| no shit |
[Jun. 23rd, 2008|09:31 pm] |
o brother where art thou soundtrack
...fantastic in any state of mind |
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| Personal Responsibility |
[May. 16th, 2008|11:34 pm] |
Draft 1:
Does knowledge define conscious identity? If so, is it also the incidental catalyst for competition, insecurity, and prejudice?
We know that everything happens for a reason. When our hearts are bleeding and broken after they’d been berated by life-affirming failure, we accept destiny as knowledge. Fate, we say, will mend. It was meant to be. Leave it to fate.
Knowledge is not restricted to truth. In fact, most of the knowledge that mingles in relationships isn’t true. Knowledge that all blacks smoke menthols. Knowledge that all Asians are good at math. Knowledge that all women just need to be loved. Knowledge that men are genealogically uncouth. This is knowledge that actually plays into our lives because this is the principle off of which people interact.
When we’re children, we are blank slates of knowledge, barely learning language and motor skills. Once we fathom functional basics, we can move on to the knowledge like fate and stereotypes. Predetermined notions serve as short cuts in spending the time to actually get to know every person. We generalize. It’s more efficient.
Logically by this principle, we categorize every aspect of life that is unfamiliar or foreign. Situations turn into results, and results become expectations. The founded anticipation leads us back to our conditional obsession with fate. We use our capacity of thought to speculate that fate will speculate. Our individuality is defined by what we do, and what we do is think too much about too little.
When our primary actions become penning up and filtering our opinions- our only voice- we are defined as the individuals who restrict individual voice. We are the censored. We are the embarrassed, the introverted. If we don’t acknowledge our opinions, we become feeble in our evolving identities. Likewise, if we don’t embrace our mistakes we will never learn from them. Truth is a mistake.
Draft 2:
There are catalysts that make us believe what was meant to happen always happens. In our good, sound sense we never believe in fate and we praise ourselves for contentment, but when we have our hearts bleeding and broken in the face of ultimate failure, we accept destiny. “Fate will mend. Leave it to fate. It was meant to be.”
What logic do we contrive from our lives? Is there ever a plateau of inclining confusion, or does more knowledge just lead to more disorientation? Is learning the source of self-consciousness? And if so, the incidental source of competition, insecurity, and prejudice?
Knowledge doesn’t have to be truth. In fact, most of the knowledge that affects people isn’t true. Knowledge that all blacks smoke a certain type of cigarette. Knowledge that all Asians are good at math. Knowledge that all women just need to be loved. Knowledge that men are inherently sex-driven and uncouth. This is the knowledge that actually plays into our lives. This is the principle off of which people interact. When we’re children, we are blank slates of knowledge, barely having time to learn language and motor skills. Once we can fathom these, we can move on to the knowledge we need for interacting. Predetermined notions serve as short cuts in spending the time to actually get to know every person. We generalize. It’s more efficient.
Logistically, by this principle, we would categorize every aspect of life that was new and foreign. Just like categorizing people, we organize situations. “This is just like that other time.” “This is nothing like that.” So situations turn into results, and results set founded speculations, and we have returned back to the conditional belief in fate. “I speculate that fate will speculate.”
We think too much. We are what we do. When we pen up and filter our speech, our thoughts fester as their own entity, and we become the person hiding that entity and the adjacent veneer. We are embarrassed and introverted if we don’t say what we think. If we don’t acknowledge the great things we’ve done, we become feeble in our evolving identities. Likewise, if we don’t embrace our mistakes we will never learn from them.
This is a mistake. A cultural mistake is accessing this knowledge before accessing stereotypes. I can list off stereotypes like they were apparent truths because of how engrained they have become in my knowledge. It took me two precursory sentences to list four solid generalizations, and it took up until now for me to realize people can waste life living inside their heads. We are trained. We are trained like dogs. It’s not our fault. We were born into it. We are victims of circumstance. Don’t persecute us. Instead, propagate the helpless dogs that can’t help themselves. Grant pity and freedom to the mindless soldiers who follow the man in front of them. Let the domestics into the wild because they told you to. Because they feel like it. They don’t know any better.
We’re little kids running away to the tree house in the back yard. We’ll come back inside when it gets too wet and cold. Mom will take our blankets, hot out of the drier and warm us up in the house of social contracts and stereotypes. We got hungry and lonely in the tree house where we keep our porn and our weed. Where we keep the little hedonistic bits of freedom that prove our recklessness and our self-granted liberty to break the social contracts, but only if it’s a socially acceptable infringement. We don’t get caught.
And I’ve now become a bitch because I pointed it out so impolitely. I brought it up in a light that was unflattering. Use a warmer lamp. Put a cheese cloth over the bulb and light from the left. Better. Softer. Less shocking. Less infuriating. I am not haughty. Let me prove it to you. Let me prove how well I fit into society’s ideal of civic duty. Let me prove how submissive I can really be. I will go home tonight and eat food that my dad paid for with money from a corporation that wishes his job could be done by a computer because a repairman is more efficient than a sales representative. I will take a shower in a bathroom that my mom decorated for my brother and me so that beige was properly represented in all intensities and gradients. I will then go to work and put myself through an experience that I pseudo-tolerate for money I only need for temporary satiation, and that fiscal happiness will probably not outweigh the time I spent at work escaping to a fantasy of an ex-boyfriend forgiving me.
Exiting Plato’s cave is the acceptance to live deliberately. The flaw is that we leave the cave, but get thrown back into it for the sake of society. We’ve seen the light, but only on a day trip. Where we live is in the cave, with the dim fire burning and abridged lives churning for the sake of simplicity.
Draft:3
Does knowledge define conscious identity? If so, it is also the incidental catalyst for competition, insecurity, and prejudice.
We adopt the faculty of “knowing” that everything happens for a reason. When hearts are bleeding and broken after life-affirming failure, we accept destiny as “knowledge.”
“Fate will mend. It was meant to be. Leave it to fate.”
Knowledge is not restricted to truth. Knowledge that mingles in relationships isn’t true. Knowledge that all blacks smoke menthols. Knowledge that all Asians are good at math. Knowledge that all women ‘just need to be loved.’ Knowledge that men are genealogically uncouth. This knowledge plays into our lives because it is the principle of interaction.
Children are blank slates without knowledge, feebly learning language and motor skills. Once we fathom functional basics, we move on to the knowledge of fate and stereotypes. Predetermined notions serve as short cuts in spending the time to actually get to truly know every person. Generalization is more efficient.
Logically applying this principle, we categorize every aspect of life that is unfamiliar or foreign. Situations become results, and results become expectations. Founded anticipation leads us back to our conditional obsession with fate. We use capacity for thought to speculate that fate will speculate. Individuals are defined by actions taken, and our only action is thinking too much about too little.
Primary actions become the penning up and filtering of our opinions- our only voice- and thus we are defined as the individuals who restrict individual voice. We, the censored. We, the embarrassed; we, the introverted. Without acknowledgment of self, our evolving identities deteriorate. Likewise, if we don’t embrace our mistakes, we will never learn.
Truth is a mistake. This is a mistake.
A mistake is truth being spoken instead of engrained stereotypes. It took two precursory sentences to list four generalizations in culture, and up until this moment to tell you that people will waste parts of their lives living inside censorship. That sentence was a mistake.
Like dogs, we are trained. Blameless and born into it, we are victims of reality. Don’t persecute us. Propagate the helpless dogs that cannot help themselves. Grant pity and freedom to the mindless soldiers who follow the man in front. Let the domestics into the wild because they feel like it, and don’t know any better. We are little kids running away to the tree house in the back yard. Mother will take our blankets hot out of the dryer and warm us again in the house of social contracts and general knowledge. Hungry and lonely in the tree house where we keep our porn and our weed, the little hedonistic bits of freedom that prove recklessness and self-granted liberty to violate the social contracts. A socially acceptable infringement. We don’t get caught.
I apologize for the impolite and unfiltered opinion. I bring truth into a light that is unflattering. Use a warmer lamp. Put a cheesecloth over the bulb and light from the left. Better. Softer. Less shocking. Less provocative. Now it looks like we know what we’re doing.
Let’s go home. We know home. There, we can eat food paid for by a company that would rather Father was a machine, because a repairman is cheaper than a sales representative. Let us take a shower in the bathroom that Mother decorated with all properly represented intensities and gradients of beige. Then, a pseudo-tolerable job that will only give financial and temporary satiation.
Exiting Plato’s cave is the acceptance to Live Deliberately. We’ve seen the garish light of truth, but only on indulgent day trips. Society’s call seduces us back to the cave of guesses and reckless acceptance, with the dim fire behind us, burning, and abridged lives churning for the sake of simplicity.
Draft 4:
“Fate will mend. It was meant to be. Leave it to fate."
Does knowledge define conscious identity? If so, it is also the incidental catalyst for competition, insecurity, and prejudice.
We adopt the faculty of “knowing” that everything happens for a reason. When hearts are bleeding and broken after life-affirming failure, we accept destiny as “knowledge.”
Knowledge is not restricted to truth. Knowledge that mingles in relationships isn’t true. Knowledge that all blacks smoke menthols. Knowledge that all Asians are good at math. Knowledge that all women ‘just need to be loved.’ Knowledge that men are genealogically uncouth. This knowledge plays into our lives because it is the principle of interaction.
Children are blank slates without knowledge, feebly learning language and motor skills. Once we fathom functional basics, we move on to the knowledge of fate and stereotypes. Predetermined notions serve as short cuts in spending the time to actually get to truly know every person. Generalization is more efficient.
Logically applying this principle, we categorize every aspect of life that is unfamiliar or foreign. Situations become results, and results become expectations. Founded anticipation leads us back to our conditional obsession with fate. We use capacity for thought to speculate that fate will speculate. Individuals are defined by actions taken, and our only action is thinking too much about too little.
Primary actions become the penning up and filtering of our opinions- our only voice- and thus we are defined as the individuals who restrict individual voice. We, the censored. We, the embarrassed; we, the introverted. Without acknowledgment of self, our evolving identities deteriorate. Likewise, if we don’t embrace our mistakes, we will never learn.
Truth is a mistake. This is a mistake.
A mistake is truth being spoken instead of engrained stereotypes. It took two precursory sentences to list four generalizations in culture, and up until this moment to tell you that people will waste parts of their lives living inside censorship. That sentence was a mistake.
Like dogs, we are trained. Blameless and born into it, we are victims of reality. Don’t persecute us. Propagate the helpless dogs that cannot help themselves. Grant pity and freedom to the mindless soldiers who follow the man in front. Let the domestics into the wild because they feel like it, and don’t know any better. We are little kids running away to the tree house in the back yard. Mother will take our blankets hot out of the dryer and warm us again in the house of social contracts and general knowledge. Hungry and lonely in the tree house where we keep our porn and our weed, the little hedonistic bits of freedom that prove recklessness and self-granted liberty to violate the social contracts. A socially acceptable infringement. We don’t get caught.
I apologize for the impolite and unfiltered opinion. I bring truth into a light that is unflattering. Use a warmer lamp. Put a cheesecloth over the bulb and light from the left. Better. Softer. Less shocking. Less provocative. Now it looks like we know what we’re doing.
Let’s go home. We know home. There, we can eat food paid for by a company that would rather Father was a machine, because a repairman is cheaper than a sales representative. Let us take a shower in the bathroom that Mother decorated with all properly represented intensities and gradients of beige. Then, a pseudo-tolerable job that will only give financial and temporary satiation.
Exiting Plato’s cave is the acceptance to Live Deliberately. We’ve seen the garish light of truth, but only on indulgent day trips. Society’s call seduces us back to the cave of guesses and reckless acceptance, with the dim fire behind us, burning, and abridged lives churning for the sake of simplicity. |
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| writing...still being twisted and buffed |
[May. 12th, 2008|10:44 pm] |
Stolen Season
This is my stolen season. This is the second spring in a year that has already fulfilled its due calendar. This is unreality. This is what leaves a scar. This is the endorphin kick that leaves a thin red line on the arms of thin pale girls who can't purge feelings through talks. This is the makeup I wear to the club that leaves blemishes when I wipe it off the next day. This is the leg massage I got from a boy who isn't allowed to touch me. This is a loan from the bank, accumulating tax as a neat, snowballing statement on my balance. This is the car for which the bank gave me that loan. This is the set of darting brown eyes that belong to a friend who is leaning in to tell me a secret. This is the anticipation and excitement I get when her eyes bounce, scanning faces around the hall for unwelcome familiarity. She'll lean in now and tell me she's pregnant.
But not yet.
She isn't pregnant yet.
Not if she hasn't told me
yet.
So I interrupt that girl before she tells me. Before her eyes stop bouncing. Enjoy the endorphins and hope no one sees red lines on little girls' arms. I'll wear my makeup and never wipe it off. I will allow the leg massage and have friends who aren't driven or concerned enough to stop me. I'll hide all the bank statements from family and when they come over for dinner, and then I'll leave the city.
I'll leave the state.
I'll abandon
this country, and
this season.
I'll steal it all back.
Lips
I have her lips.
They're quaint and turgid with a freckle on the bottom rim.
I have to lick ice cream off of them. I have to suck air through her lips.
She's always so sick that I constantly feel contagious. She's always uninvited but around. Always hugging me, unprovoked, in an old, musty robe she never washes and it reeks of her and her memory.
She's invaded my face.
Not in my nose of eyes, but through my hair, forming my mouth, into my cheekbones.
I wonder if writing will erase her from my mind. I'm curious if plastic surgery will ever be enough, or if there are already too many pictures of me with her smile, too many kisses with her lips, too many years looking like her.
It's not too late. Resolve is flowering. It's worth attempting. I could stop resembling the girl with her lips. I can stop the memories' building.
People will fail to recognize me. The past would remain as any, but the present rides on a phone call, an appointment, a few grand and a new pair of lips. I don't care whose lips, so long as they're no longer hers. They can be fat and limp like curtains for my smile, like an exlover, or they can be punctuated with scars like a stranger, just so long as I can avoid
the quarantine of her resemblance,
of her lips. |
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| portage slamapalooza entry |
[Apr. 26th, 2008|12:31 pm] |
Does knowledge define conscious identity? If so, it is also the incidental catalyst for competition, insecurity, and prejudice.
We adopt the faculty of “knowing” that everything happens for a reason. When hearts are bleeding and broken after life-affirming failure, we accept destiny as “knowledge.”
“Fate will mend. It was meant to be. Leave it to fate.”
Knowledge is not restricted to truth. Knowledge that mingles in relationships isn’t true. Knowledge that all blacks smoke menthols. Knowledge that all Asians are good at math. Knowledge that all women ‘just need to be loved.’ Knowledge that men are genealogically uncouth. This knowledge plays into our lives because it is the principle of interaction.
Children are blank slates without knowledge, feebly learning language and motor skills. Once we fathom functional basics, we move on to the knowledge of fate and stereotypes. Predetermined notions serve as short cuts in spending the time to actually get to truly know every person. Generalization is more efficient.
Logically applying this principle, we categorize every aspect of life that is unfamiliar or foreign. Situations become results, and results become expectations. Founded anticipation leads us back to our conditional obsession with fate. We use capacity for thought to speculate that fate will speculate. Individuals are defined by actions taken, and our only action is thinking too much about too little.
Primary actions become the penning up and filtering of our opinions- our only voice- and thus we are defined as the individuals who restrict individual voice. We, the censored. We, the embarrassed; we, the introverted. Without acknowledgment of self, our evolving identities deteriorate. Likewise, if we don’t embrace our mistakes, we will never learn.
Truth is a mistake. This is a mistake.
A mistake is truth being spoken instead of engrained stereotypes. It took two precursory sentences to list four generalizations in culture, and up until this moment to tell you that people will waste parts of their lives living inside censorship. That sentence was a mistake.
Like dogs, we are trained. Blameless and born into it, we are victims of reality. Don’t persecute us. Propagate the helpless dogs that cannot help themselves. Grant pity and freedom to the mindless soldiers who follow the man in front. Let the domestics into the wild because they feel like it, and don’t know any better. We are little kids running away to the tree house in the back yard. Mother will take our blankets hot out of the dryer and warm us again in the house of social contracts and general knowledge. Hungry and lonely in the tree house where we keep our porn and our weed, the little hedonistic bits of freedom that prove recklessness and self-granted liberty to violate the social contracts. A socially acceptable infringement. We don’t get caught.
I apologize for the impolite and unfiltered opinion. I bring truth into a light that is unflattering. Use a warmer lamp. Put a cheesecloth over the bulb and light from the left. Better. Softer. Less shocking. Less provocative. Now it looks like we know what we’re doing.
Let’s go home. We know home. There, we can eat food paid for by a company that would rather Father was a machine, because a repairman is cheaper than a sales representative. Let us take a shower in the bathroom that Mother decorated with all properly represented intensities and gradients of beige. Then, a pseudo-tolerable job that will only give financial and temporary satiation.
Exiting Plato’s cave is the acceptance to Live Deliberately. We’ve seen the garish light of truth, but only on indulgent day trips. Society’s call seduces us back to the cave of guesses and reckless acceptance, with the dim fire behind us, burning, and abridged lives churning for the sake of simplicity. |
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| Poems as they were sent to the free press (critique them) |
[Mar. 17th, 2008|01:40 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  accomplished | ] |
Redundant
Excuse us.
We are jaded and misinformed in our vernal mistrust.
It’s too late for lame liabilities.
I will hold myself accountable for what you won’t say.
The fault is mine that you so
Avidly adopted
The role of victim.
You found the façade of stagnation first.
Kill or be killed.
You are the submissive.
Act or be acted upon.
You are latent and drunk in convenience.
Succumb to the elements once,
Shame on the condition.
Succumb ten times,
I love you.
It’s incriminating. You may as well have bore the conditions single-handedly.
Well conjured, genius.
Well acted. Well played,
If by ear, genius.
Encourage the myth
Of a stalemate knowing that it makes me
Appear as the avid antagonist
And you the victim
Of alluringly absolving alcohol.
Consumption is the fault of the consumer.
Muse, you are not a victim of circumstance.
Embody obvious truth, genius.
Come, genius, and intoxicate yourself.
My shooting star is stumbling slurring drunk,
Naked,
And absently.
Muse, drink up.
Absolve your mess, genius.
Sound
There is significance in sound.
Every scream or sniff or snap.
Redundant sounds hold no value.
They are weightless sound,
Traveling through time
And space, as beings disregarded by exposed, callused ears.
Captivation lies in new noise.
A murmur of clicks made by June bugs,
Like a tea kettle,
Climaxes to an audible hum when
The heat is hot enough.
Death
You called and said so frankly,
Even frank between gasps for breath,
“My mom is dead.”
I have to speak now.
The buzz of everything is stunted by this.
Everything comes from something natural if you break it down enough.
I’m on a natural buzz.
Naturally refined.
Naturally distilled.
Words come out,
“Oh my God.”
This is the theme of trivial gossip,
My summary of emotional investment in a first degree burn.
Oh my God.
It’s not even stable grammatically.
My God.
Just my God.
This moment is artificial.
It’s plastic
Like the girl I’m with
Who has her short hair spiked up,
Vacancy of chest support, and Spanish skin
Overworked by tanning booths.
This isn’t real.
Everything comes from something natural. |
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| Essay I sent for the freepress competition-critique |
[Mar. 17th, 2008|01:38 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  water break | ] |
| [ | music |
| | You're Never There - Cake | ] |
Shakespeare prods at the humanistic conundrum of conditions in existence. Humans are fortunately organized carbon atoms forged in the sun. Our fiber of existence is the fiber that happened by luck to make a self-aware life form instead of a tree, a CO2 atom, coal, or anything that is not a human. This reality can be taken as either belittling or empowering. Renaissance men would argue that insignificance empowers and invites one to explore possible realities. The Medieval Church would argue that humans must respect their presence here as he or she respects the presence of God. The reality of existence is that there is a lingering question of what [we are], and, more daunting, why [are we so aware of this question]. “Hamlet” shrewdly and poetically articulates the human condition and the foundation of humanism as we know it: “What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable in action, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”
Shakespeare, being a Renaissance man, held the virtues of “rebirth” (the literal translation of “Renaissance”) as it applies to the emerging perception of the individual. It had been established by the incontestable Church that man was made in God’s image, and therefore man had the rights and responsibilities of “gods”. These rights were flagrantly exercised by society in the middle ages, but as the Church came into question in the 15th and 16th century, so did its teachings. Hamlet states this pithily, almost mockingly, “What a piece of work is man…how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals.”
This theme can be carried across creative outlets. Questioning importance of existence can also be seen in Michelangelo’s David. Arguably the most acutely sensed human form for its time and even of today, the David statue stands as an embodiment of human doubt in humanism. This holds true even in the face of its reference to the man-propagating Bible. David stands nude, vulnerable and exposed. This is the state of man as he stands against a Goliath. His nervousness accentuates the vulnerability shown by his bareness. Also a Renaissance man, Michelangelo displays the garish reality of inherent fear, even when God is assisting us. David illustrated humans, “how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable in action,” are yet so aware of their “quintessence of dust.”
This helplessness can be directly extracted from the dwindling faith during the 1300s, while the plague was first raging in Europe. If followers were pious, why did God allow infection and filth to rampantly infest ostensibly innocent lives? Supporters of the Church grappled for salvation, calling upon priests when having contracted the plague, and essentially paying off God with Indulgences. These followers found respite in faith, while others, whom went on to spearhead the Renaissance, saw the Church as a human invention. Being a human invention to these individuals, the Church simply afflicted human truth, and did not provide any deictic gateway.
Shakespeare, then, is a somewhat portentous writer, ridiculing the Church provided condition of man, then the perception of this condition by the individual, and finally the fear that this perception rouses. The confusion of the conscious knowledge, subconscious knowledge, and incidental fear can be recognized in sufferers across Europe toward the end of the middle ages (fighters in the crusades, those living with the plague, those in poverty, etcetera).
A film I found to be most insightful on the malaise of the 13th century indulges in contemporary satire and cinematic artistry beyond content. Biblical metaphors and embodied innocence aside, “The Seventh Seal” had an obvious theme. Confusion and fear manifest after one has been exposed to the knowledge of a new reality. The knight returns home after having seen battle for the sake of his God, but returns to find a vacancy of the modest and merciful God he’d defended. The condition he returns in is that of shattered faith. His and his society’s conscious and objective minds have been taught to cherish a God that may become evident in forms of both punishments and rewards. The flagellants arrive at a conclusion that God has a quota of punishment to fill for all of man, and so they punish themselves to end the plague sooner. This conclusion muddles with the knight’s unwillingness to concede that God is present in the crusades or in the plague-riddled villages.
The knight found that he had proliferated mankind’s righteousness in his own mind in the name of a God he no longer could identify. The notion evolves in culture, at this time, that man has godly faculties, but no longer for the sake of God. It is now for the sake of man. Man becomes his own savior and his own convolutes in the new actuality of inexplicable evil/luck. Man is both “the beauty in the world” and, when in the light of the crusades, “dust.”
Shakespeare could be considered a philosopher. His writings were more controversially opinionated and introspective than some of the most revered theorists. In a short excerpt, he manages to encapsulate the disdainful vanity of man and his own creation, and the masochistic self-doubt resulting from this mass-minded vanity. Man is both everything and nothing at the same time. Man is fortunately organized carbon atoms. “What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable in action, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?” |
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| Quotations that lead to writings...which I've yet to write. |
[Mar. 3rd, 2008|07:46 pm] |
"The only inherent moral is self preservation."
"Every passing moment is a moment farther from a life you will never lead."
"When men show obvious sexual interest, they have nothing to lose. Women have everything to lose. When we show interest in you, it's the men who lose respect for us. When you show interest in us, we just respect ourselves more for being attractive."
and...probably some things I'm too lazy to go out and find in my notebooks. |
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| I'm in love but I'm lazy. |
[Feb. 7th, 2008|06:17 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  chipper | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Honey Pie - The Beatles | ] |
I was high and decided to start writing again: If we love what we do, then we seem to do what we love. Ghandi: "Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have." We do what we want to do. We are in the position to take what we want to take. If we love what we do, then it appears that we have lived deliberately. It appears that we got the option to consciously exist on a planned path toward the present without learning mistakes and lessons. I want that. I am that because I proclaim it. Now. I have now changed what my life up until now seems to have been. I have lived deliberately; I've fulfilled an impossible sentiment. Impossible to embody. Not possible to write. Asinine. Nonsensical. Unreal. Yet, it is. It exists as much as any concept or notion; it exists like math or morals. Deliberate living is a decidedly impossible reality, yet it is math. Math and morals are less tangible than you think/act/believe/want to believe. I want that. I am that. Even so, how, then, does religion stand? Religion/faith is the combination of morals (customized principles applicable to only the person who makes them a posteriori) and psychological inadequacies (just world hypothesis, inherent and conscious fear of death). Religion stands as less than morals, so less than deliberate living, and so less than nonsense. Faith is the world's unreality. Mine is at least as real as math.
emma |
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| Hey wait! |
[Jan. 27th, 2008|08:33 pm] |
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Livejournal is no way to communicate my somewhat honest opinions. I don't know what I was thinking. |
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| Update. |
[Jan. 21st, 2008|11:09 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  awake | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Jorge Regula - Moldy Peaches | ] |
Okay well...I had a 3 week extension on this paper.
and I haven't done it yet, and the extension ends tomorrow.
Maybe I'll skip.
I'll try to do it all tonight...we'll see how that goes.
Right now, I'll address the confusion surrounding my "love" theory. The "Good Will Hunting Logic" is the logic that there is someone who is flawed in the ways that you can contrast harmoniously. There is no perfect person in which you can find respite without also finding flaw. It's really going to be butchered if I try to keep explaining it...you really have to just see it. It's best verbatim. And that is the philosophy on love closest to mine that I can find in a movie.
Furthermore, I totally appreciate the "when you're my age" talk. I respect older people's opinions. Most were like me once, at least in the sense that they had a first date/kiss/love/etc, and the ones who were a lot like me are still like me in a jaded and callused way. It's not hard to detect who I might grow up to be. The teacher who told me that I'd settle for love seems like a Christian me with a lot more weed. And male, and aged a few decades. None the less, I can relate really heavily to his mindset. Don't misunderstand me. I don't take his word as just an adult; I take his word as a person who is like me who has seen a lot more than I ever could have in my day.
That's it for now. AQ? xox
emma |
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| "Love"...but not in a cheesy or poetic vain. |
[Jan. 15th, 2008|08:02 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  scared | ] |
I went to philosophy club last week and discussed what we settle for once we've been jaded. Making choices to sacrifice things like travel for things like financial comfort. Sacrifice is completely necessary unless you have one, untarnished goal in life without anything posing as a runner-up. And, if that's the case, the case is kind of boring anyway.
The teacher who runs this club told us that we'd eventually settle for a lot. We've already settled for friends, for grades, for colleges, etc.
He said something I really didn't expect to hear. He said we'd settle for love, and that kind of freaked me out. I have, however, concluded that it's true. No one finds someone who's perfect. It just seemed so pessimistic for a high school teacher. I would subscribe to Good Will Hunting. Matt Damon had a good take on love and compatibility. If you've never seen it, I recommend.
Ben told me that if he could dedicate a song to me it would be "You'll Be Loved" by Death Cab. That's cute and all, but what the hell does that say about me? That my most obvious and pressing concern to the outside world is my romantic void? Absolutely disheartening. I guess he's seen a lot of shit and I've told him a lot of really intimate things in that field, so maybe it's just him and his knowledge...but the whole focus of love being some ultimate, necessary goal is frightful.
I know that by now I shouldn't be using Britt and I as an example of anything healthy or positive, but if you'll travel with me to a time when he considered shaving and I was considered shy, I'm gonna go ahead and us for a second. We were kinda drunk (him more so) and driving home from a fancy party trying to remember lyrics to 90's songs when he said, "You know...I keep telling myself that I shouldn't like you this much because this is high school and you're a high school girlfriend, but then I think 'but it's Emma!'" It has reigned supreme as the cutest confession. I guess I bring it up because it shows how rigid guidelines are for certain aspects of romance. On that note, he turned out to be right. Here we are now just kind of tripping over our own ignorance, unable to get out of our own way. This past year has been nothing but making mistakes and learning along the way.
It's one of those things that you wish you had more experience in before your time for said experience has come. Like wanting to go back to kindergarten with your current knowledge.
I guess I could call myself scared. Not to a degree that it impedes my overall mood, but enough to use the little mouse guy. As was said in film theory, we have no guarantee that our lives will get better than they are now. No legal or moral net keeps me from dropping out and just sorta...wasting my life by being too indecisive and hung up on sentiment. As of graduation, there is a very real possibility that I'll fuck up and have to pay for my own place and my own classes at occ. There's a very real possibility that I will get too old to be picky anymore, and settle for someone I only kind of love, making high school the most passionate and meaningful years of my life.
So, Ben and Mr. Shaheen, this floundering spew of panic circling romance may or may not have testified to your respective opinions of love's importance. I guess we have to decide for ourselves if it's worth the grief. For me? ...Apparently, it hasn't been worth it since the November before last. However, people like you have me convinced I should reconsider.
...
What's your deal?
emma |
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| Why I may have stopped writing...and college. |
[Jan. 13th, 2008|10:27 pm] |
I'm thumbing through my notebooks and trying to find some poem or something that would be light enough to put in here so I wouldn't have to write anything new...and everything is way too personal or way too heavy. It makes me seem way more pretentious than I'd like to let on.
Furthermore, I get the feeling that people who don't talk to me (anymore) are going to read this and pass judgment of what I'm about based solely on an isolated update.
So...I'll write about what's been on my mind? It seems harmless. If you want something more thoughtful, lemme know...and if you prefer concise updates of my dwelling, tell me that too? I aim to please when it comes to people reading my journal. If it wasn't about an audience, I'd just write it on paper.
Anyway, what I've been worrying about, mostly, has been where the hell I'm living next year. It's not that being homeless is likely or anything...so I suppose it's not a genuine fret. I just want to know where I've been accepted so that I can deliberate. East Lansing would be/will be a blast with the people I already know up there, but I feel like it would be JUST those people. Ann Arbor, on the other hand, would be within an hour of home and EL, not to mention the people I know there.
Florida is ideal academically. Financially and socially, it's almost suicide. But I feel like in a lot of idealistic ways school shouldn't be determined on the premises of money or friends. I know too many people or have heard of too many people who stayed near their friends/family out of fear, and now they're going to a shitty school because they wouldn't admit to themselves that they only stayed for the comfort aspect. They'll probably never move out of the state. It'll always be too much of a hassle or too expensive or too lonely to leave. And they'll hate themselves when they're 50 for not leaving when they were young. If for nothing else, I want to leave to see something new and be someone new. I've changed (obviously) a lot while I lived in the same place, and I want to go somewhere that doesn't know me for what I did when I was 15.
However, this will always be home, and there's something comforting about people who knew you when you wore fishnet shirts to school because you thought you were cooler than your age because you knew 18 year olds. It's humbling in the most familiar way...and I don't know if I should be away from that by an entire country. Not yet, at least.
Realistically, I don't know how the hell I would even pay for it. Also, I don't know what the school is actually like, aside from the fact that it's great as far as academic standards are concerned.
Lee said you get about 5 chances to travel in your life, and the time after high school is one. He left for California when he was in his early 20's and never moved back. Now he has a family in San Diego.
Maybe I'm just waiting for my acceptance letters so the decision is made for me.
I wonder I wonder I wonder.
emma |
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| Tell a friend. |
[Jan. 10th, 2008|09:37 pm] |
Hey, I'm thinking about coming back to livejournal with kind of inane thoughts/concerns/gossips. The usual. It would be like bringing back Coca-cola Classic, New Coke being the absence of entires altogether. Comment if you would actually read it, because without an audience...there's no reason for me to transfer from notebook to interweb.
emma |
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| Mr. Bruns |
[Oct. 2nd, 2007|09:15 pm] |
I don't have any entries about Bruns and I feel like I should.
That's it. |
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| <3 |
[Sep. 4th, 2007|10:28 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  high | ] |
I'm gonna ride this plane out of your life again
I wish that I could stay, but you argue
More than this I wish, you could've seen my face
In backseats staring out, the window
I'll do anything for you
Kill anyone for you
So leave yourself intact
'Cause I will be coming back
In a phrase to cut these lips
I love you
The morning will come
In the press of every kiss
With your head upon my chest
Where I will annoy you
With every waking breath
Until you decide to wake up
I've earned through hope and faith
On the curves around your face
That I'm the one you'll hold forever
If morning never comes for either one of us
Then this I pray to you wherever
I'll do anything for you
This story is for you
'Cause I'd do anything you want me to for you
I'll do anything for you
Kill anyone for you
So leave yourself intact
'Cause I won't be coming back
In a phrase to cut these lips
I loved you
The morning will come
In the press of every kiss
With your head upon my chest
Where I will annoy you
With every waking breath
Until you decide to wake up
The morning will come
In the press of every kiss
With your head upon my chest
Where I will annoy you
With every waking breath
'Til you decide to wake up |
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meltinthecold's journal