So Much to Think About

For me, thinking is a big part of who I am. I’m constantly charged with writing papers, theses, essays, short and long answers…practically everything but what I want to be writing. But then the question becomes, “what do I want to write?”

I thought I wanted to write short fiction for the longest time. When I entered the college arena, that aspiration quickly turned to screenplays because I enjoyed the escapist nature film provided in my pathetic existence. Because I was so anti-social with reality, I became hyper-social with fiction. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman’s intense romance in “Casablanca”–my favorite film of all time–transcended an ordinary love story for me. I could and would talk to the characters, express my dissatisfaction with Bergman’s betrayal of Bogart, or Bogart’s self-pitied drunkardness. I was finding who I was through other people, other dead people because all the stars I loved and still love are classic film stars who are six feet under right now.

But my love for dead picture stars isn’t the crux of this entry. The crux is something more profound–self-discovery.

I’m not a writer. Read my blog–the poor use of grammar, the constant comma splice, the mundane syntax. It’s all there, black and white, clear as crystal. I’ll write it again, I’m not a writer. Now, this isn’t some attempt at self-reduction for the eventual self-propagation we see as a common motif called the modesty trope–typically prevalent in medieval literature. Au contraire, this is a hard truth.

Do I like to write? Well, sometimes. You’ll notice my blogs, while initially more consistent and laid out in a more compartmentalized time frame, have barely been monthly. To some, this may be a blessing, to others, whoever you are, this may have been a disappointment or a let-down. Nevertheless, the act of writing requires the act of thinking. When writing one must think about what he/she is trying to convey to his/her audience.

I’m writing this to let some of you in on how I think, how I think about myself, how I think about others, etc. But what I really like to think about is thinking, in and of itself. I’m an unofficial philosophy buff. I’ve garnered some elementary knowledge on the subject, mostly empirical knowledge, nothing concrete or instruction-worthy. But I like to think, and I like to think about thinking. Meta-thinking, or meta-thought has been a subject of much interest to me recently. How and why people think, what they think about–these ideas matter very much to me. But,  like most hobbies of mine, I quickly become bored. And like writing this blog right now, I’m becoming bored. While I would like to continue this blog, I feel no motivation whatsoever to do so.

So I beg someone, anyone who knows me, come to my house some time. Knock on my door. If someone other than me answers, simply ask for me, or call ahead of time so I know to expect you. My only request apart from the larger one which I will reveal momentarily, is bring a gun. No, not to shoot me with, or at least I would hope not. But bring a gun, and point that gun to my temple and command me to write until you lower the gun from my forehead. Unfortunately, I feel this act will be the only act that will fuel my motivation to write longer that the supposed five-hundred and seventy-some word count I’m currently producing.

Please, I beg you. Come, bring a gun, and help me save any remaining creativity I’ve got in this godforsaken body. Please.

Salute

I wrote a post a couple months ago discussing voice and a lack thereof. I rebuke most of what I said. It’s tacky and trite: you’ve probably read what I said on the back of a cereal box. I tend to be preachy or pontificating. I don’t mean to…at all. So, for future reference, read the post if you’d like [I forget the name; again, it’s not that important], but disregard its contents.

The semester is almost over. This is a huge YES for me. The semester’s closing means that my free time is opening and I’ve got a lot of shit I want to accomplish–like kill some zombies and drink some milkshakes– before mid-January of next year when I have to come back to the classroom and regurgitate more bits of information [which I generally don’t mind, to be honest]. So this is good news.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m a conspiracy theorist. I’m pretty sure I’m a paranoid schizophrenic; I’m just not clinically diagnosed…yet. I have this unquenchable interest in the JFK assassination [cliche, I know], and I’m watching more tv than I should, or want to be. Now, I understand this inconsequential criteria may seem inconsequential, but I’ve got little going on in my life which merits any sort of record or remembering. Being a conspiracy theorist is right on. In fact, AMC recently premiered a show titled Rubicon which deals with conspiracies theories. Though I haven’t checked it out, yet, I feel it would be well worth the hour or so it goes for to be steeped in the (il)logic of conspiracy theories. I’m slowly boosting my Sherlock Holmes skills and plan to be a dire necessity to a local conspiracy team. I’m sending out applications, some photos, and some writing samples to potential organizations.

I will be the breadwinner. I will prove that Oswald was not alone. I will show the world that Martians do exist, and that Area 51 is nothing more than a ranch with horses, cows, and the occasional chicken–with aliens underneath the floor of the barn ruthless plotting their escape and eventual take over of mankind. Fuck yeah aliens, let’s see some intergalactic contact. I’ll be sure to bring my record player as it plays bawdy 1940s hits which will end up destroying you.

Note to self: When selecting the music, don’t forget to play some Carly Simon, because everyone knows those aliens are so fucking vain, they probably think this blog is about them, don’t they, don’t they?

So, the other day…

I made an account for NaNoWriMo [National Novel Writing Month] with the plan of writing a novel. To date, I have…nothing. Damn. Instead of writing here, I should be writing this supposed novel I’d plan to write earlier this month. But, I feel more at home here. I mean, my novel was never to materialize, so why should I be worried? I’m not, I’m just letting you know I should be writing a novel but am not writing a novel.

Sweet. I have a real issue with being poor. In the past couple of weeks I was able to buy my lunch, eat plenty and be full. But now, I have no money, and no means of satisfying my hunger. My lemonade stand [see previous entry] didn’t work out, and so now I’m left to my own devices [like a savage man in the wild] to hunt for money to pay for food. I wish, in some sense, I was a hunter capable of self-sustaining my existence without the need for trivial things like paper currency. I would greatly take on the task of procuring my own resources [water, shelter, food, possibly clothing] and living off the land…Thoreau style.

After achieving this kind of existence, however, I would immediately regret all decisions leading up to that point, give up on trying to be independent of the civilized world and go back to my Cheez-Its, Wendys, and Fried Foods with a damn liter of cola to wash it down with.

What a life.

Simple

As I’m writing this, I’m completely inebriated. I’m okay with this.

I feel the world is too structured/too productive. This productivity, I would argue, leads to a competitive society that feeds on the weakness of others. WHY are we doing this? If I ask a friend to chill and their response is,” I’ve got shit to do” my response SHOULD be, “You’ve also got a life to live.” But it’s not. I, too, am guilty of over-working myself. Being in school and dealing with the daily tasks asked of me, I tend to adopt this hyper-productive mode and rarely savor time for the things I truly enjoy.

I do not enjoy writing papers or taking tests. It’s just a fact of my life. I’d prefer to be watching Duck Tales, Rescue Rangers, or Talespin. I’d rather be eating an ice cream sundae or watching blooper reels on the internet. However, nine times out of ten you’ll find me working on some research-oriented project which will devour most, if not all, of my time. I say to those who are like me, LISTEN to me, DON’T do this to yourself. Have a life. Words I should’ve followed I want you to follow. If anyone reads this, please, please, please, for one day do that thing, or those things, which you’ve been aching to do for God-knows-how-long.

My greatest fear, besides becoming addicted to anything–cigarettes, alcohol, etc.–is looking back on the life I’ve failed to live and realizing how much potential my youth afforded me only to be squashed by the burdens of adulthood. Age IS just a number, it IS just something which endows one with certain privileges, yet ultimately, it’s JUST a number. So please, whether you’re fourteen or forty, get the fuck outside and do something. You’ve probably read posts similar to this one many a time…and you might’ve listened, but as I said before I’m fucking intoxicated, but I still got something to say no matter how generic it is.

Get outside. Shit, I would, but it’s almost midnight and it’s, like forty degrees outside. I mean, with my imagination I could possibly act as if I’m in a post-apocalyptic state and try to salvage the rest of townkind from a radiculous [intended] plague, but I’m tired [which is a legitimate excuse to not practice what I preach].

Seriously, listen, or abide [like the Dude], and, if you live in the Southern Hemisphere, get the hell outside and play futbol, play tag, eat an ice cream cone, build a fort…DO SOMETHING. Or, you know what, we’re all doomed. That’s right, if you don’t get outside right now, you’ve killed us all. Thanks a lot Brazil. You had a chance to save yourself after your terrible World Cup performance, but you didn’t. Naw, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not listening, I’m not listening, I’m not listening. Stop making excuses and go outside…NOW.

Lemonade Stand

It’s come to my attention that I’ve been too lazy when it comes to actually doing what I’m supposed to. This is for many reasons, but mainly, because I have no motivation.

I have no motivation to get up in the morning; no motivation to look for a job (although, I do have a job, in fact, I’m at my job right now), but I need ANOTHER job; no motivation to talk to anyone; I have absolutely no motivation to do things which would give me motivation, either, like make coffee. I should make some coffee (dammit, I’m at my job, though).

Shit. I’ve gotta do something. I’ve gotta explore my options. But I have no motivation to do so. I’ve got to be honest, I’m impressing myself by writing this, because I have no motivation to write this.

I think I need some drastic changes to occur in my life. Not drastic in the sense that will completely alter my life and so bring about a vortex of continued confusion because I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but a change in the sense that maybe I should wear spandex to school. Yeah. Or, maybe I should develop the habit of developing habits. I need some routine which consists of more than just going to school, taking tests, writing papers, and playing Super Smash Bros. Not that the latter is bad. In fact, I look forward to choosing Jigglypuff, putting bitches to bed, and then resting myself while my meek opponent flies off the fucking screen (PEACE!). That’s right, I choose the road less taken ever’day. Fuck you Capt. Falcon, Ness, and Luigi–you’re whores of power which need to be stopped pronto.

I’m done with this. No, I’m not. I’m done with saying I’m done with things. I’d rather start something, like a revolution. No, I’m no revolutionary. I’m not a rebel looking to take part in a rebellion so I could showcase my rebelliousness to the world. I’m weak, but I’m going to the gym.

Shit. I’ve gotta start something. Maybe I’ll be nostalgic and open up a lemonade stand in my front yard this weekend and sell lemonade for 50 cents. THIS could be my second job. I admit, it’s not lucrative, but it’s got spunk and I like spunk especially when it requires little effort, yet looks like I’m putting a lot into it. Why can’t we all just operate lemonade stands? Why can’t we all just be kids again? I know why, because then America would experience a major tsunami causing it to submerge into the Atlantic just like (the fabled city) Atlantis. That’s right, if every American reverted to being children again, America would become the next Atlantis…BOOM. I just jigglied my way sleep and now it’s time to go.

When Does it Go From Love to Obsession?

It’s pretty clear to me and most of my peers (ages 18-25) that a fine line exists between love and obsession. If you deny a line exists, you’re the exception, and you should reevaluate how you live and think about your life.

Now, obsession doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. I say this not to detract from the obvious connotation of the word, but simply to enlighten those who can’t seem to see the positive. Have you ever heard of a hobby? Have you ever heard of a passion? Both can be re-calibrated as obsessions, or, at least, obsessive behavior. Extreme cases exist in both scenarios, but, for the sake of argument, a hobby and a passion are considered positive sides of obsession.

Same exists with Love. I use a capital “L” because I see it as a free-standing social construction–not dependent on factors of any certain criteria, but more or less simply existing based on a common social conscience. Love is an abstract concept highlighting specific emotional between two or more objects, persons, etc. Now, I say two or more, because the Love of self is an entirely different argument. For more on this, see the mythological story of Narcissus and Echo. For two (or more) objects to experience love, there must be a mutual attraction between the two–hark back to hobby and passion, is there such an attraction  happening? Can your legos really look at you (after you’ve made them look at you, of course) and say, “Wow, Bob, I truly appreciate you as a human being. In fact, let’s become best friends, let’s tell each other secrets, hold slumber bashes (because their presumably bros), and play the latest video games”–I don’t think this could happen. Maybe, but probably not. With that said, it’s important to look at the fact that Love can still exist between the two, even if this Love is a one-way street titled “Forget Me Not.”

But getting back to Love. When does Love turn into obsession? Can it? Sure it can. Yet, I would argue that we should concern ourselves with identifying the differences between the two before actually establishing a solid response as to why one can transform into the other and vice-versa. To do this would require some sort of Venn diagram, which is elementary stuff. This I will not do, because I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I’m going to bed.

It’s Been A While

It’s been quite some time since I’ve last attempted to write in my blog.

 

Since then, I’ve had some time to think about why stars are different colors, or spectrums, why Medieval Literature is probably the most badass literature out there, and why Easy Mac (Zoo Animal Edition) is not only tasty, but anatomically accurate. Believe you me, I’ve had some life altering/revelatory experiences; it’s a shame I’ve taken such a long break from this.

But, I’m back…at least for a little while. On the up and up, I’m thinking of being a paleontologist for Halloween. Here’s the gig, I where an Indiana Jones-type get-up, carry a plastic shovel around, and ring/knock-on-the-door of pre-selected houses and when they ask the usual payment for candy (trick, joke, song, etc.) I’ll give ’em one better by digging a “real” dino bone from their front yard.

Now, I know this is a hit or miss scheme. Some will love my creativity, others will hate my cultivation of their yard. Nevertheless, I’m pretty vehement on my Paleontologist plan.

Speaking of Paleontology, I’m thinking back to what I wanted to be when I was a kid–an astronaut, a firefighter–the usual, and I feel I’ve still got time to grow up, so to speak. I feel confident in saying I still have the “When I grow up” phase of my life still available to me; and I’ll have this phase available to me for the next five years. After that, I really do have to grow up and figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life. But, until then, I’m convinced I’ve got time…not much, but time nonetheless. I mean, I still haven’t realized my full potential, so that merits a few years of pretend, and look at guys like Terry Gilliam who, I’m convinced, are still child-like. I mean, I recently watched “Tideland” and the main character was a fucking kid, how much more juvenile and innocent does he have to be. We can clearly see from this film that he holds the mind of a child and can use that mind to produce some pretty imaginative scenarios. Right on, Terry Gilliam–and good job with Imaginarium, speaking of imagination.

Well, I’m out, I feel this is a good start back to what should be a routine practice. Peace.

I’m Going In

After another lengthy Sabbatical, I’ve returned with a slew of idiosyncratic complaints about humanity. Well, not so much complaints as simple observations which either a.) need explanation or b.) need destruction.

I suspect my family is housing an intricate conspiracy that’s been spanning generations, and essentially this conspiracy holds the key to my survival. Through a close scrutiny of past familial related deaths, I’ve discovered that there is no other (logical) explanation than to assume that a.) the number 4 has a significant status in the family b.) when discussing the possibility of children, refueling the lineage, it behooves those who have a certain last name to procreate, procreate, procreate! and c.) Don’t put the spoon backwards into the Spaghetti sauce–it’s sacrilegious and totally idiotic.

Now, those who dare to enter this family have a certain set of rules to follow in order to, literally, keep their head above water. I won’t get into specifics with said rules, but know rules there are and these rules must be followed to the t.

I’ve got more to say on the subject, but suffice it to say, it’s complex and deadly, like Japanese-securing-family-honor deadly.

Half Empty

Mascots are cool. They’re cool because they can act like complete stoners/drunks and get away with it. I will bet you that most of the mascot population is a stonerfied community.

Think about it: they get to cover their faces (hence no detection of red eye); and don actual outfits (you become somebody or something else and have a deeply depersonalized experience); and you’re able to run, jump, hump, and demonstrate “Suck It” signs to the crowd…WICKED! Right?

I think so, for the most part. I mean where else can you physically don a separate identity and be both out of body and out of mind? Not many places, (sadly?). But I feel for the doppelganger, I empathize and wish he could just pick the part already…but then again, who says we’re not doppelgangers ourselves, always transforming into other people wherever we go?

What’s Best?

When measuring perfection, do you use a beeker? Maybe a childhood chemistry set from the 70s? Or, how about a yardstick? Some say an “A” on a paper/test does the trick. Others…disagree, they say experience is perfection’s best friend.

As for me, I don’t measure perfection, I measure potential. I like to think I look at situations, measure their outcomes (their potential (energy) and then act.

Let’s put this into perspective with some Super Smash Bros.

To unlock certain characters, you have to complete the game (now, we’re talking Melee (although the original is the best, hands down) without losing a life…gain a perfect score. Ok, so when I pick a character to complete such a task, I, probably like most who play the game, like to see whose abilities are the strongest, of course. I choose to choose a character whose potential is the greatest for perfection.

With a game like this, perfection can be measured by meters as well as KILLS. This is all right, this is Darwinism…completely smashed. However, to gain such perfection  it is still necessary to measure potential as a producer of perfection.

Maybe this doesn’t make any sense.