too early. took the bus to haight, and visited with jamey in the store where she works. it was really nice to see her. took a bus to lower haight and met up with dana and jud, and then took a four-hour nap on dana's bed before getting a ride home to davis with gena.

i still love concerts; i still love big cities. i still love the thrill of getting to know new people. and i still love staying up late and singing along to pop songs in crowded venues and then getting on buses with very little idea as to where i am headed. take that as a profound metaphor if you wish. it would probably be fitting.

4.25.07

2007-04-25T03:36:00.000-07:00

the door to my room doesn't lock tonight. literally and subsequently figuratively. because my room is tactually less secure, perhaps i feel less secure? secure is not the word. confined is more like it. i feel less confined into my own space. the dead-bolt just will not budge when i attempt to turn it. do i feel more connected to the world outside? to "nature", as we call it? to the "wilderness" or "the wild" or "the great outdoors"? i don't know. i'd like to feel connected to "the great indoors", i.e. a mindblowing and earth-shattering mansion of epic proportions and dimensions; hence "great". not really at all (in fact i think i'd prefer some understated piece of shit cabin with no running water). but even so. it's strange how a simple thing such as a lock can make me feel so much more secure in my own room. what am i afraid of? a drunk bro wandering into my room so he has a warm place to puke? don't judge me. it's a frightening thought after all.

maybe the great outdoors - or "the wild" - is less wild and unpredictable than the human mind itself. maybe our labeling of nature as such is more a projection of our own chaotic ways of perception than it is an accurate observation.

i like mulling over the importance of not thinking about things in finite and clear-cut terms. things are ephemeral, things are prone to change, and things have a habit of disappearing or changing or shifting or falling out of range or losing their appeal. i think it's only in realizing my reasons for disconnecting from things or people that i have more forgiveness or compassion for those who have been known to, do, or will in the future disconnect from me. loss is a part of life, and i don't know that it's something we should necessarily feel we have to grieve. maybe people tend to do what is best for them. and it's certain that no one knows what is best for them. but we find out by trying to know.

i'd kind of like to check in with my past self and just say, "hey. you're doing fine. i am you. you are me. someday soon, before you know it, what i am is what you'll be." not to reassure myself or give myself something to look forward to (because i don't think it's really fair to say i'm much better off in any way than i have been in the past, since it's all so relative), but more just to connect the dots in my life; to make it feel more linear. maybe it's because the human thought process is so circular and disconnected that i say this, but life feels anything but linear most of the time. there's no direct cause and effect. every event and the reactions to every event occur due to so many factors that it's almost impossible to pin down direct results of things. also, so many of the factors on which events or outcomes are based are intuitive or sensory in nature, and therefore almost impossible to cognize in any kind of clear-cut or certain fashion. this notion is both comforting (in that it makes me relenquish a bit of my need for control over my own life an makes me feel perhaps things make sense in a way that i shouldn't feel i need to understand) and terrifying (in that it makes me lose faith in my own ability to make decisions about things). perhaps the best conclusion is that no decisions should be final, and that there is no right and wrong: at least not that can be seen or understood until long after, if then.

4.24.07

2007-04-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

waking up and feeling better about something, or realizing you have made peace with something, is the emotional equivalent of phase change.

4.24.07

2007-04-24T01:17:00.000-07:00

one of the most charming things about living itself is getting to watch your own story unfold. similarly charming is watching the stories of others unfold. sometimes i feel like we're all so connected that it's absurd. songs can feel like family. books can feel like your own internal dialogue speaking right back to you. strangers can feel like friends. friends can suddenly feel like strangers. and you can strangely befriend someone whom you never thought you would. it's weird that connections can exist with people even when you don't know them well, or even when you haven't seen them in a while, or even if you've never talked to them before. it's weird, too, that hugging someone who is almost a perfect stranger can be just as nice as hugging someone whom you've known since you were born. it's strange when a hug from your mother suddenly feels foreign, but a hug from someone you've just met feels like home. really, i think there should be a lot more hugging in this world, mostly between strangers.

i saw michael hurley play tonight. he made me grin for a full 2 hours. i gave him a hug before his show, delivered from a friend, and then after his show i gave him another hug and told him it was from me. i don't know why, but i just enjoyed his set so much that i wanted to give him a hug. the more i play music, the more i love it that other people in this world play music. i hope that i still want to write songs when i'm his age.

i had a conversation on the phone with a friend about the possibilities of using a small pony as means of percussion. he suggested a rainbow backdrop and a unicorn horn on its head. i suggested that the pony be attached to the guitarist's waist, so the guitarist can pull the pony at varying speeds to speed up or slow down the pace of the percussive clomps of pony-feet. the same could be done with human feet, if the guitarist mic'd his shoes and walked around the stage purposefully and to the rhythm of his song.

4.22.07

2007-04-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

jeff buckley drowned while listening to "whole lotta love" by led zeppelin.

4.22.07

2007-04-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

i remember the feeling of absolute security... curling up next to a woodstove under a fleece blanket with a cat or two, watching movies with my dad and brother, or watching nova, or watching masterpiece theatre. sometimes my dad would sit me down on the couch and hand me a set of headphones and make me listen to a specific song: sometimes opera; sometimes zeppelin or the who or bruce springsteen. the way my dad listens to music makes sense to me. it's so strange that music can have such an effect on some people and seemingly no effect on others. or is it just that some are more aware of music's effect on them than others? it seems impossible to be completely immune to its magic.

some days, there's a sadness surrounding me that rolls like the hills, and other days the hills seem necessary and only temporary, not threatening and just matter-of-fact. on days like today, waking up, walking and getting coffee, and coming home to a familiar and comfortable clutter is almost as good as curling up with some cats next to a woodstove.

sometimes i get the impression that the self knows what is best for it.

i used to read books about people living alone in the woods in cabins, or people living simple lives in the wilderness with a few close friend or family members. one of my favorite books as a kid was "where the red fern grows": lessons of life and death, the grey area between right and wrong, and the cost of attachment at a young age. i'd like to reread some of the books that i read frequently as a kid so as to remind myself of where some of my most basic ideas about morality and life might have stemmed from. although i doubt the sources will be easy, in the least, to pin down.

later, i read biographies about artists who escaped cities or towns or family situations in order to find a secluded life. it's fascinating that the life around peers can be so difficult to withdraw from that the individual has to leave the location entirely in order to get away from its pull. it makes sense to me, though. when one person has work to do, and reaches a point of frustration with it, social distraction is but a phone call away. i'd like to socialize still, but in ways that are more gratifying and inspiring: over coffee, or over dinner, or while being mutually productive or creative; while studying, while writing, or while trading books or movies or thoughts or support or ideas. i'm tired of parties. if i want to go to a party, i might as well go back to nevada city for a weekend and get my dance on. if i'm not inclined to do so, then i obviously don't have much of a desire to go to parties, and thus i shouldn't be going to them here. not when i have work that i want to do, anyhow; and not when i have so much free time that can be wisely used.

people spend so many hours planning and plotting. they seem to plot things as if they never expect the future to actually happen. perhaps people should adopt a "one day left to live" kind of mindset: not with friends, because the reminders of love and gratitude would get annoying if reoccuring daily, but with one's work. we're young, and yes, youth is about finding the self and having fun, but a big part of finding the self is time spent alone, and a big part of having fun, long-term, is building a meaningful life for the self. i don't think i'm out of line in saying that learning how to be attractive to the opposite sex, or learning how to party, is not exactly the key to a meaningful life.

i was talking to somebody about artists and fashion. he was telling me about why artists wear all black: as he sees it, they don't want to have to apply creative thought to anything other than their art; not even what they are wearing. it's, to them, a waste of energy and brain space. or that was, supposedly, the original philosophy behind traditional artists' garb.

i was on BART the other day, and i got to thinking about imagery of newspapers. i saw a black man sitting in an aisle across from me, well-dressed, reading a newspaper. on my walk to the BART stations minutes earlier, i had passed another man, also black, sleeping beneath newspapers on the sidewalk: not an uncommon sight in the city. it struck me as extremely interesting that a symbol of intellectualism, society, culture, education, progress, and politics might make itself visible in such contrasting ways. the same thing that allows someone to be aware of the current events of his world allows someone else to get some sleep despite the cold, and get a moment of peace and escape from the oppression of such events.

4.21.07

2007-04-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

i told my mother today over the phone that i'd read some love letters sent by my grandpa to my grandma when he (my grandfather) was in the war in the 1940's. she sounded as though she was smiling, over the phone, and asked me what they'd said. all i could tell her was that they'd bummed me out, because they echoed the kinds of things i was feeling, and they seemed to legitimize my feelings. here was a man who loved my grandmother the most out of everyone he met during his life. he knew it when he was not much older than i am now. so it makes me feel that, perhaps, what i am feeling is not a fluke. this doesn't necessarily help.

i once told jesse that trying to stop loving someone is like trying to destroy something beautiful that you've created. love, though, is something created with the aid of someone else, even if that just means their presence. because of this, it is something that is difficult to destroy. it's as if love is created by two individuals, each of them tying endless knots with endless pieces of string. you can untie the knots that you made, but you can't untie theirs, because you don't know the kinds of knots they used and you can't find the ends to the strings. or maybe you just don't want to.

they say that if you love someone, you should set them free. and observation tells me that if you don't love someone, you WILL set them free (in a less kind way, perhaps). where do i stand? i stand somewhere undefined, heartless, with only my own hands and my own mind with which to interact. when you never have someone, maybe you can't really lose them. does that mean that some of us choose never to be with those that we most fear losing? perhaps so. but loving someone and never being with them is, i think, a greater loss.

4.19.07

2007-04-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

when in love, it is hard to push out of the mind any notion of a mystical world with cosmic or previously-fated elements to it. in fact, love itself seems, to the individual experiencing it, evidence enough of the presence of such things in the world as fate and destiny and alignment; even of the "rightness" of something. love, often so brutally imperfect, is still somehow the standard for perfection to which we hold everything that is subsequently encountered. why is that which we put most care into not that which is most good for us, or the safest bet, or the most comfortable route? in many cases, love itself is horrible for us, sometimes even to a degree which will destroy careers or sleep habits or mental health or physical health. love drives men to drink and it drives women to shop and go on diets. furthermore, if fate were to exist, it would seem even more strange that the subject of someone's love might be someone so horrible for them in so many ways. wouldn't fate function by way of convenience and simplicity and an intent to maximize the happiness of all? obviously it does not, if it exists, and yet the sanctity and absolute gloriousness of fate's most agonizing concoction seems nothing short of its magnum opus in the eyes of the lucky soul selected to experience such agony. it is not chosen; yet once it is experienced, the individual might realize that it is, in fact, what he would choose, were he to have a choice in the matter.

perhaps the individual's motivations are selfish after all. consider this: what if the individual's ultimate goal, sometimes consciously but more often subconsciously, is to be the best person he it can be? paying our solemn respects to the more believable theories encompassed by darwinism might make this seem a more viable possibility. assuming, for the sake of argument, that this is the case: love can serve as a motivator for the act of self-betterment. this would also explain why fate (if he exists at all) does not allow us to fall in love with someone that would be easy to obtain, assuming that fate and darwinism (both of them only gentlemen in our cast at the moment for the sake of speculation and contemplation, and not as a result of evidence or application of faith or belief) both have the betterment of the self as their respective ends, and assuming that fate and darwinism are not combatting forces (which is a scary thought and might lead us to believe that the least able and the least astute might be the most likely to triumph: a suggestion which is depressing to say the least, but a hypothesis for which our modern-day culture would easily provide ample evidence). further championing the notions of fate and also of the more-acceptable aspects of darwinism, we might say this: fate instigates our falling in love with the most difficult and unattainable of individuals, that we might struggle more and, as a result of our struggle, be better human beings. furthermore, fate does not introduce us with situations that SEEM hopeless, so as to not deflate our respective wills to become better human beings. it seems, then, that the ideal candidate for a subject-of-love is that person which causes us the most strife, whom we want the most, whom we are most-easily tricked into thinking we can obtain (with a little work and self-improvement), and whom we are least likely to actually end up with or recieve peace-of-mind from.

this seems a quite believable and quite terrifying possibiltiy. in fact, i would tie love and the prospect of total atomic destruction at the top of the list of things that are most inevitable and, at the same time, most tragic. perhaps love and atomic explosions are, too, of equal force.

4.14.07

2007-04-14T20:57:00.000-07:00

One of the most commonly cited criterion for personal identity is memory. If the individual remembers doing something (let's call it task B), it is most likely that he is the same person as the individual who performed the remembered activity or task (task B). Furthermore, if the person who did the remembered task (task B) remembers something PRIOR to that task at the time during which the task is performed (let's call this prior task "task A"), it is most likely that the prior event (task A) was also experienced by the same person, and therefore all three events (task A, task B, and present-time existence, which might be called "task C") happened to the same person.

Having dinner with my family tonight, and getting to know uncles for the Nth time whom I have gotten to know many times in the past, I thought about this notion, for I felt almost like an entirely different person interacting with them, and I interacted with them almost as I would with total strangers, just because of the amount of time that has passed since my last encounters with them, and because of the amount of mental and emotional growth that I have undergone in the time that has since passed. There is something that is not unfamiliar, though, about interacting with them. It is something that has nothing to do with memories of past discussions or meetings, and additionally nothing to do with any knowledge that I might have about the person (or lack thereof). It is more of an intuitive thing, probably much like the memory a child has of its mother for the duration of its life, even if it doesn't see its mother for an extended period of time. It's almost a comfortability. Perhaps it's the result of some kind of ESSENCE that my family members share: something that might be attributed to genes or shared memories or "nurture" of a like ilk. Or perhaps it is due to certain forms of unconscious/ subconscious emotional memories that I might have regarding my respective uncles, of which I am consciously unaware. Whatever it is, I felt this evening that I was a stranger for every concrete reason (that is, I wasn't up-to-date on news about their lives, etc.); but something of a more constant nature persisted beneath that, which made interacting with my uncles nothing short of comfortable, and nothing shy of familiar. It's this thing, this bond that I can't really explain, which makes interactions with family members different than interactions with peers or friends or acquaintances.

The word "criterion" comes from the Greek word "kritereon", which is linked to the word "krites", which means "to judge". To go off on a complete tangent, allow me to note that it interests me that one of my favorite slang terms from my home town, "critter", or "crit" ("crits", in the plural form, used to describe an individual of a sketchy nature who is up to some kind of most-likely worthless pursuit, sometimes used in reference to someone who is sketchy in an almost endearing manner), is close to this word, both phonetically-speaking, and also in its spelling; and the word is only used to describe someone upon whom the speaker is shamelessly passing some kind of judgment. So the very term with which the judged are described is very close to another word that actually MEANS "judgment" itself. It seems oddly appropriate.

4.13.07

2007-04-13T12:59:00.000-07:00

i hate the smell of alcohol when it lingers on people.

most of the time, i still want to pull the collar up from my coat over my ears and pretend i'm not home. i hear sounds in the kitchen and expect that they are the clatter of a brooding individual with horrible things to say and with will to harm. in reality, they are the sounds it takes to make lunch or pull something out of the refrigerator. i want silence before i've had my coffee in the mornings.

dreaming is a private activity and not just anyone has the right to be around for it. either i'll sleep alone, or i'll stop dreaming; and i'm not about to stop dreaming.

4.12.07

2007-04-12T13:26:00.000-07:00

It's said that being an artist is about working on your craft every day. If you're a pianist, play piano every day, even if you're uninspired; even if all that comes out are scales or even if you play the same sonata a hundred times. If you're a guitarist, play guitar every day, even if all you can muster is some tired and worn-out Neil Young cover that you've known the chords for since you were fifteen. If you're a writer, write something every day, even if it's a laundry list, or a to-do list, or a functionless anecdote that, when proofread, might make you lose any faith you ever had in the suggestion that your life is interesting. If you're a painter, throw some colors around, even if the end result is something you throw in the nearest dumpster. And then there's this: If you're a pianist, and a guitarist, and a writer, and a painter, all at once, your life is going to be busy.

And then, they say, you must get enough sleep. You must educate yourself. You must make time for friends. You must fall in love.

What they don't mention, is that sometimes you don't really have a choice about any of it. If you're truly a musician, you will have to play music. It becomes a primal need. If you're truly a writer, there will be words floating around your head that you cannot bear to let brew there without pulling out your typewriter. If you're truly a painter, you will see things each day that make you want to drop another $50 on new tubes of acrylics, and you won't be able to go to an art gallery without getting serious artist-envy and needing to go home and see whether you still have any talent or not. If you're a guitarist, any local show will remind you of the fact that you've forgotten what some chord is, or the fact that you're finger-picking is slow, or the fact that you have to watch the strings while playing. If you care about your craft, and if it's important to you, it's not so because of any conscious choice you made. It just IS. And if you neglect your guitar for too long, maybe you're not a guitarist.

Furthermore, if you have a hungry mind, a social drive, and a romantic disposition, you don't really have much of a choice regarding the other things either. You will seek knowledge and stimulus in whatever ways you can; school being one of the most straightforward ways. You will be drawn towards people naturally, because your mind needs fodder and because they provide it, or because they provide hope for fodder. You might be more social if you are seeking those individuals who most inspire your mind, because it takes a lot of socializing to find such people. And you will probably fall in love whether you want to or not, so that's really not even something worth debating about. Lastly, unless you have inhuman abilities of which all of us should be envious, you will need to sleep.

Sometimes I worry about these things - all of these things - but then I remember that these are things I will do whether I choose to or not: Perhaps to different degrees as I realize how I want to prioritize my life, but never will I abandon any one of them completely. I cannot drop those things which I consider most second-nature and most essential to the art of being a human being.

4.1.07

2007-04-01T21:13:00.000-07:00

i believe that the individual should not live in a way that makes him feel he is fighting any kind of natural influence. that is, i think that one should not struggle upward if the act of struggling is not something desired, and if the thing struggled toward is not desirable. one should not do something that he cannot find it in himself to care about, because presumably there will be another option that he might care about. one should not hesitate to go after something that seems any degree of impossible if he can find it in himself to care about that thing enough to make it less impossible. something that seems difficult, yet to which the individual is willing to apply significant amounts of care, could actually render itself less difficult (all things taken into account) than something that seems easy but to which that individual cannot bring himself apply any amount of care at all. i've tried to give myself the sole role of influence in my own life, again and again, and always the baton of power is taken from my hands and i am left powerless. sometimes i wonder if i should stop fighting it. the things that occur which have nothing to do with my intent tend to be of great interest and seem to be pretty exciting. furthermore, the way i eventually feel about things has little to do with logic or with what i actually think that i want. yet, in the end, how i feel about something is all that really matters with regard to what i want, because i cannot commit myself in any real way to something that i do not care about, and thus shaping one's actions around those things which he cares about seems not only most gratifying in the end, but also most efficient and less of a waste of time.

3.27.07

2007-03-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

there are a couple things in life that keep me really happy. the number one thing is music: playing it, writing it, listening to it, watching it, thinking about it, buying it, downloading it, reading about it, and talking about it. sometimes it makes me absolutely giddy. and lately, i can't stay stressed out or bummed out for very long anymore. it's not worth it. and i'd much rather be giddy and dance around to music in my room than sit and mope, to be honest. here's what i'm currently happy about: i bought jarvis cocker concert tickets for late april in san francisco. i can't adequately express my excitement over this.

last night i was in the studio with andy from 10:00 p.m. til 4:30 a.m., with the exception of the time it took to do a beer run and take a forced-break while the custodians were buffing the floors of the hallways. we went over one track in particular quite a lot, and i think we probably got a couple pretty decent takes from it. if nothing else, i now have a pretty good idea of what needs to be practiced and changed about it, and what i should be aware of when practicing it. there are still a couple little glitches to be worked out, mostly things having to do with tempo and pitch and consistency of tempo. a lot of those are things that get harder to get right the more the song is played and the more tired it gets. i'm pretty excited to be working with andy, though. we're getting better at communicating with one another about what's working in the recordings and what isn't, and i feel like we're pretty much on the same page as far as what we think sounds good and the sort of aesthetic we're going for. monday nights will be recording nights from here on out, for a while.

i've gotten better about letting go of the past, almost to a fault, and looking forward to the future. i anticipate a lot of exciting times to come. i really want to move into the city when i graduate - either NYC or san francisco - and i want to just jump right in and do what i can to play a lot of music and do a lot of writing and meet a lot of people and exchange ideas. i think right now is an exciting and important time to be alive and i'd like to take advantage of that and really utilize the currents of energy that are circulating around our society in order to make good things happen. i think that's what all of us should be trying to do. partying and wasting time is all well and good, but i think it should be done in the most productive way possible. i've noticed just how often conversations with my peers center around the notion of cultural and political change, revolution, and artistic movement. i think it's on the forefront of most everyone's psyche and i think its unavoidable. i feel like the energy is there, and i feel like we're alive at a breaking point, as if things are balanced really delicately and they have no choice but to come falling down to make way for something that is perhaps better. i feel anxious and giddy and excited and determined. and i really, really, really love music for its power to move people and its power to be a catalyst and simply just for its goodness and sexiness and newness and ability to be in flux.

3.26.07

2007-03-26T01:17:00.000-07:00

i'm tired. i'm tired of thinking about what i should be doing as opposed to what i am doing; what i should be saying as opposed to what i want to say. i'm tired of speaking in order to cater to what i think others want to hear. most efforts i make to try to clarify things for the sake of preventing hurt towards others just backfire because my words are taken as a sign of manipulation. or that's what it feels like. i tend to try to clarify myself and then i tend to be misunderstood and then i tend to think, "screw this. if they don't understand me when i'm trying my best to be as expressive and clear as possible, then do they really understand anything else i do? i mean, how can they understand my intentions when i DON'T make an effort to be clear, if they don't understand my intentions when i do?" then sometimes i feel that i waste too much time worrying about being understood. and other times i don't want to be understood because i feel like others will sell me short in their percieved understanding of my intentions or actions or words.

for some reason i'm thinking right now about the highschool football games that i used to go to when i was in my freshman year of highschool. bright stadium lights and nervous glances and gossip and teenage drama, and getting dressed up for all of it. sometimes i feel like i could subscribe to any culture if i just decided to. which makes it difficult to put much stock in the culture that i do associate myself with; or at least my reasons for the associating. they seem legitimate, but the most legitimate reasons for associating with others might be applied with equal justification to any culture whatsoever, if the reasons are important reasons. that is, if the reasons center around social interaction and conversation and open-mindedness and curiosity. i guess i associate myself with those that i do because i crave creative inspiration and challenges and intrigue and artistic productivity. those football games were the first taste of a kind of youthful freedom that felt so nourishing and clean and fresh and new. now it's strange because having endless options feels a bit like the lack of an option itself. maybe it felt the way it did then because my options were very clearly defined and my role was very clearly specified.

i went from going to football games in the beginning of the year to playing electric guitar and going to rock concerts toward the end of the year. i miss the old local shows in nevada city. there was a different feeling to them. something relating to sincerity and urgency. i guess they felt more angsty but more in a way that was exciting and necessary. there was an air about them much like one might feel standing on the edge of a giant precipice, under a dark sky. a precipice the other side of which might have been too far away to focus the eyes upon. the air outside was usually cold. and the people i encountered incited some kind of awareness of potential in my mind: awareness of the potential in myself and the potential in life and in interactions. i crave that feeling and i miss that feeling. i want to feel like i'm standing on cliffs and running through the jungle and dodging bullets and building palaces. i don't feel like i have anything to run from that i won't end up running back to, and i don't feel like i have the tools for building, and those tools which i have might only be put to use in order to build something that coyly mocks my intentions with an over-the-top display of absurd gaudiness.

3.27.07

2007-03-25T12:22:00.000-07:00

checking in with myself is the only way that i can make progress towards where i want to be. and being alone from time to time is the only way that i can really check in with myself. it's not logical, but it's natural and intuitive.

3.24.07

2007-03-24T00:32:00.000-07:00

the sun is out, and the allergens are out, and the highschoolers are hitting the town riding razor scooters and wearing hot pants. which is an interesting combination of phenomena. today i woke up and rode my newly retrieved bike, then went to delta to meet steph and kristen and matty. i went home to watch cheap movies bought off of itunes and to soak my eye with hot water because it's inflamed and painful. i've been viewing the world through stunner-shades for the past five days, and i miss things being a bit brighter in color as a result; but, just the same, i enjoy the incognito aspect that life has held for me from behind tinted lenses. it's strange that, amidst a college world filled with keg-standees and king's cup games, the events that give me the most happiness are the simple things: walking through campus in the morning half asleep with a cup of coffee in my hand on the way to class, reading the newspaper in the mornings, doing crossword puzzles, watching strangers walk by and bike by, realizing i really care about the people in my life and feeling pretty legitimately lucky to have said people around me, and having dinner with close friends.

something i've been increasingly aware of in the past few years of my life is the envy that manifests itself in me when i encounter a creative work that i consider to be meaningful. when i watch a band play a show that really moves me or inspires me or makes me want to move around, i get a really intense urge to go home and write music. when i pick up a book that words things in such a way that fodders my mind, i have a hard time reading further without wanting to sit down and write something that the book has made me think about, or write something that i consider to be a step towards such a caliber of writing. when i visit an art gallery, i have a hard time walking around without getting pissed off at my own laziness with regard to productivity in the visual arts. all of these reactions are, when it comes down to it, positive things; because in the long run they will probably fuel me to be more creative and productive if i don't let them humble me to the point of stagnancy.

i've been pretty content and at peace for a while now - pretty much since the beginning of the school year, or at least the beginning of winter quarter - and it's a feeling that i'm not familiar with, but nonetheless a feeling that i appreciate. i don't necessarily think that my luck has changed (although perhaps it has), or that i'm doing better in my assorted endeavors, but i feel that i've sort of reached a point where i'm able to look at things in a less detached way and sort of fit the events in my life into a bigger picture that allows me to be less hard on myself and yet, at the same time, supply myself with enough motivation and inspiration to keep myself working towards my long-term goals. i've gotten a lot more relaxed about social interactions, and by that i mean that i have been discovering that people surprise me more often than not; and that people, for the most part, have something to offer, and in some cases they have a great deal to offer. i've also become aware of the simple fact that those people whom i know are only going to offer me more as i spend more time with them. there's not a limit to a person's potential offerings in friendship or in general. i like the idea of knowing people for a long time, and perhaps not seeing some of them for a while yet still rekindling friendships and starting anew when given the chance. i also like to think that people continue to have an influence on you even after they have left your life, or at least left the periphery of your awareness.

a lot of the time, i just want to sit down in my room with the windows open and the wind blowing in and listen to songs on my laptop and space out to them and let them affect me in whatever way they will. it amazes me that some songs still hit me in the same way that they always have, and that the way in which i view other songs changes as quickly as the leaves. how does anyone ever get bored in this world? sometimes i remember how much there is to be excited about. and when there is nothing else, there are the seasons, and at least they provide a change of scenery. the seasons give the illusion of moving away to a new town, without having to really go anywhere at all.

3.9.07

2007-03-09T02:50:00.000-08:00

it's odd that spending goofy time with friends and drunkenly confessing my infinite love for the people that i have in my life - old friends and new friends alike - can make me feel so much better, but it does. i don't know if i've ever felt so blessed to have good people in my life as i do now. and i don't know if i've ever wanted to be around people that i care about for the reasons that i do now, mainly reasons consisting of the pleasure that i draw from talking to them and spending time with them. when i was in highschool, i think i thought i needed people to support me in the things that i go through and make me feel less alone. now, i want people in my life because i love spending time with them, and as if by magic, they tend to support me in everything that i go through when i don't even ask that of them. now, i can't feel alone even if i try to convince myself that i feel as such, because when i see certain people i just get exponentially happier and i can't wait to pick their brains and hear what they have to talk about.

3.7.07

2007-03-07T18:35:00.000-08:00

i went to my Chomsky seminar and was particularly involved in discussion today. i had a lot of thoughts running through my mind, and i kept trying to voice them to get the professor's feedback. i don't think i was being eloquent, or they didn't come off right. he said, "NO", and then went into a long monologue about his reasons for disagreeing with me. then i'd try to rephrase what i was trying to say, because i knew i had a point but didn't quite know how to put it using the terms of linguistics that he constantly utilizes. he just keps saying, "NO!" and eventually i got really frustrated. he asked if i wanted to try to rephrase my question again, and i just shook my head, and i could feel my eyes fill up and i had to bite my lip. it was obvious that i was on the verge of crying, and everyone in the seminar (that is, two professors, two grad students, two other undergrads and myself) sort of watched me, dumbfounded. the professor went on with his lecture and it became clear to me that i needed to leave the room, because tears were almost running down my face and yet i didn't want to start full-on crying in the middle of my seminar. i left my books on the table and left the conference room, heading to the girl's bathroom, where i sat in a stall and cried hard for about half an hour. the knees of my pant-legs were soaked from tears. i eventually left the bathroom, timing it so i'd get back to the classroom before it was locked in order to get my books back. the class was still in session, so i waited outside.

a grad student walked out and gave me a snide an condescending smirk as he walked by. one of the two professors walked out and gave me a kind of sympathetic yet awkward half-smile as he walked by, and then ducked his head to avoid conversation. finally, the main professor walked out, and immediately came up to me to apologize for "attacking me" and asked if i was okay. i started crying again the moment he expressed concern. i assured him that it wasn't at all his fault, and that he'd not been harsh at all, and that i was just stressed out and tired and, more than anything, frustrated that i couldn't express myself at the level that i'd like to have been able to pull off. i told him that i hated half-assing things, and that i felt it was all i'd been able to do lately, because of the weight of my school load.

i think he saw that i needed to talk to somone about it, because he told me to come with him to his office, and he sat and just talked to me for a while, giving me kleenex and giving me chocolate and saying everything he could in order to make me feel better. he told me that he treats his students like his colleagues, and that people sometimes don't understand this, but that he talks to them the same as he would someone with an equal level of competency in the field of linguistics as himself; or someone with an equal amount of experience reading Chomsky and discussing it and familarizing the self with his terminology and technical modes of description. he told me that he had felt the way i was feeling right then, and when i said i thought i'd stopped having those moments after highschool, he told me that he'd never really completely stopped feeling that way once in a while, and that it's just something that happens sometimes, to everyone. he said he knew exactly what i was feeling, all too well, and to an equal degree. he also said something that i really appreciated: he told me to never change how hard i am on myself, because he said that that kind of drive and high-standard cannot be taught, and that it's something that, if innate, can cause one to strive to succeed and work hard and always aim to do better. he said to always hold on to it, but to also give myself some slack once in a while. he told me he'd actually really liked my questions, and could tell that i had a solid grasp of the material. he told me not to worry too much about my career, and to take the future as it comes. he also reassured me that what i study in college isn't necessarily what i have to end up studying, and that i should take philosophy classes if i want to because i find them interesting, regardless of how practical they may be. he said, "when in your life are you going to have another chance to study philosophy? you're only in college once." he also told me he'd missed me the two days of class when i'd been sick and that he really liked my presence in the class. he also said, "do you know how many Chomsky classes i had to sit through, too terrified to make any comments at all? i'm asking a lot of you guys and i'm throwing you guys into something that you have no experience with", or something to that effect.

he handed me some kleenex, patted me on the back, said "you're okay", and told me not to feel sorry or embarrassed. he was seriously the nicest guy i've talked to in months. i hadn't even realized that i was stressed to the point of crying until i started actually crying, but i'm glad i was able to let all of that out rather than dwell on it. and i'm glad i had someone to talk to about it: someone whom i actually look up to and really respect.

i went to naomi's, where she was working on bandit masks for her party tomorrow. then i looked at some old bike frames that avi had left there. evan said i could pick one out to keep, so i called my dad and described the brands and styles to him to find out which was better. he told me to photograph them on my phone and send him the files. i did so, and he called me back, saying that they both looked decent and that it was hard to tell over the phone. he told me to take both of them if i could. so i did, and they're sitting on my porch now. he's going to fix one of them up with a fixed-gear road-bike setup sometime soon, so that i can have a road bike to take around campus. i'm excited about it.

ate at noodle city with dan, and just got home. perhaps i'll go to delta tonight to wind down a bit before getting some work done.

3.5.07

2007-03-05T04:33:00.000-08:00

i'm good at missing people. friends, former-lovers, family members, and people i've never even met. does that mean i'm good at loving people? i don't know.

last night i was feeling kind of down. i'm not really sure why, but i guess it's because i hadn't left my house at all. jesse insisted upon bringing me coffee and coming to hang out with me and cheer me up. when he showed up, i was sitting in my back yard watching neil young videos on youtube. i started talking to him about music, and about how much i love it, and about how it's what i most dearly want to be doing right now, and about the pressures in my life and the uncertainty in my life and the social intimidation that all of us experience and things of that nature. i sort of teared up while talking to him. i hadn't put my finger on what it was that had been bothering me, but as soon as he got there, it was music that i wanted to talk about, and it was music that made me almost begin to cry. the amazing thing is that it was also something that made me happy, once i started talking. within minutes of discussing it, i was excited and optimistic instead of afraid and bummed out. mostly because of the way jesse responded to the things that i said. jesse has this ability to make me feel 100% better in a matter of minutes. i think it's because he and i are fueled by the same forces. love for human beings and love of music and love of conversation and humor and creativity/ creative people. i've been finding that i have an abundance of people in my life who understand what it means to be charged by such forces, and i'm infinitely thankful for their respective existences. but conversely, i'm thankful for those who are nothing like myself, because i can learn from them too.

long story somewhat shortened: jesse and i decided that we wanted to drive out to the coast to try to find tom waits' house. we found out on the internet that it was in the town of valley ford. we fetched steph from her house and drove there, stopping on the way for energy drinks and food and gas and public bathrooms. i hadn't driven out near the coast in over a year. it was a weird breed of deja vu, but the drive was gorgeous, as was the entire experience. it was exactly what i needed; worth every dollar of gas money that i coughed up. and it put things into perspective, both with regard to geography and with regard to my own emotions and thoughts. we listened to music, talked, exchanged stories, and looked around ourselves at the fields rushing by. old fences posts in long rows where they had fallen. fence posts, unable to fall alone because they are bound to one another. kind of like human beings, maybe.

we looked at all the houses in valley ford, and the three of us agreed that a very certain house had to be his house. it had one lone light shining down from it, the light yellow in hue, and the building stood atop a hill with nothing around it for acres except for sloping fields. it seemed nice enough to be worth a bit of money, yet rustic enough to inspire songs about bourbon and porches and to bring back brooding memories of old loves and old friends and old happiness and old heartache. we drove around and couldn't figure out for the life of us which road led up to the house, because whichever road might go up there was hidden, and presumably snaked around the back of the hill up to the house. we found a few long driveways with locked gates, and assumed that one of them probably led up to it, in a rather meandering manner. whether it was his house or not isn't really the point. the point is that we spent the hours between 1 am and 6 am driving around the coast together, near the water, through old fields untouched by the tread of man for perhaps decades in some places; looking for tom waits' house, thinking in the back of our minds how nice it would be to be able to leave him some cigarettes and a handle of bourbon... maybe a note.

tom,
thank you.
love,
katie

or maybe:

tom,
i love your soul.
love,
katie

what poetry can be written to a poet? i have a feeling that anything i might wish to write to him would be something that he could probably put much more eloquently, and could probably present with far more grace and beauty than i might ever dare.

we didn't really have anything that we could leave on his porch, and it turned out that his porch was impossible to get to and impossible to, with full confidence, discern from the other porches of those others with similar living aesthetics to mr. waits himself. which makes me glad, in a way, because i don't like the idea of random hooligans (like ourselves) paying mr. waits random visits and disturbing his peace. i wish i could say that i would have a problem with the idea if said hooligans were ourselves and only our selves. but i would be pretty okay with that. of course, no one would be happy to have visitors at 3:30 in the morning, even your favorite local night owl, especially if the visitors were strangers. no one with kids would be very keen on such a thing. but there are some things i'd like to talk to tom waits about, mostly things concerning the passage of time and and the meaning of love and the stomaching of alcohol. all of which seem pretty symbiotic to one another, by his modes of thinking.

we drove back, and our energy drinks did little for us. exhaustion silenced us to only laughter. i went to sleep more quickly than any other time in recent history once i was home in my own bed, and then i awoke to a day of songwriting and wine/dessert parties and walks downtown to get coffee while talking to my dad on the phone.

3.3.07

2007-03-03T20:45:00.000-08:00

i used to drink water out of hoses when i was little; up in the mountains where hose-water tastes like aquafina. i'd do it after pulling starthistles that my dad asked me to uproot, using huge oversized leather work-gloves that had thistles inside of them buried deep in the leather from the summer before; or when returning home to my mom's house in the scorching sun after spending a summer day downtown, or at campsites or outdoor festivals that took place on pieces of land without conventional sinks. there's something about hose-water that is unlike anything else. you can taste the metal and rubber of the hose when you drink the water. you run the risk or soaking the entire front of your shirt or swimsuit if you don't time it carefully. you can hear the water approaching as you turn on the faucet, and the first drinks of water are warm from sitting mid-hose in the heat of the sun for so long.

the garden-hose is something that i used to know, but no longer know. i used to understand hose-kinks, and why it was that they stopped the water and how easy it was to unkink them. i used to know how easy it was to create another kink while unkinking the first, and i used to take extra effort to avoid doing this. but the last time i picked up a garden hose was when my friend mindy and i were borrowing our friend jon's van and she drove with the emergency brake on. we had to stop the car in front of a large frat house and use their hose in order to spray four smoking tires with it, all in vain. we didn't know what to do so we, being sophomores in college at the time, called 911. then i called my father. he heard the sirens in the background as the fire trucks approached and he said, "what's that sound?". i told him, and he said a long, drawn-out "alllllllright", followed by, "have fun with that," and a hasty goodbye.

it's odd to think about all the tools that you utilize throughout your years, and it's odd to think that the same tool can be used in a situation completely different from any other situation in which the same tool has been used.

my grandfather collected tools, and my father still does. i equate the smell of wood-shavings to both of them. my grandfather made me a wooden chest one year for christmas, when i was probably around ten. it was made of cedar, with a little shelving piece inside of it and with a key with which to lock it. it's nice that my grandpa understood the idea of privacy, even for children, and the importance of a lock and key. i hid many-a-treasure in that box and locked it up. notes from friends and drawings and lyrics and poetry. all the things one can never have enough of or make enough of.

my grandpa's tool "shop" was one room out of many, in the barn at the place where he used to live with my grandmother. country road 96. he had drawers and drawers of different tools of different sizes. different projects that he'd started. science impliments or gifts for his sons or his grandkids, or pieces of furniture. he was careful about who he let in there, and i know that i spent some time with him there when i was young, but only accompanied. the longest time i spent in there was after his death, with my dad. we went there and looked through all the drawers and in all the little boxes, seeking out tools we might want to claim and keep ourselves. it felt like it had been kept untouched, as it had been left, and it seemed to embody my grandpa's entire character in its walls. it's an odd feeling when you walk into a room and realize that something in that room - a chair, or a bit of floor-space, or a tool, or any number of tools - was last touched by someone you love who is no longer there, and since then touched by no one else. to go into a room full of that kind of sanctity felt odd. and thinking about it makes me sad. it's been almost six years since my grandpa's death, and it's still a deep wound. it's deep enough to be hidden some of the time and yet to have the ability to catch me off-guard.

a year after his death, it was the mention of a jar of pickles that drove me to tears. he'd had a liking of pickles and had made it one of his hobbies to make pickles, to pickle things, and to eat pickles. how can an object as ridiculous as a pickle conjure up such a kind of bold and majestic grief? sometimes grief feels like full connection to one's memories. it is when i am best able to remember something lost, or something that has passed, that i most grieve. i think maybe we're all grieving on a daily basis when we think about the past, but i don't think this is a bad thing. i wish there was a better way to put it, because thinking about the past in such a way, although difficult, is also what allows the individual to better understand the scope of his own life. remembering a person, even if difficult, reminds the rememberER of how meaningful a person can be in another's life. and this is not something to grieve about, but rather something to live for.

2.26.07

2007-02-26T02:57:00.000-08:00

my mother got married yesterday. technically, two days ago (the 24th). i rode a bus into auburn with my brother and my dad met us and took us home. i hadn't slept in over a day at that point. i'd tried to sleep the night before, and it just hadn't worked. and i'd had to catch a bus that morning at 9:00, so i'd woken up around 7:30. by "woken up", i mean gotten out of bed and decided that sleeping was no longer an option. the train ride and subsequent bus-ride went fine, and after spending a few hours with my dad, i went to my mom's wedding with my brother. both of us were equipped with our own respective umbrellas. the wedding was a florist's shop. we walked in, and our mother was upstairs with her soon-to-be stepdaughter, getting pretty, i presume. the groom and the entire family on both sides were present. we were not dressed up. i was wearing urban lazy garb and my brother was wearing a long black coat, black pants, black boots, and a black shirt. we were approached by people but were somewhat unresponsive and gripey. as soon as i walked in, i realized it was going to be hard for me to handle the whole thing. i made the i'm-about-to-cry face for a few minutes, and then when my grandmother came up to talk about me i started to actually cry, and i walked out in a mini-rage. i walked two blocks up the street and ran into my friend jake, whom i hadn't seen in months or maybe a year. he asked how i was and explained the situation, promising i didn't cry all the time. he said his mother had done the same thing, and had married someone she'd known only a few months. i asked how he was, and he said something like, "really horrible now. you totally bummed me out." he's a sweetheart and i wish i'd run into him at another time. but i'm glad someone was there to witness the ridiculousness of my state.

i stormed up the street after he walked on, and went to a coffee shop where i'd spent many post-highschool afternoons. i ordered some tea and sort of paced about, eventually getting a phone call from my brother. i told him i'd be in the cafe and that i didn't want to handle the wedding. he said something to the effect of, "it's not up to me; it's your choice". eventually i conceded and decided to head back to the wedding, but by then it was about 20 minutes after the designated start-time. i opened the door and the ceremony was already going on. it took place in a flower shop, so as i opened the door a door-chime chimed, announcing my entrance to all 20 or so people in attendance. there i was, the apparently begrudging youth showing up late for her mother's wedding that she'd almost decided not to come back to. i walked in and my mother made a face that showed she was fighting back tears. i felt a little guilty at that point. following the ceremony, my brother and i both refused to take part in the wedding photos. my grandmother came up to me again, and at that point i started to cry and said something about how i wasn't crying out of joy, as my grandmother seemed to be implying. then i left again, and walked a few blocks down the street and proceeded to call my dad. i told him i wanted to bail, and he said he couldn't come get me because he'd just ordered dinner at a restaurant with his wife. my brother came and talked to me, and we both agreed to suck it up and go to the post-wedding reception/dinner.

when i got to the restaurant, i sought out a bathroom with the intent of washing my face and such, but ended up sitting in a chair and sort of breaking down a bit. the whole thing was really hard for me, for reasons that have quite a history behind them. i hadn't cried in months, and i'd been very happy, but the event was just a really bizarre thing for me, especially since i'd only met my new stepfather once, and when i had, a lot of intense family drama had ensued. two of my mom's former coworkers were really sweet to me, and talked to me until i was ready to get my shit together and go join the dinner party. we were seated across from a nice couple from humbolt, and they were incredibly sweet. i started up conversation with them, initially because i felt bad and didn't want them to have a bad time, since my brother and i were the only people they were really seated next to (and a few of my mom's friends + her brother). i ended up actually really enjoying their company and input, and especially after a few glasses of wine i really enjoyed talking to them. i also talked a bit to anne a bit more and she seemed pretty amazingly wonderful and honest and came across as a pretty legit human being.

once i got a little bit buzzed, i started feeling a little guilty for the way i'd acted, which had really been pretty childish. i gave my mom a hug and, although i think she was initially hurt by my behavior, i know that she knows me well enough to know that i understand. she knows i don't handle change well, and i never have. i love her despite anything she and i have gone through and any disputes we've had, and even if i don't agree with her decisions, it's not necessarily my place to say so, nor am i really entitled. i tried to be as cordial as i was able, and gave out a few hugs, and ate some gourmet food and tiramisu, and then my brother and i left the reception to get picked up by our dad.

i went to bed around 8:30 that night and slept until 9:30 the next day: a peaceful and sound night of rest. my dad made us waffles in the morning, and then tried to put us on a bus which never showed up and proceeded to drive me all the way to davis. he's a good man.

i got back to davis, mellowed out a bit, and gave taylor a haircut. he said he wanted some cross between professional and non-professional, so i cut the sides really short, left the front long, and left the back slightly long but still shorter than the front. i was quite happy with my work there. he went home, and then i screwed around on the internet for a bit, talked to dana on the phone for a long time (she's a professional big-shot all of a sudden and will be able to afford more clothing than and concert tickets than myself), and then put on a gold scarf, put my hair up, put on a skirt, and went to rock it, jordan's DJ night at the grad. i never dance when i'm sober, so i mostly just talked with friends, but it was nonetheless really nice.

i got home a few hours ago and felt the way i've been feeling a lot lately: strangely happy, mostly due to the abundance of good energy that my friends seem to have, somehow even when they're having bad days.

i threw a long-ish, wordy, overly flowery email in the direction of an old friend who i never talk to anymore. i'm not sure why i still write, because he doesn't respond. but i like to think that the act of writing someone shouldn't only happen in order to recieve a response. perhaps there's something in letting someone know you care even if you will never know that they do? it's as a friend that i care, and it's with love that i care. that he knows this is all that i ask. i'd like to ask that one day all of these things in my life will make some sense, but yet i'm learning to make peace with the notion that the pieces might never fall into place and that they are somehow in place, maybe, but that i'm just not meant to understand quite how they are so. nothing is quite out of context, because everything follows everything prior. i will miss people greatly, and this kind of missing may never amount to anything, and it may never really go away, but the influence of these people will never leave my life; and those who influenced me more will continue to have profound impact on me even years after i have forgotten their laugh of their manner of blinking their eyes, or the sound of their sleeping breathing. but i hope that i never forget these things. i don't wish to change things, because i trust that people of my past do things that make them happy, and this is all i want for them. it is not in my power to judge whether someone should be a part of my life or not, even as a friend. i just want to live in such a way that i am free of regrets when i am old and full of aches and creaks.

i've a long week ahead of me. a show on thursday, which should me amazingly intimidating and yet hopefully somehow a success. also i've a lot of work to do in school. i've been excited about the future lately, particularly about the prospect of moving out of california and heading to new york, or even staying in california and moving to san francisco.

i hope that there is no delusionment involved in the act of being happy. i don't think there needs to be. every day fills me with awe as of late. it's a feeling i can't describe, and the fact that i can't directly attribute it to something makes it feel more real to me somehow; less fleeting. i've said so a lot, but it still holds true. i hope that i can have an equal exchange with the world. i would love to give to the world as much awe as it continuously gives to me.

2.26.07

2007-02-26T01:48:00.000-08:00

why do i see people with the fucking sun in their eyes become so saddened by the world around them? it's because they have the sun in their eyes. but it's these people, who know the sun is in their eyes and yet refuse to look away, that end up knowing the sun and its magnificence better than those who don't bother to look, or those who look for a second and then look away once they realize how much it hurts, or those who look into it and refuse to really see it for what it is, or those who let themselves be blinded by it and refuse to believe that anyone else can see any of it for more than a split second because they, due to their blindness, no longer can. i've known all of these people and it is those who look into it yet refuse to be blinded by it - those who look into it and refuse to look away - that come to truly know the beauty of their world and the meaning of their world in the most astounding way. once they get used to the glare i know that they'll forget how much it can hurt and they'll dance with the others who have sun in their eyes, too. once they look at it they know there is no looking away and they know that there's no going back. perhaps they could go back if it weren't for the fact that they know that doing so is foolish and silly. but they do know this fact. and they won't look away. and it's these people who realize that they were born with the same sunlight running through their blood and immersed in their words and seeping out of every piece of the world around them.

and if they look away, they'll remember what they saw, and maybe the loss of that will pain them until they look into it again. and if they are blinded by it, maybe the last image of what they have seen will be enough to sustain them even if things seem dark. and if they refuse to look, maybe they will gaze in awe and wonder at those who are bold enough to do so, and maybe this wonder and awe will sustain them and the knowledge of something better will keep them moving until they have the courage to try to look themselves.

but what it boils down to is the truth in the following: i have faith in those people who have faith in other people, and who have faith in themselves and in the potential of human interaction and in patience and in effort. i've lost lots of pieces of sunlight in my time and i know that they're never really gone, and they're never really snuffed. and the light that's left to absorb is infinite and can make that which is lost, in time, fondly remembered due to its ability to remind the self of the inifinitude of that which is left to experience.

2.20.07

2007-02-20T04:39:00.001-08:00

"My world is the world of a metamorphosis and paradox which are reality for me and this reality I materialize in my works. I like to be surprised and astonished , I like to surprise and astonish myself. Creativity should inspire and arouse creativeness." -Sergey Tyukanov

well, i say this: ships rattle the ribcages of the night.

*****************

...and this is my favorite poem ever. it's written by a swedish poet, gunnar ekelof, and is called "If You Ask Me":

If you ask me where i am
well i live here beyond the mountains
It is far but I am near
I live in another world
but you live in it too
It is everywhere, as rare as helium
Why do you ask for an aircraft to travel in
Ask instead for a filter for nitrogen
a filter for carbon dioxide, hydrogen and other gases
Ask for a filter for all that separates us
a filter for life
You say that you can hardly breathe
What of it! Who do you think can breathe?
Most of the time we take it equably
A wise man has said:
"It was so dark I could barely see the stars."
He only meant that it was night.

You can read Ekelof's Bio at the following website:
http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/ekelo.htm

2.20.07

2007-02-20T00:20:00.000-08:00

my father:
there was a long period of time where i was saddened because i saw how close-at-hand a good relationship with him could be, yet i saw how far i had yet to travel to gain his trust and respect. he knows that i'm human, and prone to bouts of procrastination, and he understands that i don't really know what i'm doing any more than anyone else does, but he's willing to discuss the process with me, and he's willing to discuss music and films with me. he's willing to pick apart philosophical concepts and scientific procedures and political dynamics, and somehow to connect all of these to the things i care about and the things he cares about. it's because of my father than i have come to understand the interconnectedness of things, and the power of the arts, and the complexity of culture, and the importance of being self-sufficient and introspective yet also open in conversation and self-forgiving.

and i love music. it's my fuel and it's the plasma of my bloodstream and it's, somehow, the catalyst that has helped me to connect with most of the people that i care the most about. i feel extremely lucky. and i feel that i am standing on the edge of a valley filled with infinity. and the people that i care about have infinity in their eyes too and that's why i love them. they realize that they can do whatever they want and be anything they want, and enjoy the process of finding these things and seeking these things and dreaming/ wondering about these things.

2.17.07

2007-02-17T08:01:00.000-08:00

my night quickly went from fake blood to very real-seeming blood, the former with regard to my disaster-party costume, and the second with regard to my dreams. i had a series of really horrifying dreams, containing more violence than any dreams i had ever before had: i'm sure of it.

the first in the series of dreams included me walking around with a male friend. i ran into someone i had previously dated, at a weird nightclub. he was in the back room, sitting on a gaudy leather couch with two girls, watching pornographic videos on a television. one of the girls was seated behind him, at a table, and the other was on the floor in front of him, naked. the one on the floor had straight blonde shoulder-length hair, and a seriously dazed expression. somehow upon seeing her i knew that she was a prositute, but she looked somewhere between drugged and pure evil. she wasn't really paying attention to the television screen, but instead had her head turned toward the boy as he sat on the couch. her lips were slightly parted, and he started kissing her, although her response was minimal. he was kissing her savagely, and she let him, but she did not respond. the whole scene was really grotesque in a way that i cannot describe.

my friend and i then found ourselves up on some sort of rocky ledge or in the heights of buildings, high above the ground at a location with a lot of vision of our surroundings. first we saw a man walk by below, and he was struck with a suitcase on the body by another man. the man kept hitting him with the briefcase, really hard, and it started knocking the skin off of the man on the ground. the beating ensued, and the man was killed. these men - the ones who had repeatedly hit the man - seemed to look around them, and as soon as they came across another person or sighted another person, they would violently beat that person to death or shoot that person to death.

this dream went on for what seemed like at least four hours, and i witnessed, in the dream, the murder of what must have been hundreds, maybe even thousands of people, all of them guilty of nothing that i was aware of, and all of them violently killed, not just as means of their elimination, but for the sport of it, and out of anger. one part of the dream that i remember distinctly involved a locker room full of girls, filling an entire floor of a building, all of them naked. one by one they were killed and beaten. snipers and men with the intent of raping them and men who just wanted to see blood. from my place high above, on a ledge or something, i was able to see all of this. i didn't want to watch, but i had to keep an eye out for my own safety so as to know where the shooters were. essentially, my dream began with hundreds, maybe even thousands of people milling about. by the end they were almost all dead, and i was surrounded by human bodies.

i have never, ever, seen so much violence and been so afraid. never in a movie; never on the news (because they don't show that kind of thing on the news); never in real life. i hope never to see that kind of violence again. but it seemed all too real.

i woke up after this, really kind of distraught. kind of more-so than i've ever been made to be by a dream. i made myself go back to sleep, and i had another dream. in this dream, i was at some kind of party. i was introduced to someone, and instead of conversing with me, they shook my hand and looked into my eyes, in a really intense manner. they said, "China. 1949." and they said some name, which i can't remember. and then they walked away.

i woke up after this, suddenly, at 7:30 a.m., unable to go back to sleep, even though i'd only gone to bed at about 5:00 a.m. or somewhere around that time. i went to wikipedia and typed in "china", and i found that the People's Republic of China, established by the Communist party of China, led by Mao Zedong, was founded on October 1, 1949. this scared the shit out of me, because although i'm sure i learned the year of the founding of the ROC at some point, i seriously doubt that i'd ever be able to relay it to someone. perhaps it was buried deep in my subconscious or unconscious. it was really eerie though. it was as if i was being sent some kind of super-intense message, and it was as if i was being shown something for a really important reason: something that no one should ever be shown.

the massacre that i witnessed seemed something not from the past, and not from the future. it seemed current. i don't know what the connection was between that and the reference to the ROC that was in my other dream. i'm convinced the dreams were connected, because the second happened shortly after the wake of the violence that had just filled my head. perhaps the two were meant to be linked as references or comparisons, or perhaps the ROC is somehow linked to the event that i witnessed in my mind.

i don't know what else to write about it. i want to shake the images of people being slaughtered from my head, but i can't do so. i guess i'll do what i always do: go to delta and get coffee and breakfast and surround myself with people that i care about.

i guess something i found online after researching mao zedung (mao tse-tung) scared me a little more than anything else. it was this quote that i found, which seemed way, way too appropriate and way too relevant for me to feel at all at ease:

"Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun." -Mao Tse-Tung

he was the central political figure in China from 1893-1976, which means he was the key political figure in the year of 1949.

i know that i learned a lot about all of this in highschool, when i worked for Students For a Free Tibet, but i find it hard to believe that i would have retained knowledge of the date of the foundation of the ROC.

also, on wikipedia, i found this: "Mao's policies are blamed for the deaths of tens of millions of Chinese." (and this doesn't even mention Tibetans)

did i dream some sort of collective conscious flashback to the deaths of Chinese citizens killed as a result of what happened in china in 1949? and why the fuck would i dream about such a thing? i'm seriously, seriously a little bit freaked out.

that people can remain positive and loving in a world where violence exists is something really, really important. that human nature is so willing to love despite so much reason to fear and so much reason to hate is also really important. i don't know if i believe in god, but i would thank him for taking me out of that violent and very real dream and into my bedroom; into the start of a new day hopefully free of such violence; and ultimately into the arms of friends that i would encounter throughout my day.

"i have seen violence in the face of one man, and thus i will face violence in the sea of the world."

2.15.07

2007-02-15T14:06:00.000-08:00

henri cartier-bresson seems to be obsessed with mimesis in his work. when he is not photographing architecture or countrysides, he is photographing people, although usually either multiple people in one shot, or a person and an object which is representative of, or similar to, a person, also in the shot. an example of this would be a mannequin in a shop window next to which a shopkeeper stands, or a face of a clock in the foreground, behind which can be seen the face of a man. it seems that he does this in order to present man in a way that reminds the viewer of a non-living object, and in order to present the non-living object in a way that reminds the viewer of a man.

yesterday was a better valentine's day than some of the ones i've experienced. my life feels chaotic, although not necessarily in a bad way. for once i feel that i can't predict what will happen in the coming months, and i like this, because usually things seem to be pretty cut-and-dry in my life, which leaves room only for superfluous thought about the workings of my own psyche and silly analysis of what has gone wrong or right in my actions and in how i deal with situations. when things are completely up in the air, the mind is able to distract itself from its own manner of functioning and apply its energies to the tasks at hand. which is nice. it means the self is able to be more present, whether while talking with a friend or burning matches or reading a book. sometimes i think i make decisions too carefully, which usually renders the ultimate result disappointing, because either i'll learn that i was wrong and that the actuality of the scenario is worse than i'd anticipated, or i'll just be completely unsurprised by the end result, although right about it, and this is a boring phenomenon. i'd like to make my life a little more based in the present moment, and i'd like to keep myself busy with schoolwork and with music and with art and with the people that i love.

i think inspiration comes from the internal workings of the self, and if the self is eager to be inspired, it will find a way to make this inspiration happen. i'm also coming to fully condone social interaction, and to be less enthralled by the idea of constant isolation. reclusion is good as a balancing factor, but not as a full-time thing.

2.14.07

2007-02-14T17:27:00.000-08:00

a much-needed day of laziness and chatting with my dad over coffee and sandwiches. he showed up, brought me some beans and soymilk from my stepmom, and took me to delta to get some lunch. we talked and laughed, about movies and music and family and life in general. we went to borders, where he asked me two questions: which cat power cd should i get, and which belle and sebastian cd should i get? damn. he bought me an album, and then wrote me a monthly check and went on back up the hill to grass valley.

last night i painted at naomi's house until five in the morning, and then i went home and went to sleep. i hadn't painted in so long. it felt like i exhumed something from myself that has been greatly in need of exhumation.

i've been thinking a lot about the past. i think i have some odd fear of becoming detached from it; of forgetting; of not bothering to connect the present to what came before. i would trade a lot of the present for a few of the things that came before. i miss people too easily and i sift through my memories looking for evidence of where things went wrong. the evidence isn't there.

i'd like to be more productive. i'd like to amaze myself, for once, and meet my own standards, which are exceedingly high. i want to be inspired by the people and events around me, everywhere i go. i want to feel things intensely and actually care one way or the other about matters and issues. i want to be humbled and astounded. i want to find open hearts and searching eyes.

2.13.07

2007-02-13T10:55:00.000-08:00

i want to spend more time with people who are different from me. i don't want all of my surroundings to be self-reflexive.

i was awakened by what must have been the noise of construction workers outside of my room, but which sounded like something halfway between the wood-chipper scene in fargo and a war zone. i had been dreaming about somebody that i know, or more accurately, somebody that i used to know very well. in my dream he was sitting on the ground with me, looking fully tired, telling me why he was no longer much of a part of my life. maybe we purposefully keep some of our old wounds from healing. letting them heal is maybe, in some ways, the same thing as forgetting the past. it's a bit heart-wrenching to see people in dreams that you rarely see in reality. i stopped seeing my grandfather in dreams years ago, but i had a few dream-conversations with him in the months following his death in 2001.

I also used to go on long walks, sometimes as late as 1 a.m. or even 3 a.m., just to walk, and just to think. Sometimes I'd walk the hour it took to get to Grass Valley and I'd sit and hang out with Julian. We'd watch Bruce Lee movies and make fun of people and play with words. I'd walk with him to the Circle K so he could buy his cigarettes, and then I'd wait outside as he did so. It usually took at least ten minutes for him to make the purchase, and then he would want to sit outside Circle K and smoke the first one. Julian is one of those amazingly bright and perceptive people. He has a humor and an honesty to him that is like that of a child - completely endearing - but with the wisdom of an ancient soul. I miss him more than I realized I could. He's one of those people who I will always say "I love you" to, in a completely platonic way, and completely mean it. He rarely returns his calls these days, which worries me a little. I feel like a jerk because I told him I'd spend thankgiving with him, watching Bruce Lee movies, but then I ended up getting into family drama and going to sleep at my Dad's house instead.

I got a call one night when I was at my Mom's house. I was about 16 or 17, maybe. I don't remember. Perhaps I was 18. Anyhow, it was Jules, telling me he'd been in a car accident. His girlfriend had driven into a brick wall trying to light a cigarette, and he'd gone through the windshield. A chunk of his forehead had been taken out, and they had to graft skin from his leg to his forehead, and he would have to wear a bandage around his head and endure a scar for the entirety of his life. I went to sit by his bed almost every day for the next few weeks, and then often for the few months following that. He lost a lot of weight and it was scary to behold. His hand got mangled, and he was afraid he would never be able to play bass again.

I last saw him at K-Mart, coincidentally when I went there with Cody with the intent of buying him a Christmas Present. Cody had driven me. Because I saw him there, and because he didn't seem too excited about the idea of a Christmas gift, I didn't get him one. I worry about him, though. I tried calling him this morning, and he didn't pick up.

2.10.07

2007-02-10T16:00:00.000-08:00

i had a really visually-stunning dream. i got hired to work at some kind of social service place, where i had to show a card with my name on it at the door/gate to get in; and then i had to stand/sit at a desk with a microphone on my side of a clear glass wall, kind of like you see in the visiting sections of prisons or in the ticket booths at movie theatres. people lined up in long, long lines: presumably people who were in desperate need of aid or money of some sort. they waited in line essentially all day long, and then when they reached the glass window, they would pass through a card with an amount of money written on it, as a form of request, and i and my co-workers would make the executive decision whether or not to give the person the money requested or not. i worked a full day at the place. it was snowing outside. i got off my shift, and went to find my purse, in which i had a brand new tub of power eye-liner. dark sparkling black powder which stood out against the bright white of the snow below. and in the background there still were the long lines of people, waiting.

2.5.07

2007-02-05T18:25:00.000-08:00

i woke up late-ish and went to the bank, where i bonded with the woman in line ahead of me over how slow the service was and over how to use the coffee and tea machine. it's this amazing device where you take a little capsule of whatever tea or coffee flavor you want, stick it in a drawer, put a cup under it, and press a button. moments later you have coffee or, in my case, green tea. you don't even have to open the little capsule because the machine punches a whole in it itself, and somehow the machine magically removes the shell of the capsule after the tea/coffee has been made. robots are gonna run the world some day.

i had this thought a while ago, and samir didn't like it at all. in fact, he shot it down completely with dislike. but i think it was kind of interesting. it was something like this: when computers get to be advanced past a certain point, there will be no real need for humans to either perform physical labor or practice logical thought. they will still have the abilities to do so, but it will be much cheaper to create machines to do these things than to pay workers to do the same things and with a greater chance of error. as a result, what will humans do? how will they make a living? what will they be paid for? they can work on the analytical end of the sciences, where creative thought is necessary. they can be artists (and maybe there will be more funding for the arts since it will be one of the last things left that only humans are capable of - that is, unless machine-made art passes as something aesthetically agreeable). they will essentially only really be needed for their analytical and abstract thinking skills, their compassion, and their creativity. will new jobs become available that better utilize these skills? it sounds like a beautiful thing in some ways; in others, not.

i was talking to a friend yesterday outside of cafe roma about a similar concept. we were discussing the fact that the internet, computers, and cell-phones remove the need for us to keep mental catalogs of certain things. that is, we don't remember phone numbers any more, we don't know how to spell words, and we don't even really need to know our history because we can look such things up on the internet in a matter of minutes. does this open up room in the mind for other things? will we use this brain-space and brain-power to do more analytical thinking as opposed to more fact-retaining? or will we just shut off part of our minds because they are not being used? i'm curious about it.

i moved downstairs today. everything but all of my clothing, a violin, and some random junk is in my new room. it's about twice the size of my old room, with a bigger closet and with its own entrance. i share a bathroom and kitchen with one other person now, instead of with four others.

i'm learning that i am horrible at keeping track of my phone and keys. they're like pets without leashes, and they wander off.

2.4.07

2007-02-04T15:10:00.000-08:00

yesterday, i spent the afternoon and evening preparing to have people over by cleaning my room and frantically attempting to get in touch with rob via telephone regarding his booze-purchasing. sometimes it's a wonder to me that people have cell-phones at all. people came over, and it was a good event, although i am a bit disappointed in myself for turning into a stressed-out and somewhat frantic host after realizing that i couldn't find my phone or my keys. it turns out that evan took them from me when i was sitting on the balcony, and put them in his pocket, then left with them.

i remember sitting once with a friend who was drunk off of whiskey. we were listening to bonnie prince billy. he said, “He’s just a fat balding man with a beard!” and he couldn't understand how such a man could sing songs that could move him to cry. days later, on the phone, he told me, “I want to just explode until I am nothing; Just pure sound.” and i thought it was something half-beautiful and half a cop-out.

i remember another time when i was sitting in a different friend's old house. he was showing me a sniper rifle that he'd bought in mexico. he pointed it out his window towards the parking lot, and told me to look through the scope. "i could shoot that motherfucker in coldstone and he wouldn't even see it coming," he said. what i can't explain well to you is that he said it like a child and not like a killer.

it's funny go to back and look at the things that i've written in the past. i lost so much writing. hundreds of pages. they now exist in a remote and imaginary trashcan somewhere in the world of technology, and will never be retrieved or read by any organic being. i can only hope that the act of creating them somehow aided in my growth as a person or served as a foundation for the things that i now write on, or the topics that i now think about. i wrote this last fall on a night during which i could not sleep. it's a love note.

You are the high-pitched voice inside a balloon
That is only let out in a quick rush of air
And that causes the head to become heavy.
You are not the voice when it is let out;
But when it is still silent, within a red sphere,
And waiting. You are the waiting.

here's a clip from an old black and white silent film called "the heart of the world":

school puts its heart into me, but i can't seem to put my heart into it as much as i wish i would. i'm fully willing to put my heart into the world. or to put myself into the world's heart. perhaps it is time to start digging a little bit more.

2.2.07

2007-02-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

last night i went to a party. there were six or so people there, all playing exquisite-corpse. this made me kind of sad, because it is a game that was introduced to me by claudio, a dear friend of the family whom i met in chile, when i was about sixteen or so. i got a call from my uncle richard last week telling me that claudio had died really suddenly, at a relatively young age (fifties or sixties). the last time i saw him was at richard's wedding, and we'd talked about the possibility of me flying to sweden to visit him and his daughter. he was an amazing person and i considered him family. i hadn't played exquisite corpse since i'd played it in chile with him and my uncles and cousin. we made so many of those drawings. i think richard held onto them and photocopied some of them. we even went so far as to fill some of them in with color. claudio was a philosopher by profession, living in sweden, working for the swedish government. i'd googled his name once and found a bunch of stuff he'd written about semiotics, which is a branch of theory dealing with an interpretation of a text specifically centered around the breakdown of the words themselves and the patterns found in doing so.

i must have deleted the other emails from claudio, but i just came across one he sent me in October of '05:

Dear Katie and Richard!
I'm sorry I delayed in answering, but I have been on the road during the
last few weeks and I have not been much at home. This is due to work and to
the fact that I have been nominated to run for Sweden's National Parliament
in the coming elections (September 2006).
To the issue: As I did not receive any signal about you and Tyne coming to
visit us for Christmas since we talken in las Summer, Lina has arranged to
travel to Chile (December 14th to January 10th) and I might be visiting a
fiend in Ireleand (althgough this can be changed).
The question would then be how much fun it is for you to come to Sweden
while Lina is not here. I am not able to answer that question, but I am able
to suggest that it might be funnier for you to come next Summer.
I will discuss the issue with Lina, who is now with her mother and will come
to my place on Thursday. In the meanwhile, I would suggest you and Tyne to
discuss the alternatives, in order to have a telephone conversation, during
the coming week-end. By the way, I have a local telephone number in
California, to which you can call me (local call); the call will be
transported through Skype.com to my computer or to my cellular phone. The
number is: (***) ***-****; an easy way to communicate by telephone to a very
low cost (only a local call for you and no cost for me).
So, let us talk on Saturday at the time that best suits you. In the
meanwhile, I will talk to Lina and you will discuss the alternatives.
Love to you all,
Clau

reading this again makes me feel glum. i didn't stay in touch as well as i should have, and i didn't come visit like i said i would. worse, he, richard, tyne, and myself had a pact to meet up in a foreign country once every 2 1/2 years, and no less frequently. after chile, and after richard's wedding, this never happened.

i miss my uncles. and i miss my cousins. i miss all of us being together at the same time. it was really, really nice to see tyne last weekend. i think we get closer as time passes, even when we don't see each other for long periods of time. i told her that she's the closest thing i ever had to a sister, and it's entirely true. i just sent my uncle Mark (on my dad's side) a short little email asking him how he's doing. it's sad because now, more than ever, i want to know my uncles well because i'd like to come to know them as an adult might know them. i wish i could have known my grandfather in that way. and i see my uncles so rarely that it's almost like starting from square one each time i see them. although somehow not quite.

2.1.07

2007-02-01T11:55:00.000-08:00

i think sometimes i get overtly defiant and like to project the fact that i think i need only myself to get by. in new york, i would often cut off from the group and just ride the subway around the city on my own, walking the streets of manhattan by myself. i was eating a 15-dollar salad at a little deli in manhattan in the back, and i managed to eavesdrop on a conversation between two men, one who was fat and in a wheelchair and another who was also fat yet free of a wheelchair. the men were talking about potential people that they might be able to hire or cast for something. i think they were talking about a broadway show, or an off-broadway show, because it really sounded like they were discussing cast-members. maybe they were casting for a TV show. regardless, i listened to the conversation and became more and more afraid of the men, because they were huge, and because they came off as assholes. i finished my salad quickly, and then went to throw it away. as i was standing at the trashcan, the fat man in the wheelchair, some TV-producer or broadway casting director or something, said "excuse me" and passed me to go get a beverage or something. i went to get my stuff and leave, and as I was leaving he passed me on the way back. he smiled a HUGE smile at me and said "thanks sweetheart", then went back to his friend, who was also smiling at me. I smiled back at them and then left the building. new yorkers have this amazing ability to come off as total pricks and then shock you with random, unneccesary kindness.

this is a sidenote, but it reminded me of another time. i was sitting at the train station in emeryville or martinez, i forget which it is, but it's one with a large interior and then a big back area where you can sit and wait for the train. there's a big snack/coffee bar inside and rows and rows of old-fashioned benches that made good waiting-for-the-train backdrops. i was sitting outside, and a woman came up to me and asked me if i was a model. i told her that no. she said, "are you trying to be?" and i said that no, i wasn't; and that i'd gotten a couple offers but that i had never really delved into the idea. she said, "i was a model when i was seventeen. i was hot", or something to that effect, and walked away. it was weird because i became aware that she didn't really care what my deal was... she just wanted to evoke the past through another (me), as if in doing so it would be nearer-at-hand for her.

the most incredible thing i saw in new york was this:
an old black man, with only about two teeth and with a feather stuck in his head, set up shop and began playing guitar in the L-line station at Bedford. he had a cellist to back him up, and he sang so without hesitation that everyone in the subway terminal turned towards him to watch. i think everyone there just stood watching him, and i think they were afraid to look at one another, as if in making eye contact they would be giving away some hint of the vulnerability that had been exposed by the old man's voice. he started playing the fleetwood mac song, "landslide", and the lyrics are so strong and hopeful - proud, even - that the fact that they were being sung by a man who looked like he'd seen hell closer-up than any of us ever had and probably ever would made me kind of choke up a little bit. there are certain moments where you feel like the blanket that is reality is just kind of slashed with a knife, and then you see through that fabric to something on the other side of it. something totally within reality but of an importance that surpasses it. the busker in the subway was an example of this kind of moment. our train showed up, and he piled on the train, coincidentally getting onto the same car as myself, and then without hesitation began playing another song. i tried to record a video of it on my phone, but my battery was so low that it would record two seconds and then die. so i have one two-second clip and one that is just a fraction of a second. to make some grandiose social comment about the matter would be to undermine the incredible simplicity of the moment as an example of what it is that constitutes being a human being.

1.31.07

2007-01-31T20:30:00.000-08:00

i have been thinking of home these days. when i find pieces of things that feel like home, i think of it. home is such a transferrable concept. it seems to be something mostly kept close to the self, lodged somewhere inside the psyche, known better than one's own self and loved more than one's own kin. my home exists somewhere between here and nevada city, although not in any actual town or field between the two. it exists more in a place between the two, written on a scale of importance. it exists in the connections i form between the life of my past and the life in which i now live; the life of my future, too. it's not a melancholy feeling, because it's not something i necessarily want to pin down. more so, it is a feeling of excitement. i hold onto things of the past like relics that i observe but do not touch. their place in the layout of my life shifts with each new experience. something once deemed of utmost importance takes a seat behind something new, and then that something new ultimately takes its seat behind the old if it proves to be less significant. the present always takes the front seat, by default, like a cocky child, because the present is unlimited and therefore, in the imagination, it is infinite and it is infinitely greater than anything prior to it. i hold onto the future like a thing that is almost tangible, yet in a way that i cannot yet observe. it seems that the self is so eager to ascribe this feeling of "heimweh" (home-like) to everything it encounters, that home becomes a colorful jumble in which there exists some carefully orchestrated yet fluid balance between the ever-present and the ever-elusive. the elusive is viewed as something familiar: something totally definable and totally discernable. this is because of the very fact that it is elusive. its elusivity renders it infinitely powerful and important.

point being, i've not been sleeping much lately because my mind has been trying to process what it has known, and subsequently trying to counter this with what it realizes it cannot know, and lastly with what it may one day come to know. i'm okay with it.