Tag: rambling

More Time

‘To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.’
— Robert Louis Stevenson

Sometimes people will look down on the wanderers, saying they have no direction. I laugh at these people. I would rather travel everywhere and arrive nowhere, than travel somewhere just to arrive there and there alone. How bland. I would rather my cup overflow with experience than fill it up once and savor it drop by drop while never knowing anything else.

Although, I can see how it cuts both ways. Direction is good. Arriving is good. What gets me is ‘settling’. Or thinking that there is one direction, one path, one way, that we deem best or best for us. We are infinite creatures. Thus, we are strangers to ourselves. Experience is the best mirror for showing us to ourselves. Better yet, experience that was unplanned, uncharted, unexpected, and- best of all- uncomfortable! Only then are we given the opportunity to grow- or whither if we choose to shirk.

There is no ‘arrive’. Let’s discard this notion. Success is the continual realization of a worthy ideal. Who said you need just one? Can’t I have many? I want them all! Too bad my time is limited. It forces me to make choices; or, more specifically, sacrifices. But choices are good. They are a reflection of our selves, our values: the culmination of past experiences that have shaped and molded my present being.

Reflexivity. Second-order cybernetics. Now that’s an interesting study.

*

So. There are about 7 billion people on this earth. How can you make a difference? How can you make change and lasting impact? I know not everyone wants these things, but I do. You have one life, ONE LIFE. Then you die. Sure, you can talk about afterlife and the like, but the bottom line is, we have one life. This life. What makes ours any more unique or worthwhile than the other billions of people? I don’t want to pursue the masses and their meek or grandiose delusions. God. It’s so damn easy to adopt the cultural imprints we’ve been handed. It requires no thought. We touch a flame, we get burned. We learn. We do something a certain way, we’re told that’s wrong. We learn. But why don’t people challenge their behaviors more often? blah. Same ol’, same ol’. There’s utility in doing what we’ve always done, I suppose. But I need to get deeper into this issue. Need to study Path Dependence.

“The fact that an opinion has been widely held is no evidence whatever that it is not utterly absurd; indeed, in view of the silliness of the majority of mankind, a wide-spread belief is more likely to be foolish than sensible”
—Bertrand Russell

Tomorrow I’m gonna read and study and write a lot. I have a lot of thoughts that need hashing.

I have a pet peeve: People who don’t communicate well. More precisely, people who refuse to communicate and fail to seek mutual understanding or compromise through dialog. I guess we don’t really need to communicate to everyone about everything. We can pick and choose our battles.  But I guess I’m referring to the people with ego or pride issues. They refuse to compromise because it freightens the shit outta them. It’s like it reveals a chink in their egos armor, a devastating weakness that leaves them vulnerable. Drop the ego, dammit. Or, if you’re gonna keep it, be confident enough to retain a sense of self that doesn’t vaporize every time it’s challenged.

That’s the other thing: The best way to win an argument is to avoid it. The best way to win a fight is to choose fights you can win. You want to beat a competitor? Do it on your own terms, not on theirs. Look at all the successful companies and people in the world. They were revolutionary and they succeeded because of it. They were not successful because they beat someone at their own game. These people rarely get the same acclaim and recognition as someone who dictates their own battles and rules of the game. I think of apple. There are so many companies who can do what apple does, but apple did it first.  Or Microsoft, or GE, or any great company or philosopher or leader. You can’t very well be a leader in anything if you are pursuing a standard someone else set. You can’t beat them at their own game. Everyone else becomes a sad copy, a weak imitation, no matter how great or hard they try. BUT, it’s often the case that if you want to make your own rules you must first master the existing rules.

*

“Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify, simplify! Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose.”
-Henry David Thoreau

I need to simplify! My thoughts, my goals, my life. And ELEVATE a purpose, make it the sole and central focus of my life!

SoJourning Love.

Time to journal. I was going to write in my hand-written journal but I decided to log this one digitally.  Not sure why.

What do I want? Right now I’m feeling emotional. Not sure why. Well. Lies. I actually know why. I just have problems expressing vulnerability. I like a girl. I desire her. I am attracted to her. Yet, I don’t know what that means. I’m usually so detached from those feelings. They occupy deep hidden places within me. I obey them from afar so when they get unwieldy I’m at a distance.

What do I want? Right now. What is it? Ok, more specifically: What do I want from a female? I realize I could subsist off of my own imaginings and writings and thoughts and dreams and studies and friends… but there always seems to be something missing. It leaves a dull ache, a dull emptiness. I know that no female will ever take it away, but I feel as if it could be allayed more than it is. Intimacy. Intimate encounters that last longer than physical climax. An intimate encounter that endures and subsists behind the daily happenings of life. Where I can seek comfort. Intimacy that persists long after those endless gazes. How is this intimacy achieved? Well. Great question. I’ve been struggling to figure this out myself. I achieve a great level of intimacy with a large number of my platonic relationships, but it eludes me when my heart is involved. Perhaps expectations ruin the momentum? I tried sex. Raw hot heavy sex. That didn’t work. When sex is achieved before an investment is made, why bother? Subconsciously I resist making that pledge. Maybe I lose respect? I can’t respect a girl when I already own her. Especially that easily. Make me care enough to work for it. Please?

Eh. I don’t know what to think. Relationships. These courting encounters. They’re fun. The masquerades. The lampooning. The dancing gestures. The intimations. All behavioral and empty.

Meaning is difficult for me. When I say things I mean, I feel them. Meaning and feeling seem inextricable. They are one in the same. How do I mean anything when I feel nothing? Words. Empty gaseous words. The effluvium of desire. Yearning pleasure. Sexual banter. Until the impulse subsides and I stare at a stranger.

What is it that I want? I want someone to want me. Nay. Need me. Right? Isn’t that what anyone wants? To feel irreplaceable? How to convey that without ripping your heart out? How to convey that without faking it? Jesus. I have no idea.

I almost feel bad for girls that are into me. As much as I long to shed and share all, I resist out of courtesy. I don’t want to overwhelm them with my complexities. My complicated spirit. My ornery soul. It overwhelms even me. Even I struggle to appreciate something so beautiful and so appalling.

I can be anything to anyone. These masks. People need consistency. How does one disarm their masks. Who is the true Michael? Intimacy, love, whatever you want to call it, it extends beyond these masks. It requires pulling down the veils that honesty hides behind. What lies behind is something beyond me. I like to think that my closest friends are familiar with this person. I appear in various fractals.

Honesty hides behind veils. It is always there in full view, only obscured by a veil.

Okay. So I lost my train of thought. Not too unusual. Tonight I’m hanging with some friends at a local microbrewery. I guess I’m going stag at this point. Amongst three other couples…awkward? Awkward is a state of mind. Nothing is awkward unless you think it so.

What to think… Saturday. Went to brunch.. worked out at the gym…. played raquetball… showered. I think I’m gonna grab Chipotle.

Beauty, like a dream, fades. Faith endures. It stipulates nothing.  Intelligence wanes. Physicality and success, all seasons in time. They all play leads at one time or another, only to fade into the background. What is left? Love. Faith. I suppose a variety of virtues.

It’s so much easier to hide your heart. To keep it all for yourself. But the unequivocal joy of extending it to the other, and having them cherish and bask in its naked state? It lights you on fire. It is unbelievable to love and be loved.

I don’t think one can be in love without vulnerability. No. I know it. Be prepared to expose yourself. God. What a dilemma.

So. I’m at a point in my life where I desire substance, in people and relationships and tasks and goals. No more petty aspirations. No more temporary longings. Have some long term vision. Use imagination beyond the moment Michael.

I don’t have time for people that don’t have this. Confusion? Fickle? Flaky? I will have none of it. I might be around, but not for long. I will learn briefly and find someone else who’s pursuit is for the real. For the thick of it. For the substance that extends through space and time and is with you in all the oscillating experiences, the undulating sine waves of life, where it peaks and rockets toward the trough, only to crest again. I want substance through it all.

Discontent

The life. Routine. Same old. Familiarity. Its rotten cold stench fills the room. My nostrils. I hate it. I want it exorcised from me.

What has become of me? Of my mind? Of my heart? The baseless ruminations and trivial imaginings. No. I don’t even imagine. I hide within myself. I shirk and weakly accept defeat. I let this massive framework constructed by others fill my mind. It’s terrible. Simple terrible.

I need to squeeze it out of me. Bang my head. Smash it out. Beauty. That is what I want. Nameless, formless, ethereal beauty. Something that transports my senses and desires to distant wholly righteous lands. Whatever the hell that means. And that’s what I’m talking about. All this nonsense about sense.  All this stupid schooling. Agh. School. It dampens the mind. Leaves boys and girls dull. Robotic. Refined.

I want RAW. I want RAW talent, raw emotion, raw feeling. I want the rawness of life to scrape against me, rub me into an agitated state so as to wake me. I want to open my eyes and see this rawness prevail over the population. Forget refinement.

Its a sick joke. The mass mania. The delusional enterprises of gratification. Of economy. This american dream. This american nightmare. This world, filled with animals. Walking talking animals. Empty in mind and spirit. They consume. They eat and drink and take in information.

NO. I refuse to go down that route. I want my chest cavity to peel back. I want to sink into the soil and rot and give new life to a bed of flowers.

Have I forgotten myself? Is it the civilization that has high jacked my fanstasies? Have I become irresponsible with the individual I am? Where is that small voice? Where is the voice that speaks against the grain and into the wind?

No more aphoristic speech. I want sheer agony to escape from the lips and tips of my fingers. I want a song, a wretched song, a song so beautiful it renders the masses in agony. Their unworthy ears.

To foster passion, you need to get angry. You need to be shaken. I need to assert myself with some originality. Who the hell knows what that means at this point? So many conventions. They become rote and soon my brain disconnects from my heart and I spill apart. God. The pathetic ramblings. The pathetic complaints about rambling.

Get me out of here. Out of this body. Out of this mind. Into the raw texture of life. Wrap me in it. Submerse me in its itchy or smooth or terrible or awesome rawness.

The lights dim. Creativity? A voice? Originality? All pathetically manufactured. They have no meaning. They have been robbed and we have been fed a lie. Zombies.

Content

The life. Routine. Same old. Familiarity. Its rotten cold stench fills the room. My nostrils. I hate it. I want it exorcised from me.

What has become of me? Of my mind? Of my heart? The baseless ruminations and trivial imaginings. No. I don’t even imagine. I hide within myself. I shirk and weakly accept defeat. I let this massive framework constructed by others fill my mind. It’s terrible. Simple terrible.

I need to squeeze it out of me. Bang my head. Smash it out. Beauty. That is what I want. Nameless, formless, ethereal beauty. Something that transports my senses and desires to distant wholly righteous lands. Whatever the hell that means. And that’s what I’m talking about. All this nonsense about sense.  All this stupid schooling. Agh. School. It dampens the mind. Leaves boys and girls dull. Robotic. Refined.

I want RAW. I want RAW talent, raw emotion, raw feeling. I want the rawness of life to scrape against me, rub me into an agitated state so as to wake me. I want to open my eyes and see this rawness prevail over the population. Forget refinement.

Its a sick joke. The mass mania. The delusional enterprises of gratification. Of economy. This American dream. This American nightmare. This world, filled with animals. Walking talking animals. Empty in mind and spirit. They consume. They eat and drink and take in information.

NO. I refuse to go down that route. I want my chest cavity to peel back. I want my heart exposed and beating. I want to sink into the soil and rot and give new life to a bed of flowers. Composting new thoughts.

Have I forgotten myself? Is it the civilization that has high jacked my fantasies? Have I become irresponsible with the individual I am? Where is that small voice? Where is the voice that speaks against the grain and into the wind?

No more aphoristic speech. I want sheer agony to escape from the lips of my mouth and tips of my fingers. I want a song, a wretched song, a song so beautiful it renders the masses in agony. Their unworthy ears.

To foster passion, you need to get angry. You need to be shaken. I need to assert myself with some originality. Who the hell knows what that means at this point? So many conventions. They become rote and soon my brain disconnects from my heart and I spill apart. God. The pathetic ramblings. The pathetic complaints about rambling.

Get me out of here. Out of this body. Out of this mind. Into the raw texture of life. Wrap me in it. Submerse me in its itchy or smooth or terrible or awesome rawness.

The lights dim. Creativity? A voice? Originality? All pathetically manufactured. They have no meaning. They have been robbed and we have been fed a lie. Zombies.

Niet.

I need to get a bit more positive. A renewed feeling in my bones, in my breath, in my step. Something that springs me back instead of weighing me down. No significant revelations as of late. Procrastination seems to be at an all time high. Self esteem, conversely so. I’m battling between these oscillating feelings of meaning, worth, and value. I can’t seem to find anything that sticks.

I thought for sure I had it figured out, that I could will myself hard enough to believe anything that served my ends. Actually, I think I know what happened. I have slowly grown comfortable, too comfortable, with the demands, pressures, purposes that I set for myself. Instead of embracing them with an exuberant determination, I have bastardized them, leaving them to atrophy and wither and rot until I look at them as if never knew them. Then I wake up and find myself in a place totally foreign to me and ask myself “what is this life?”, “have I chosen this life?”, “is this life worth living?”. Perhaps. I’m not sure.

Back to the positivity. I noticed that my mental attitude has been crummy lately. I need a sense of wonder and awe that inspires an optimistic foresight that breeds hope for better times. This is the positivity I am lacking. My mind is entirely too neurotic. Too paranoid. Too sheltered by sensitive judication to protect itself from who knows what.

It’s too damn cold.

People only want to hear themselves.

When evidence for doubt is presented to people, they almost always entrench themselves deeper in their beliefs rather than pulling themselves into question. Funny huh? You think that evidence would open people’s minds but the fact is no, people are not interested in hearing anyones conclusions but their own, and they will fight for those conclusions until they convince themselves, and anyone that will listen, that their beliefs are justifiably real.

A passive populous needs a proactive leader. A proactive populous needs a passive leader.

Human contact facilitates trust and a greater level of understanding and agreement.

Laundry has become a chore. My dryer is located in the basement garage. This requires a roundabout walk outside and into the basement each time I need to load the washer, transfer clothes to the dryer, and retrieve clothes for folding. bah. It’s cold now, so no fun.

I want to draw more. Do art. Get more creative.

I suffer from activation failure. I fail to activate on time, and fail to deactivate too late.

Uncertainty.

Serpentine coils. Fuzzy incandescent rays. Never go back. Always forward. Collections of accessories; troves of personals; gatherings of signs; identity of me, me, me.

Plastic puke.

Sometimes I like being skeptical. Mad. Angry. Resentful. Being disposed in these states feels more anchored than not being disposed. I suppose I should practice wearing more positive states. Anyway. Being skeptical. I like objectifying the world around me, fellow subjects, their ideas and opinions. It throws uncertainty in the face of their flimsy, unchecked conclusions. Eh. I’m not the one who needs to pass that around. I’m about as uncertain as they get. And even thats debatable. There are certainties, I just struggle at arriving at what they are. Are they universals? Particulars? Pah. Whatever.

I need to finish this essay. Instead I regurgitate meaningless impressions onto these keys, solemn fingers stroking away, like mindless doldrums.

If someone asked me what my biggest weakness was, I would answer with ‘inconsistency’. I struggle with applied consistency, routine repeatability. Heterolaterally, inconsistency can be said true as my biggest strength. I am forever anew.

I awake every day with little or no clue of the person I was yesterday. I never cease to surprise myself with new revelations I later find to be old discoveries of a prior me. I. Me. Myself. Subjective. Objective. Possessive. Funny how I can refer and perform utterances as if I contain multiple personalities. I am fungible.

I wish I had something to say. I have nothing. I hope I can look back on this and glean some meaning from it all. Or do I? I suppose that’s how I sell myself on writing, but the truth is it’s a therapy mechanism for exhausting an aimless overactive mind.

I really need to get to bed. Colors. Hues. Shades. The rictus of the horizon swallows the setting sun. My mind is an eye. Colorblind. Obscured by the scudding haze of doubt.

What does it all mean? Labor. Until you close your eyes, and sleep, soundly, forever, into the abyss of eternity.

Niet.

I need to get a bit more positive. A renewed feeling in my bones, in my breath, in my step. Something that springs me back instead of weighing me down. No significant revelations as of late. Procrastination seems to be at an all time high. Self esteem, conversely so. I’m battling between these oscillating feelings of meaning, worth, and value. I can’t seem to find anything that sticks.

I thought for sure I had it figured out, that I could will myself hard enough to believe anything that served my ends. Actually, I think I know what happened. I have slowly grown comfortable, too comfortable, with the demands, pressures, purposes that I set for myself. Instead of embracing them with an exuberant determination, I have bastardized them, leaving them to atrophy and wither and rot until I look at them as if never knew them. Then I wake up and find myself in a place totally foreign to me and ask myself “what is this life?”, “have I chosen this life?”, “is this life worth living?”. Perhaps. I’m not sure.

Back to the positivity. I noticed that my mental attitude has been crummy lately. I need a sense of wonder and awe that inspires an optimistic foresight that breeds hope for better times. This is the positivity I am lacking. My mind is entirely too neurotic. Too paranoid. Too sheltered by sensitive judication to protect itself from who knows what.

It’s too damn cold.

People only want to hear themselves.

When evidence for doubt is presented to people, they almost always entrench themselves deeper in their beliefs rather than pulling themselves into question. Funny huh? You think that evidence would open people’s minds but the fact is no, people are not interested in hearing anyones conclusions but their own, and they will fight for those conclusions until they convince themselves, and anyone that will listen, that their beliefs are justifiably real.

A passive populous needs a proactive leader. A proactive populous needs a passive leader.

Human contact facilitates trust and a greater level of understanding and agreement.

Laundry has become a chore. My dryer is located in the basement garage. This requires a roundabout walk outside and into the basement each time I need to load the washer, transfer clothes to the dryer, and retrieve clothes for folding. bah. It’s cold now, so no fun.

I want to draw more. Do art. Get more creative.

I suffer from activation failure. I fail to activate on time, and fail to deactivate too late.

Uncertainty.

Serpentine coils. Fuzzy incandescent rays. Never go back. Always forward. Collections of accessories; troves of personals; gatherings of signs; identity of me, me, me.

Plastic puke.

Sometimes I like being skeptical. Mad. Angry. Resentful. Being disposed in these states feels more anchored than not being disposed. I suppose I should practice wearing more positive states. Anyway. Being skeptical. I like objectifying the world around me, fellow subjects, their ideas and opinions. It throws uncertainty in the face of their flimsy, unchecked conclusions. Eh. I’m not the one who needs to pass that around. I’m about as uncertain as they get. And even thats debatable. There are certainties, I just struggle at arriving at what they are. Are they universals? Particulars? Pah. Whatever.

I need to finish this essay. Instead I regurgitate meaningless impressions onto these keys, solemn fingers stroking away, like mindless doldrums.

If someone asked me what my biggest weakness was, I would answer with ‘inconsistency’. I struggle with applied consistency, routine repeatability. Heterolaterally, inconsistency can be said true as my biggest strength. I am forever anew.

I awake every day with little or no clue of the person I was yesterday. I never cease to surprise myself with new revelations I later find to be old discoveries of a prior me. I. Me. Myself. Subjective. Objective. Possessive. Funny how I can refer and perform utterances as if I contain multiple personalities. I am fungible.

I wish I had something to say. I have nothing. I hope I can look back on this and glean some meaning from it all. Or do I? I suppose that’s how I sell myself on writing, but the truth is it’s a therapy mechanism for exhausting an aimless overactive mind.

I really need to get to bed. Colors. Hues. Shades. The rictus of the horizon swallows the setting sun. My mind is an eye. Colorblind. Obscured by the scudding haze of doubt.

What does it all mean? Labor. Until you close your eyes, and sleep, soundly, forever, into the abyss of eternity.

 

Matrix

Where is the purpose?

Instead of a population residing within rows of gelatinous vats filled with a pink nutritional serum that sustains the corporeal well-being, we have a population that resides in the pacific confines of more personalized mausoleums adorned with plush material luxury and sealed with empty figments of desire.

The matrix is already here. It is the media. The newspapers. The magazines. The TV. The computer. The internet. The smartphones. All routinely bombarding our attention with messages. All programs of thought. All robbing us of a critical consciousness. Our ability to be for and of our being.

Slowly, surely, we have lost ourselves.

Mind Dump

“The distance between you and your goal is often the length of a single idea.”   -Vic Conant

Where is my mind?

I feel ill at the moment. A stomache ache. Something that’s gripping me. Mentally and physically. It’s strangling. I have a flame. I have a god damn flame. Why doesn’t it burn? Where is my curiosity for life? Where is the vigor? Where is the heartfelt desire and drive to delve into life with a precocious can-do attitude? Why do I feel like everything is dull and lifeless? Why do I feel like I’m dull and lifeless? Why the fuck can’t I strip myself from this weight that grips and claws at my insides? Where is the wonder? The god damn wonder? Hello? Anyone?

Thanksgiving break seemed overly typical this year. Family drama. Something that usually keeps itself at bay, or at least it’s usually its managed. Maybe I’m just getting older and have grown more aware of the conflicts within the family. I don’t understand problems. Why are there problems? Why are there disagreements? If its at the expense of happiness, what the hell does it matter if you think something is wrong or right? Isn’t happiness what life’s all about? Don’t you think it’s almost better to be wrong and be happy, or at least have things work out? then to be right, or assert your position at the expense of shit hitting the fan and people getting hurt?

My god. What has happened to me? The dread. This terrible dread. My mind has grown dilatory and unresponsive. I need some genuine enthusiasm. I need something to pick me up and rivet me and hurl me over the edge. I need the adrenaline, the burst of uncontrollable joy erupting from my pores. I need to taste that richness. That life.

Is life suppose to be like this? I mull and dig, turn over the soil, churn the water, hoping for some answer. And I know that life is about attitude. It is attitude. Life is about perception. What you percieve. How you percieve. All that. It is nothing more. If you look for shit, you will find shit. Probably sooner than later. Am I looking for shit? Is that why I feel so listless and apathetic? My muses! Where have they gone? I have not exhausted my investigations. My goals have not been satisfied. They have not been acheived. They have grown distant and cold. That is the problem. I need to bring them back, wring them in. I need to focus. God. It’s the same story with me. Focus. Focus. Focus. I wish I was a computer that I could manually program, like once, so that the task and goals and aims I desperately yearn for could be realized. There’s something wrong here. I’m missing something. Something is missing. It must be deeper. What kind of deep shit are you not dealing with Michael? Hm…

Whatever it is eludes me. Action. ACTION. Action breeds all genesis. It brings forth life. Without action, there is stagnation. Life is like a garden that will grow rampant with weeds and thistles and thorns unless it is properly attended through diliberate action. I need to till my life, uproot the random bullshit, the random thoughts, the useless fascinations, and make sure that I care for only the most pressing issues of my heart and soul.

I read over journal entries from years ago when I was on the upward swing of things. I’m envious of that person. I was so resolute in body and mind to see certain goals attained. I controlled every environmental and emotional and mental factor to the utmost scrutiny.  When negative or inconsequential thoughts crept in, I immediately reacted by turning on the right thoughts. Thoughts of success, or achievement, or who I believed I was, who I believed I could be. Agh.

Life is absurd. Sometimes I wish it was easy. That. That right there is the problem. I am running from the struggle. Life was never so beautiful as when it was a struggle. The pains yielded the joys. Like spring and summer labor yields forth the fruits of the fall and sustains us through the winter. It is during those months of labor, of hot arduous painstaking labor, that lead us to happiness.

Such aphoristic speech repulses me. That. That needs to stop. Negative criticism. Where are these thoughts coming from? Who the hell cares if I speak sententiously? Do I really care? hm… no. Then why the hell do I continue chastizing myself. Anyway.

I would like to elaborate with a little more depth. That’s something that I’ll need to work on. I have been avoiding the issue of work and labor as of late. I have let the power of pain get away from me. It is no pain. These internal struggles. I can interpret them in any way I like. Work can be a pleasure, or a burden. Why one would choose the latter is beyond me. It is my duty. I need to refine my self conception. I am someone who enjoys laboring, in all things. I go the extra mile. I burn the mid night oil. I attend only to the tasks that will have direct and definite consequences for achieving my goals. All others, all other fantastical obsessions and desultory desires need to be shelved. My mind is sharp. It is not for beating. It is for slicing. Slicing through obstacles, blazing through endeavors, goal after goal.

Sometimes I think I’m mad. Indeed, I am. We’re all mad. I don’t know why I let myself believe that anyone has it figured out any more than anyone else. Sometimes I just need to let things go. This goes along with choosing my tasks wisely. Being prudent, as they say.

I went to Florida for a few days. Caught up with some great friends. Got into some mischief. Read a few chapters of philosophy of language for class; specifically Wittgensteins private language theory and Nietzsche’s theory of metaphors and truth and lies in the non-moral sense. Read a few pages of Faulkner. Read of few poems of T.S. Eliots The Wasteland. Flew remote controlled helicopters. Went on a bike ride.

My parents are religious zealots. I love them dearly, no doubt about it, but it’s difficult to engage in conversation when there are such drastic differences in worldview foundations. Sometimes I forget, and I assume that we use the same language, that we operate from an similar ideology, but then the conversations build up heat as these contrary worldviews skirt past eachother and generate a friction. To them, everything goes back to God. That’s cool and all. But that means a lot gets thrown out when it shouldn’t be.  Such as, anything related to secular science. ‘Emotions were built into us by God. That person’s emotional issue is a spiritual issue. They’re wrestling with their will and God’s will’ It seems a bit short sighted. I’m apt to believe that there are much more comprehensive models for explaining why we find ourselves in certain emotional states. You can look at environmental factors, for one. Or physiological factors. Or personality factors. Or family factors. Or a crap ton of other factors that doesn’t substitute a catch all explanation. It seems much too arbitrary. And maybe it is. Anyway. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

It’s funny. People that are so blind that they can’t see it. Am I blind? No doubt. I’m sure I am. But I want to be wrong. I desperately want to be wrong. I am at the mercy of understanding. That is all I want. I don’t want to be right, I just want to understand. Life is too short to search for all the answers. I just want to understand how it all works. I want clairvoyance into the harmonious dynamics governing thought and action.

What else do I have on my mind? I need to buy myself another book shelf. Too many books all over my room. They are probably more of a distraction than anything, but they offer a warmth. Seeing them reminds me of their knowledge. It keeps me conscious of the obligation I have to what little knowledge I was able to glean from their pages.

I need to familiarize myself with my tasks. I need to absorb and osmose their nature, their idiosyncrasies, their facets, their personality, their character. Tasks. Goals. Aims. Aspirations. Destinations.

I am not in a rush to gain value. To grow. I must be diligent with my time. I must respect the force of the finite junctures I face. College happens but once at my age. Education and learning happens forever. Let me not forget that.

I want to be fiercly absolute in my character, who I am, who I desire to be. Do not back down. Do not fawn for other’s approbation. God. The thought sickens me. ‘Others’. Who has it figured out? Ha.

Objectification. When I see the world as objects, rather than subjects, I can maneuver with much more ease and grace. There is something about subjects that paralyzes. We give subjects too much benefit. We bestow all the working knowledge privileged to us and us alone unto them, as if they grasp and understand the unknown depths of our world with the same capacity. We are all naive souls, grasping as shadows.

I have to write 15,000 more words in three days. 5,000 words a day. Holy…

Tomorrow I will write a minimum of 10,000 words. All day. I will wake at 8am, and write all day long. One guy wrote 50,000 words in a single day. Wow. Many more have written 20,000 words in a day. My record so far is around 5,000. Doubling that will be taxing but, nonetheless, within the realm of achievable.

When I am finished this novel business, I will go on to write a 10 page paper for Social and Political Philosophy, probably on the role of the state regarding public education. That should turn out to be around 3000-4000 words. Ha. I scoff at such a paper. ha. anyway…

I need to sleep. Long day tomorrow.

Mind Dump

“The distance between you and your goal is often the length of a single idea.”   -Vic Conant

Where is my mind?

I feel ill at the moment. A stomache ache. Something that’s gripping me. Mentally and physically. It’s strangling. I have a flame. I have a god damn flame. Why doesn’t it burn? Where is my curiosity for life? Where is the vigor? Where is the heartfelt desire and drive to delve into life with a precocious can-do attitude? Why do I feel like everything is dull and lifeless? Why do I feel like I’m dull and lifeless? Why the fuck can’t I strip myself from this weight that grips and claws at my insides? Where is the wonder? The god damn wonder? Hello? Anyone?

Thanksgiving break seemed overly typical this year. Family drama. Something that usually keeps itself at bay, or at least it’s usually its managed. Maybe I’m just getting older and have grown more aware of the conflicts within the family. I don’t understand problems. Why are there problems? Why are there disagreements? If its at the expense of happiness, what the hell does it matter if you think something is wrong or right? Isn’t happiness what life’s all about? Don’t you think it’s almost better to be wrong and be happy, or at least have things work out? then to be right, or assert your position at the expense of shit hitting the fan and people getting hurt?

My god. What has happened to me? The dread. This terrible dread. My mind has grown dilatory and unresponsive. I need some genuine enthusiasm. I need something to pick me up and rivet me and hurl me over the edge. I need the adrenaline, the burst of uncontrollable joy erupting from my pores. I need to taste that richness. That life.

Is life suppose to be like this? I mull and dig, turn over the soil, churn the water, hoping for some answer. And I know that life is about attitude. It is attitude. Life is about perception. What you percieve. How you percieve. All that. It is nothing more. If you look for shit, you will find shit. Probably sooner than later. Am I looking for shit? Is that why I feel so listless and apathetic? My muses! Where have they gone? I have not exhausted my investigations. My goals have not been satisfied. They have not been acheived. They have grown distant and cold. That is the problem. I need to bring them back, wring them in. I need to focus. God. It’s the same story with me. Focus. Focus. Focus. I wish I was a computer that I could manually program, like once, so that the task and goals and aims I desperately yearn for could be realized. There’s something wrong here. I’m missing something. Something is missing. It must be deeper. What kind of deep shit are you not dealing with Michael? Hm…

Whatever it is eludes me. Action. ACTION. Action breeds all genesis. It brings forth life. Without action, there is stagnation. Life is like a garden that will grow rampant with weeds and thistles and thorns unless it is properly attended through diliberate action. I need to till my life, uproot the random bullshit, the random thoughts, the useless fascinations, and make sure that I care for only the most pressing issues of my heart and soul.

I read over journal entries from years ago when I was on the upward swing of things. I’m envious of that person. I was so resolute in body and mind to see certain goals attained. I controlled every environmental and emotional and mental factor to the utmost scrutiny.  When negative or inconsequential thoughts crept in, I immediately reacted by turning on the right thoughts. Thoughts of success, or achievement, or who I believed I was, who I believed I could be. Agh.

Life is absurd. Sometimes I wish it was easy. That. That right there is the problem. I am running from the struggle. Life was never so beautiful as when it was a struggle. The pains yielded the joys. Like spring and summer labor yields forth the fruits of the fall and sustains us through the winter. It is during those months of labor, of hot arduous painstaking labor, that lead us to happiness.

Such aphoristic speech repulses me. That. That needs to stop. Negative criticism. Where are these thoughts coming from? Who the hell cares if I speak sententiously? Do I really care? hm… no. Then why the hell do I continue chastizing myself. Anyway.

I would like to elaborate with a little more depth. That’s something that I’ll need to work on. I have been avoiding the issue of work and labor as of late. I have let the power of pain get away from me. It is no pain. These internal struggles. I can interpret them in any way I like. Work can be a pleasure, or a burden. Why one would choose the latter is beyond me. It is my duty. I need to refine my self conception. I am someone who enjoys laboring, in all things. I go the extra mile. I burn the mid night oil. I attend only to the tasks that will have direct and definite consequences for achieving my goals. All others, all other fantastical obsessions and desultory desires need to be shelved. My mind is sharp. It is not for beating. It is for slicing. Slicing through obstacles, blazing through endeavors, goal after goal.

Sometimes I think I’m mad. Indeed, I am. We’re all mad. I don’t know why I let myself believe that anyone has it figured out any more than anyone else. Sometimes I just need to let things go. This goes along with choosing my tasks wisely. Being prudent, as they say.

I went to Florida for a few days. Caught up with some great friends. Got into some mischief. Read a few chapters of philosophy of language for class; specifically Wittgensteins private language theory and Nietzsche’s theory of metaphors and truth and lies in the non-moral sense. Read a few pages of Faulkner. Read of few poems of T.S. Eliots The Wasteland. Flew remote controlled helicopters. Went on a bike ride.

My parents are religious zealots. I love them dearly, no doubt about it, but it’s difficult to engage in conversation when there are such drastic differences in worldview foundations. Sometimes I forget, and I assume that we use the same language, that we operate from an similar ideology, but then the conversations build up heat as these contrary worldviews skirt past eachother and generate a friction. To them, everything goes back to God. That’s cool and all. But that means a lot gets thrown out when it shouldn’t be.  Such as, anything related to secular science. ‘Emotions were built into us by God. That person’s emotional issue is a spiritual issue. They’re wrestling with their will and God’s will’ It seems a bit short sighted. I’m apt to believe that there are much more comprehensive models for explaining why we find ourselves in certain emotional states. You can look at environmental factors, for one. Or physiological factors. Or personality factors. Or family factors. Or a crap ton of other factors that doesn’t substitute a catch all explanation. It seems much too arbitrary. And maybe it is. Anyway. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

It’s funny. People that are so blind that they can’t see it. Am I blind? No doubt. I’m sure I am. But I want to be wrong. I desperately want to be wrong. I am at the mercy of understanding. That is all I want. I don’t want to be right, I just want to understand. Life is too short to search for all the answers. I just want to understand how it all works. I want clairvoyance into the harmonious dynamics governing thought and action.

What else do I have on my mind? I need to buy myself another book shelf. Too many books all over my room. They are probably more of a distraction than anything, but they offer a warmth. Seeing them reminds me of their knowledge. It keeps me conscious of the obligation I have to what little knowledge I was able to glean from their pages.

I need to familiarize myself with my tasks. I need to absorb and osmose their nature, their idiosyncrasies, their facets, their personality, their character. Tasks. Goals. Aims. Aspirations. Destinations.

I am not in a rush to gain value. To grow. I must be diligent with my time. I must respect the force of the finite junctures I face. College happens but once at my age. Education and learning happens forever. Let me not forget that.

I want to be fiercly absolute in my character, who I am, who I desire to be. Do not back down. Do not fawn for other’s approbation. God. The thought sickens me. ‘Others’. Who has it figured out? Ha.

Objectification. When I see the world as objects, rather than subjects, I can maneuver with much more ease and grace. There is something about subjects that paralyzes. We give subjects too much benefit. We bestow all the working knowledge privileged to us and us alone unto them, as if they grasp and understand the unknown depths of our world with the same capacity. We are all naive souls, grasping as shadows.

I have to write 15,000 more words in three days. 5,000 words a day. Holy…

Tomorrow I will write a minimum of 10,000 words. All day. I will wake at 8am, and write all day long. One guy wrote 50,000 words in a single day. Wow. Many more have written 20,000 words in a day. My record so far is around 5,000. Doubling that will be taxing but, nonetheless, within the realm of achievable.

When I am finished this novel business, I will go on to write a 10 page paper for Social and Political Philosophy, probably on the role of the state regarding public education. That should turn out to be around 3000-4000 words. Ha. I scoff at such a paper. ha. anyway…

I need to sleep. Long day tomorrow.

 

Peregrination

It’s late. I should be in bed. I figure I need to get some thoughts out.

An update. I’m growing my beard out. Not sure how I feel about it. It’s the first time in twenty-four years of my life that I’ve given my cheeks shade and let the facial hair run rampant. It’s sort of funny. Initially it was awkward having this thatching covering my face. Almost uncomfortable. But eventually I stopped giving a shit and now it’s not too bad. Not sure the ladies dig it. Maybe some Canadian women who have a thing for lumberjacks. Don’t know if I’ll find that crowd here in the south, let alone Vanderbilt. No matter.

Haven’t spent too much time pursuing the ladies. Usually that’s a question that comes up when talking with people, like it’s expected that you should have a girlfriend. ‘Any ladies?’ they say. There’s a repertoire of preloaded social inquiry. It’s necessary for communication. I do it. The question of girls is interesting. It’s on cue in the back of every guys mind. It’s a universal need that needs to be addressed and asking about it only harks back to its importance. Anyway.

I went to the library this evening and checked our four books by William Faulkner as well as a collection of poems by T.S. Eliot. I wonder what TS stands for? (Thomas Stearns)

Am I happy? Not sure. I like that I’ve been writing and thinking about writing as much as I have. It hasn’t exactly been great for keeping me focused on school. In fact, it’s prompted an insidious reaction within me to reject school altogether and revert back to my anitauthoritarian mentality. I am a free spirit, I cannot be kept like a bird in a cage. The soaring wings of imagination and passion must take flight without the constraining walls of formality. School has far too much of this formality. Can I master the system? Absolutely. But at what cost? At what cost am I willing to dampen my creative intellect? Do I have the imagination and tenacity to do both? To command myself to be a slave and master simultaneously? I think so. I should try. There’s something so stifling about expectations. They sap the damn energy out of you. They hack at the knees before the first step is taken. It’s like pushing against the sky: out of reach and unrealistic. Or maybe that’s just my self-imposed expectations.  Anyway. I’m rambling.

Honesty. Suffering. No one wants to hear about anything but the suffering. People love commiseration. It reminds us of our frailty, of our humanity. I just want to capture what the hell it means to be human. If I can do that, and relay and relate it, I will feel accomplished.

It’s getting cold. And gray. The leaves have withered away, fallen like feathery fruit from the trees. The open skies resemble gray carpets void of life and depth like a dead drafty room.  The winged rats of the air take flight in spotted contrast, arranging and rearranging their fleeting patterns. Birds. No more blue skies. No more slanted sunshine and slinking steam scudding across the open air.

Thanksgiving dinner at the house tonight. I’ll be staying here over break. Looking forward to it. I have an economic statistics test tomorrow. Hmph. Not too thrilled about that but we’ll see what happens. I need something to smack the shit outta me. Wake me up. I need something meaningful. I hate going through the motions. You have one life. ONE life. That is it. Why oh why do I feel like I waste far too much of my life! I need to do more, be more, think more, create more. ONE LIFE. To try it all, do it all, love it all, taste it all, smell it all, feel it all. One. Then, you die. No more. You cease existing and eternity disappears along with your life. Nothing. Now is the time. Am I living up to my fullest potential? Am I developing what that even means? We can’t hit a target if we can’t see it. If I am to develop my potential I desperately need to have an idea of what I’m developing and what I desire the finished product to look like.

I was thinking the other day about how many people have lived and died throughout history and no one gives their life a moments consideration. They may have had some sort of impact on history. Maybe. They left a smidge of a ripple that barely made it to the ponds perimeter, let alone churn and stir the waters. I want to create waves!

The people we read about wrote down their thoughts. I can’t imagine a life where I can’t see what I think. I don’t know how I would think about my past, my identity. It would be so trivial and left up for interpretation, my word and others. If I never wrote, never recorded my thoughts, materialized my mind into words, I may as well have never existed. In a century nothing will be left of me but some ashes. If that. Think about all the people who have lived and were never remembered. I’m sure they were great people with great ideas too, but we’ll never know. The only people we know about are the ones who had the courage to declare their being and write it down.

Anyway. It’s late. I should really get to bed. I want life!

Peregrination

It’s late. I should be in bed. I figure I need to get some thoughts out.

An update. I’m growing my beard out. Not sure how I feel about it. It’s the first time in twenty-four years of my life that I’ve given my cheeks shade and let the facial hair run rampant. It’s sort of funny. Initially it was awkward having this thatching covering my face. Almost uncomfortable. But eventually I stopped giving a shit and now it’s not too bad. Not sure the ladies dig it. Maybe some Canadian women who have a thing for lumberjacks. Don’t know if I’ll find that crowd here in the south, let alone Vanderbilt. No matter.

Haven’t spent too much time pursuing the ladies. Usually that’s a question that comes up when talking with people, like it’s expected that you should have a girlfriend. ‘Any ladies?’ they say. There’s a repertoire of preloaded social inquiry. It’s necessary for communication. I do it. The question of girls is interesting. It’s on cue in the back of every guys mind. It’s a universal need that needs to be addressed and asking about it only harks back to its importance. Anyway.

I went to the library this evening and checked our four books by William Faulkner as well as a collection of poems my T.S. Eliot. I wonder what TS stands for? (Thomas Stearns)

Am I happy? Not sure. I like that I’ve been writing and thinking about writing as much as I have. It hasn’t exactly been great for keeping me focused on school. In fact, it’s prompted an insidious reaction within me to reject school altogether and revert back to my anitauthoritarian mentality. I am a free spirit, I cannot be kept like a bird in a cage. The soaring wings of imagination and passion must take flight without the constraining walls of formality. School has far too much of this formality. Can I master the system? Absolutely. But at what cost? At what cost am I willing to dampen my creative intellect? Do I have the imagination and tenacity to do both? To command myself to be a slave and master simultaneously? I think so. I should try. There’s something so stifling about expectations. They sap the damn energy out of you. They hack at the knees before the first step is taken. It’s like pushing against the sky: out of reach and unrealistic. Or maybe that’s just my self-imposed expectations.  Anyway. I’m rambling.

Honesty. Suffering. No one wants to hear about anything but the suffering. People love commiseration. It reminds us of our frailty, of our humanity. I just want to capture what the hell it means to be human. If I can do that, and relay and relate it, I will feel accomplished.

It’s getting cold. And gray. The leaves have withered away, fallen like feathery fruit from the trees. The skies resemble gray empty carpets void of life and depth like an empty room.  The winged rats of the air take flight in spotted contrast, arranging and rearranging their fleeting patterns. Birds. No more blue skies. No more slanted sunshine and slinking steam scudding across the open air.

Thanksgiving dinner at the house tonight. I’ll be staying here over break. Looking forward to it. I have an economic statistics test tomorrow. Hmph. Not too thrilled about that but we’ll see what happens. I need something to smack the shit outta me. Wake me up. I need something meaningful. I hate going through the motions. You have one life. ONE life. That is it. Why oh why do I feel like I waste far too much of my life! I need to do more, be more, think more, create more. ONE LIFE. To try it all, do it all, love it all, taste it all, smell it all, feel it all. One. Then, you die. No more. You cease existing and eternity disappears along with your life. Nothing. Now is the time. Am I living up to my fullest potential? Am I developing what that even means? We can’t hit a target if we can’t see it. If I am to develop my potential I desperately need to have an idea of what I’m developing and what I desire the finished product to look like.

I was thinking the other day about how many people have lived and died throughout history and no one gives their life a moments consideration. They may have had some sort of impact on history. Maybe.  At best they left a smidge of a ripple that barely made it to the ponds perimeter, let alone churn and stir the waters. I want to create waves!

The people we read about wrote down their thoughts. I can’t imagine a life where I can’t see what I think. I don’t know how I would think about my past, my identity. It would be so trivial and left up for interpretation, my word and others. If I never wrote, never recorded my thoughts, materialized my mind into words, I may as well have never existed. In a century nothing will be left of me but some ashes. If that. Think about all the people who have lived and were never remembered. I’m sure they were great people with great ideas too, but we’ll never know. The only people we know about are the ones who had the courage to declare their being and write it down.

Anyway. It’s late. I should really get to bed. I want life!

exploding senses

Fuck my mind. Yes fuck it. I hate analyzing. i hate thinking. I hate guarding. I hate being cautious. I want to live wildly. Yes, wildly. I hate this business of looking right, talking correctly, being something. This image that I try to fill. This life I try to mold. It is driving me crazy. I want to break all molds, all conceptions of normal. I do not want to be regular. And how typical does this sound?
Continue reading “exploding senses”

DRUNK AS SHIT

Current mood: blank

well.. november 6th 2004 was a historic night… THe drunkest mike has and will ever get… ever… because if i do happen to get any drunker id die….

i dont remember a whole lot after finishing the cuervo… i remember drinking a bottle of cuervo… and… some beer…and jello shots and having a good time the whole night… socializing… you know… doin what people to at partys when they are drunk….being crazy… meeting people.. doin the whole drunk thing… they had a mean slippin slide goin on outside… beer bongs… keg stands all night… everyone was drunk and being straight… until someone slashed my boys tires… then i got in killer mode… and (not naming any names) a “bunch” of upset/ pissed off/ crazed “people” went to his house and fucked the shit outta his house… windows and everything.. and his car is in ruins now….. and i have a gaping laceration in my hand with flesh all mangled and hanging out of it… and blood… and then round 300 just when the cops arrived i started throwing my brains up..in the bathtub (KEWL).. interesting… the bathroom was a bloody mess with my blood… and the bathtub was a giant cesspool… i thought i was gonna die… i was so drunk. i was so drunk i could hear everyone talking… but i couldnt see anything… and i couldnt even put words together to talk.. i was like… mentally retarded… my mind and body where completely unattached… i tried my hardest to form words and intelligible sentences/phrases… but it mostly came out in mumbling… the cops took pity on me… i told them in was all jennifers fault…they found that funny… jen didnt… i was havin a jolly time talking and listening to them as i was passed out throwin up… we had a ball.. they went easy on me tho… not funny was havin to hear my dads voice in the background when he came to pick me up at 400… he wasnt happy… and i was drunk… if you know my dad you just picture his face and look of disgust as he saw his pitiful drunk as hell son tryin to mumble to him… so he was not at all proud of me that night… esp after hearing i was a suspect in the whole rampage ordeal.. im clear tho… soo… .. i cant find my license… i think that the cops thieved it… hm… soo… i bonded with alot of people that night…. dont remember half of them… i will when i see the people again..i hope… except i do remember grace lauri and lauren.. i remember bonding with them…

what else… i woke up at like 1:00 still half drunk… and im still hungover and sore like crazy..my left hand is mangled… my right hand is like sprained… what i night…some joe shmo tried fighting me… while i had a bat in my hand… what the hell is wrong with people… people really have no common sense when theyre drunk…i shoulda knocked some sense into him..i took pity tho. it was the alcohol.

school tomorrow.. cool…

12:38 AM