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.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
6.13.07
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."
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."
Friday, May 18, 2007
5.18.07
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.
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.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
5.17.07
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.
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.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
5.10.07
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.:
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.:
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
5.9.07
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.
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.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
5.5.07
"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.
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.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
4.29.07
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
4.25.07
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
4.24.07
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
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.
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
4.22.07
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.
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.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
4.21.07
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.
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.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
4.19.07
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.
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.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
4.14.07
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.
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.
Friday, April 13, 2007
4.13.07
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.
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.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
4.12.07
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.
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.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
4.1.07
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)