Dream Machine

A breeze flushes through the white columns upholding the latticed portico. Luscious green grass extends from the edge of the ceramic white stone. An azure pool, illuminated like sapphire stone, sinks in the geometric center of the long lawn. Towards the distant end of the rolling mall, dunes appear and continue for as long as the eye could see; their caliginous outline grips the horizon. Only a black stitching fractures the ceramic sand, and pale smoke rises from these tracks as an engine makes its way across the dry desert ocean. The bleating sun pulls moisture from my forehead. It sucks water from vegetation. The sprinklers reside in the earth, waiting for night to douse life into the struggling greenery.

“George,” my mother said “you need to get a handle on your loans. We’re no longer supporting you. Your uncle refuses to enable you any longer. What you need is good habits, and this will teach you to be wise with your money.”

A winding wind whips my cheek and I look up at my mother seated on her white weathered chair. She sits at a glistening crystalline table with a glass of wine perched casually in her left hand, rotated away from her. Her head is bent slightly forward and both eyes are waiting for me to respond. Blonde hair drapes gently across her brow and shivers softly in the hot humid breeze.

I turn and continue gazing beyond the green grass, over the blue pool, into the dry dunes. My gaze finds a setting sun. It is enlarged, engorged with fiery haze. Ribbons of heat ripple across its fading face.

My mother continues talking, “George. Do you hear me?” She is drunk with delusion. The heat had gotten to her, and the cruel cult she has been attending has left her utterly detached from reality. The wine softens her delusion, but her world still remains different from mine, still remains hers.

I stand from my chair and walk down the marble stairs and onto the green grass. I hear my mothers voice straining to gain my attention, growing red with irritation. I pretend not to hear. I don’t hear. My thoughts are with my uncle. I want to kill him. I want to kill him by escaping, by killing the idea of him, by fleeing forever. My feet reach the dry sand and I feel the heat penetrate through my shoes. I step and the sand absorbs my sinking shoe. I trudge on.

Moments pass and my eyes open and I am gripping a smooth obsidian-like stone situated on a rail car. Both my arms wrap around its gun metal gray polished exterior. A long line of rail road cars are loaded with these stones. The landscape streams past me and my balance is thrown. I adjust my knees. Suddenly I see my uncle climbing up a ladder; my heart grows cold, goes wretchedly resentful, like a punch in the stomach, but in the chest. It pains. I move away from him. The train is moving quickly. I eyeball the earth to calculate the trajectory of my landing, to measure the magnitude of my fall. Not now.

“George!” he yells. His voice contains a streak of sentiment, of desperation. His eyes furrow and squint, holding back emotion, but too cold to mean it. “Come back! Come back down here: you need to come home!” He yells against the wild wind. It howls past my ears. His words are biting and meaningless. My eyes narrow and I lift my arm and extend my phallic middle finger into the air and yell, “Fuck you!”

I am unsurprised when he accepts defeat. A mutual emotional silence hangs in the air and I sense a shrug in his eyes that says, “Well, I’ve done all I can do. He’s on his own now.” I resent him for his meager attempt to contact me. Why can’t I be on my own with my family? Why must I be apart of something and lose my will in the process? Why can’t we acheive a respectful balance of opinion? “Fuck you.” I say again, and leap from the moving railroad. I brace myself for impact.

I wake. Darkness envelopes my senses. My eyes adjust to the ceiling.


The whirlwind.

This weekend I visited Panama City Beach, Florida for our fraternity’s formal weekend. I arrived friday evening with the rambunctious excitement you’d expect anyone to have after an eight hour car ride. Drinking in the car a few hours prior to arriving certainly contributed to my enthusiasm. Unfortunately everyone had driven through the night the morning prior and participated in a full day of drinking on the beach, so they were exhausted and less than receptive to my springing excitement to start drinking, especially at two in the morning when we arrived. Exercising some judgment, I decided that I should restrain my passion and save my energy for the following day, which I expected from prior experience to be a long and exhausting extravaganza. So I passed out. I woke up around eleven a.m. on the pull out mattress as everyone filed out of their air conditioned caves. I rallied my date and immediately took six shots. I then visited my roommate’s hotel room and produced three hits of acid from my backpack. My one room mate and his date decided that they didn’t want me having all the fun, so we each took a hit. I began pounding beer. Miller High Life. We then gathered ourselves up, filled our coolers with all the necessary beverages and ancillary paraphernalia for a hard day’s drinking in the sun, and walked a mile to the beach. At this point I was beginning to feel numb and thoroughly intoxicated, despite only an hour’s worth of wakefulness. Rather than walk around a strip of beach front property, we made an executive decision to climb over a locked gate which, as things would have it, was covered in maple syrup, presumable to keep people from climbing over. The brothers acquired a generator and speakers, and permission from one of the beach front homes to use their outlets and beach yard to place them, and we began blasting music to commence the festivities. It was a gorgeous day. Hotter than hell and zero clouds. While I never black out, I do drink to the point where no memories have been reliably made to recall, and that was definitely the case this day. We drank and carried on for at least six hours under the excruciatingly relentless Florida sun. The group began dispersing around six thirty and we were the last to walk back to our room, but not before I, in my deviantly responsible drunken state, cleaned the beach of trash, towels, and other belongings left for loss scattered in the sand.

Dinner was at seven thirty. I finished about twenty beers throughout the afternoon, in addition to countless shots. I was obliterated. Everyone made it to the chartered buses on time and we traveled a dozen miles to the catering hall. The trip felt like five minutes. I ate food. I drank beer. I watched a senior slide show. I may have lost my camera. At one point I wandered into the catering hall storage closet and grabbed six bottles of wine that I decided to deliver to tables throughout the room and, presumably stolen, everyone happily drank them. I gave a speech after my ol’ pledge buddy had a few words. Everyone thought I was going to say something deep, and I had planned on producing a compelling narrative, but I did not want to give into satisfying everyones expectations, so I mostly rambled about how awesome the frat was, how drunk I was, how much I enjoyed being the center of attention when giving a speech, and then I stepped down, or I was forced to. Either way.

I ate a lot during dinner, consuming three chicken breasts that tasted like smoked cedar, and eating multiple portions of a potato cheese scallop casserole. I made sure I consumed the vegetables as well with the idea that I was somehow countering the intense abuse I was wrecking on my body. The ride back was even quicker than the ride there. I went to my room, got changed, met up with my room mates in their room, and looked around for fun. I talked to three black guys from New Orleans and I introduced myself. Coincidentally, they introduced themselves, in full seriousness, with the same name. All four of us. I almost thought it was a joke if it wasn’t for the friendly casual nature of the encounter and the seriousness with which they replied.

I received news that the seniors were gathering on the beach for the ceremonial get together where champagne and speeches poured forth, and sentimentality could be shared in appreciable company. I gathered some people and set out to find it, but I was far from coherent. I got distracted by the sight of a Domino’s and decided to order a pizza which I proceeded to carry with me to consume as we ventured towards the beach. Unfortunately we weren’t able to locate this gathering so we decided to return to the hotel to revel with the rest of the group.

I made phone calls and eventually found out that my room was apparently hosting the party. I returned, but not before gathering people along the way and doing my best to persuade a young security guard to join us. Out of professionalism he politely indicated that he was working but, as a result of my genuine interest in his company, he compromised and rode the elevator us with us, indulging in the pleasant vibes of our group’s intoxicated camaraderie. Upon returning to the room the party was in full swing, making my entrance pretty disorienting as I tried to reaffirm whether this was indeed my room. In my drunken haze I had consumed a stimulant that was just starting to work its way through my blood stream and I could feel the boost of energy swell over me and out of me in enthusiastic gab. I’m not sure where the night went really, but I was talking about everything with everyone, and I distinctly remember conversations revolving around philosophical thought and my reputation for “being deep” or “philosophical”, which I made a point to rebuff as nothing more than a natural result of being curious, and that everyone would be considered deep if only they were more curious. We also talked on more trivial matters, such as the habit of periodically shaving one’s body, which I argued was a habit that was no different than any other arbitrary hygiene dictated by social convention of the like we typically take for granted, such as cleaning your ears, or shaving your legs or armpit hair, or brushing and bleaching your teach, or haircuts, or tanning, and the other multitude of inane grooming procedures that signify a status of class and care.

I recall spending a lot of time of the porch, probably with an agenda to snag cigarettes and hits of the maryjane circulating around. Whatever the reason for my preoccupation with the porch was, I don’t know, but I spent almost the entire evening out there, for better or worse. At one point I distinctly remember finding myself surprised that my alcohol consumption was increasing, rather than decreasing, and I decided to attribute the phenomenon it to the stimulant.

While on the porch I found myself in the company of a good girl friend whom I always admired. When we met she was young, a freshman, and in my mind naive, simply due to lack of experience. Due to my age I couldn’t reconcile the disparity in experience. But my attraction was definitely pronounced, specifically because of her exuberant personality that exuded an air of honest abandon, a happy casual disposition that seemed all too pleasant. The result of this disposition was an alluring mystique, a veneer that indicated there was more than meets the eye. She shared a curiosity for life that I equally cherished, and consequently chose to study philosophy which I, for obvious reasons, admired and revered. Whatever the case was, we talked on the porch, standing side by side and leaning on the balcony railing in tandem, staring into the evenings dark open air. In my haze I felt a rush of affection warm over. It was probably due to our conversations which, while I don’t remember the theme or details, I assume was genuinely thoughtful. I allowed my inhibitions to unhinge and embraced the attraction pulling my towards her. Those moments always contain the most bliss, a complete euphoric abandon. We kissed, and continued to kiss, and I yielded to the impulse to utterly absorb her presence, kissing and hugging with playful poise and affection. I explained that I hope she didn’t mind, but I was intensely attracted to her, and I couldn’t keep myself from indulging in the feeling. She didn’t mind in the slightest and reciprocated with equal fervor. Needless to say, we continued reveling on the porch, talking with our fellow drunkards, kissing and touching whenever the urge presented itself. It was humorous that, in the midst of sitting around in circle and conversing with others, discussing the nature of philosophy, its rule and duty, as well as the significance of etymology, we continued to kiss, blissfully unaware or unconcerned with appropriate conventions. Our interlocutors would interject that, if we wanted, they would leave so that we could continue doing our thing, but I was totally content sharing in the moment with everyone and that there was really no need to worry about any intrusion on their part. I was enjoying it all the same. It was comical really.

Eventually I decided I wanted to seek refuge in a bed with this girl. We ended up growing in knowledge. I was exhausted when I woke up. I felt like death. The ride home was pretty miserable. My date is an adderall crack head and she consumed countless pills on the way home, which prompted dilatory rambling that I was not in the mood for. She was also a huge fan of Glee, musicals, country music, and acappella covers, all of which I disdain ad nauseum. I tolerated it, however, out of courtesy for her driving. But I felt like hell. Sweating, fevers. Our first meal we ate at Wafflehouse, which was mediocre, as expected, but appropriate hangover food nonetheless.

Streaking Canopy

I can’t sleep. Insomnia has plagued me. Not insomia, per say, more of a total lack of diligence. I’ve been observing myself from afar the past few months, and I can’t help but think I’ve degenerated into a raving lunatic. There’s something of a compensatory malaise that’s settled on me, a disease of the imagination, one of the heart. I’ve succumbed to old vices, justified desultory behaviors, yielded to impulse, all in the name of fulfillment. And while I can’t say I’m in a state worth complaining about, I’m not exactly sure I feel any more fulfilled because of it.

Where is the self-discipline? I rationalize my passions, these unpredictable tyrants, with aphorisms like “reason must be a slave to the passions” and other nonsensical speak. What is balance? Before the structured society, nature imposed her rule, through time, the seasons, the setting sun. I’ve lambasted society’s strict structure as a pathetic excuse to escape responsibility from her order, all in the name of wildness. But am I an animal? Where is my personal narrative, my imagination? Why can I not call on a thread of story to sow meaning back into my life? I find myself with fading preoccupations that come and go with the tide, and I proclaim my evolution. But all the while the shore recedes and I am left with less than when I started. Am I too harsh? I have declared the reclamation of merit to live on a whim, but at what cost? Have I regressed? Have I grown into myself, or out of myself?

Change is something of a comfort. I’m tired of these thoughts, these stagnating feelings, these perduring words that have etched themselves into my psyche, that beat incessantly at my consciousness like a dripping faucet. Stillness breeds pestilence: placid pools choked of a streaming consciousness. Familiarity has evaporated fresh thought, leaving me with more of the same. Where are the revelatory insights? Do they come and go? Do I implore the world for more of her wisdom? or do I dig and mine for it from within? And what of the world and my proper place in it? Do I tell stories? do I listen to stories? or do I create them?

I am surrounded by enablers. People that feed my ego, that affirm the worth I continually seek to discard. I need to molt, to metamorphisize into something grander. Can this happen in my current state? Should I seek new frontiers? How should I employ my experience? How should I demonstrate my value? Where might I find something that doesn’t reek with past association? What is it that I am trying to escape? Where does this restlessness arise? Do I stab at it with self criticism? Do I strangle it with satisfaction?

But I want to do great, I say, want to change the world in an unprecedented way. I keep my eyes cocked, one pointed outward toward the world, the other inward toward my soul, to achieve balance, I say, but I only become disoriented. What will salvage this soul of mine? Is it literate? Do I leverage words over the minds of men, persuade them to embrace the clairvoyent alms I offer, the values I impart to the world? Do I act as a torch to light the way? And who will light my path? Is that for me alone? Or do I light the torches within other men, one by one, so that they become their own beacon, their own true north?

There are only questions, endless seas spanning leagues and chasms and planes. If I was a bird; I would have a voiced graced by divine inspiration and wings to carry me above the rising currents that bake the earth. I could soar across new landscapes, traverse valleys and streak up the hills, catch secret shade in towering canopies, and greet frontiers of wide open blue. Where is my place in this world? Is it in words, in symbols, in relations? Do I steep myself in meditation, in reflection? Or do I act with unrequited abandon and throw myself into the world? But the balance, you say, the moderation that beckons every stable being, where is that in this wide open dream?

Facebook, these digital landscapes, falsifies reality. The updates. The information. We are drowning in information. Do we need more knowledge? Does this world need more knowledge? More abstracted meaning? More stuff to fill our minds, to clog our souls, to muddle our mental machinery? I believe we are overflowing with information. Do we need more scientists? What of all the science we have? Are we getting any closer? What is the end, here? What have we achieved? Is our society any better off? Are we any better off? Do we have any more answers than when we started? So what is the goal? Should we make more of an effort to learn more? To stuff our brains with more symbols, more words? Will that provide the meaning, the answers? Will that suffice? I believe we have reasoned from the wrong premises, and our conclusions, natural as they may be, will fail us. I want to start over. From where?

I will secure a j-o-b soon. I type it like that because it’s often said like that, as if the word contains a frightful taboo, a terrifying reality that we should shield ourselves from. Upon securing this job, what have I to do then? Apply myself, earnestly produce value for my employer, all in the name of a paycheck, in the name of some core values and mission statement coined in a conference room by men wearing pin striped suits whose aim is to devise a moral incentive to maintain company performance. Workers are numbers, applicants, positions: faceless and nameless in the sea of business, in the market of operations. Performance is dictated by necessity, and beliefs are formed accordingly. We have bills to pay, mouths to feed, cash to accumulate, things to buy that extol our worth and achievement, and suddenly work becomes meaningful. But when all of that is provided, life suddenly becomes meaningless. The only outlet is pure self-expression, artistic screams that cry for some transcendental worth to imbue activity with meaning. But the crowds are fickle, and appealing to them for direction and value is a fruitless endeavor. No, you must dictate direction and value to the crowds.

Figures in authority ask the questions. It is not your place to question me if you are inferior, they say. Who do you think you are? I ask the questions, and you provide the answers. Let us educate our workforce in this way, silly complacent children.

The boys come and go. They are preoccupied with the thoughts of others. They seek approval of their worth, so they act the part, play the role, pander to the appraisal of others. Their lives, like most others, are empty; their own thoughts do not stay close but pass through them like a sieve. What is retained is a shallow film scraped from the sides of their hollow canisters. It is the same grime, the same soot, the same slime that festers across the airwaves, that penetrates the media madness, that trickles across the ticker, that dawdles down the twitter. The same information, reaffirming our crumby selves, our empty selves, devoid of self imposed rule, of self affirmed value. We become machines, with machine minds and machine hearts, latticed with everyone else’s ideas, with everyone else’s dreams, pipe dreams.


Monsters we are, monsters that hide under flesh, gleaming eyes, sharp teeth, foul breath. We wait for dark to settle, for the shadows of ignorance to blanket the mind, then we sink our teeth and claws into your cold dead flesh. We don’t like the live ones, but that isn’t a worry since there’s so few of them, the live ones. We sink and we tear and we rip and we shred, then we mash meat and gargle blood and floss our jagged teeth with the sinews. We live like this because we want to wake people, we want to scare people from their desultory dreams, but we find that not only are these people unmoved and unperturbed, they’re altogether dead. There is no heinous crime desecrating the sleeping dead.

Flowers line the walkway. Little children in white dresses saunter ahead dropping petals as they walk. Oak trees sway as rays of light poke through the branches and land on the path before me. I grasp her hand and squeeze gently an affirmation of assurance, of our bond.  The children vanish and I am left staring into a hand holding only a pen, a slender cylindrical pen dark as the ink it jets. I continue weaving these fabrications onto paper before I hear a ring for supper. I  close my book and head downstairs to discover my family laying on the floor, in a heap, dismembered and bleeding, their eyes still open, their mouths still gaping their last gasp. They’ve been dead for weeks now but the stench is hardly the concern, rather its the putrified puddles of blood and bile now squirming with fly larva. I grab a stack of books on the stairs and lay them before me in the humors, like stepping stones, and make my way to the kitchen.  A waft of turkey liver titillates my nostrils just as I pop open the microwave. My favorite.

The hedges trimmed nicely, I thought. The sidewalk is swept and the mailboxes are full with new news. I observe a serry of school boys across the way huddled under the stop sign. They were probably in college by the looks of their swagger. Boat shoes and collared tees, frayed hats and cigarettes, all coupled with a laughter that bellowed into the air like toxic smoke that choked my lungs. I wanted to go over and begin strangling them all, one by one, but prudence stepped in.

Prudence was my dog. He had long white hair, as most sheep dogs do, and it dragged through every puddle and dirt pile he made his way through. This dog had particularly bad taste in women. He was always fond of the older types, the ones with fake teeth and hair rollers who wore stockings whenever they made trips to the seven eleven. It was their flesh he liked most of all. Maybe it was because Prudence was old and his senses were far less keen than what they use to be, but he loved to nuzzle and lick the crotch of these old ladies to their delight. It was a dog thing. They understood it. But they loved it. And if it wasn’t entirely inappropriate they would have taken Prudence home and made’em their own.

I pressed the weight, squeezing my will against the bar, pressing the fibers, contracting them together with enough force to pop the blood vessels in my face. When I was finished with the last rep I fell down and collapsed to the ground, grabbing my chest in pain. The hate, don’t go– I yelled– don’t leave me. Surely enough the hate returned and I began to reharness that focus and apply that hate to the weight. This is how strength is born.

Continue reading “Dys-“


Classes have begun. I drove down the coast last weekend, stopping through NJ, MD, VA and finally made it to Nashville after 1400 grueling miles. Thank god for the iphone. I don’t condone surfing the internet while driving, but I would lose my mind if I couldn’t read on ten hour long car drives.

My room is situated and, for the most part, furnished and clean. I still need to unpack a few more boxes of books and organize my three books shelves. Our living room is empty, save a TV. Our dining room hosts three fold-able chairs and a fold-able table. Classy. My room mates are all clean, enjoy health and fitness, school, reading and learning. It’s an amazing combination. We all play guitar, we all do outdoor activities, we all philosophize. Couldn’t be happier really. The job search has begun *dun, dun, dun*. I dropped my metaphysics class in favor of a more realistic classload so I could focus on interviews and job searching. Besides, speculating about the problem of why there is so much evil in the world isn’t on my list of priorities, especially because I don’t really believe in evil. So, I’m in the process of updating my five page resume to a single page; something that seems like a daunting feat. Five classes, VP of the fraternity, and minimal other obligations. So far so good. I’m in the process of securing an internship at a local healthcare clinic so I can gain experience that will prove valuable during job interviews for healthcare IT companies such as Huron Consulting, HCA, EPIC Systems and Sage Intergy. I’d like to get a job on the sales and implementation side of things. Its a burgeoning market and I figure I need to jump on the wave before it closes out.

Our apartment complex is pretty amazing. Multiple pools, grills with free propane, workout gyms, a business center with free copying, among other things. The apartments themselves are pretty chic with wood fire places and a decent deck. I have the master bedroom, complete with a mega bathroom, walk-in closet, and a ridiculous amount of extra space despite my queensize bed, bookshelves, and desk.

So. I’m gonna resume writing. About? Not sure. I’ll resume with my crazy thoughts. Log about my days. Log about material I’m learning in class.


A little story, for fun

Went to the bar tonight. Met some chick who was thoroughly interested in me. This was a funny situation. She showed genuine interest, made the bold move of coming up to me and engaging in conversation, and continued showing interest even when I didn’t have much of a care to. She was cute. I was attracted to her. I decided to reciprocate and show her some interest. Talked. Talked. Talked. She excused herself. Some other chick began talking to me. I saw this girl pass as unobviously but obviously in search of me as possible. Almost out the door before I excused myself and asked where she was going. No matter. Continued talking. Probably slipped a little when I said I was waiting for her and the only reason I was still around was to see her. Hah. No matter. Gushing flirtation is bearable so long as it happens once and only once, and she was still engaged, so I was safe. So we talked. Talked more. At this point it was getting late, our joyful flirtations were beginning to grow relatively stale, for my taste anyway, and I was thinking about going to bed, with her. But I waffled and asked myself if she was worth it, if I really wanted to have sex with her, to continue our little banter out the bar, into my car, and into my bed. I asked myself if she was worth talking to tomorrow morning when I woke up and she needed a ride back to campus. In spite of these reservations we continued talking in the hopes that my man muscle would over power my reason. Then one of my friends came up to me in the midst of it all and mentioned she was hooking up with one of our mutual friends. Hooking up? Does that mean sex? I asked. No. So fair game. I thought it was humorous when I heard the name of who it was, but everyone has their tastes and I’m not one to judge. So among our extended conversations I noticed the guy was standing directly behind me. For whatever god forsaken reason I decided to be a little douch’ie and point out he was there. Hey look who it is, I motioned, it’s your boy. It was half joking, and I quite honestly expected her to get embarrassed and reject or ignore him. What turned out happening was pretty much what I expected, minus the rejection part. It got weird. He made a successful effort to make it awkward, which I happily acknowledged as awkward. He made some jokes and pretending to be retarded. Yea. I was totally lost as to what he was trying to do. Some retarded skit of his where he literally acts retarded and tells jokes, sorta like Jimmy south park style. Then he excused himself momentarily. The chick was pretty flustered. I asked if she was okay, and what the hell that was. She responded with a typical go-to, I’m so drunk I’m not sure what’s happening. So then I asked, are you a classy girl? she laughed and asked what classy was. I responded with, classy is having good taste. She laughed, I laughed, then, I think, she got my insinuation and excused herself. Good riddance. The next I saw her she had retreated to his presence. I find the whole thing laughable really.

So I decided to dip out at that point. No need for petty hook ups with desperate girls slooting it around. I drove home and, upon entering the gated community, I began tailgating this white mercedes. The only reason I was tailgating, in gods honest truth, was because there are typically zero parking spots at that time of night and I hoped to snake one from this car. From my car I see three blonde heads and a set of blue beady eyes lasering in on me from the back seat. We maneuvered throughout the parking lot, slowly, cause they rode their brakes in an effort to aggravate me and stall my persistent inclination to tailgate. No matter. It didn’t deter me and I rode practically on top of them. Fortunately, or unfortunately, we ended up parking right next to eachother. Some blonde girl gets out of the car and quickly approaches me as I get out, asking, do you always have the nerve to tailgate in a parking lot? I laughably responded with, only when I’m drunk and really wanna get a parking spot before you. That ameliorated the tension for a moment, then I noticed two other striking blondes step out of the car. I subconsciously asked myself if I had died and gone to heaven on the way home. False. No matter, it was a close second.

I continued talking with these girls in a playful manner as they hassled me for tailgating. Their initial aggression quickly evaporated as I laughed and smiled sheepishly while I explained that I was really trying to steal a spot from them. We continued our conversation as I walked towards my building, then they hassled me about following them. I responded that they were stalking me and probably knew were I lived and were waiting to follow me inside. It was all fun. Their names? Emily, Virginia, Chelsea… I think. The last one, Chelsea, was by far the most attractive, and it’s funny cause I spent the least time looking or acknowledging her, and I wish I hadn’t. Again, and I need to reiterate, the last one was by far the most stunning, with sharp delicate features, a petite and slender figure, and pleasant almond eyes with plush flowing blonde hair. The other two had recently graduated from ole miss. The third, Chelsea, although I’m almost certain that isn’t her name, had graduated from the ‘state’, or Mississippi state after I reflected a moment on what the hell that meant. They lived in my building. When we departed we said farewell and I voiced that I was hoping to see them again. Despite their coy reluctance to embrace my good humor and genuine nature, they were definitely fond of me and I could see they were fighting to stop the smiles that enveloped their faces as I approached and introduced myself to all of them.
Is it weird that I’m recounting all this info? Ha. Nah.

So, moral of the story. Women are predictably unpredictable. So, nothing new learned today. But classes are good.

Job search… commenced. Good money, I hope. Let’s see if I can secure a healthcare consulting job within the next month. Cause frankly, that’s when they stop offering their job offers. ha.

Oh. And I’m trying to get mega jacked and in shape. I’ll continue updating my progress. I weigh 187. Ridiculously unsat. I need to convert that to 100% muscle stat. Gimme three weeks and I’ll be down 10 pounds of fat and a pound of two of mucscle. Woot. Love genetics. Cheers.


Even though they’re my aunt and uncle, it’s still interesting living with another family. You get an intimate glimpse of a lifestyle you’d never otherwise encounter. I tend to analyze these things.

Anyway. This summer has been unusual. Worcester isn’t exactly the most exciting place in the world. Quite the contrary. It’s a bit drab. And considering it’s the second largest city in New England, rivaling Providence, you’d expect some variety in entertainment and social and cultural outlets. Not the case. I’m lenient though. There are thirteen colleges in the city, and it’s summer, so I can’t be too hard on the place. There isn’t very many people my age to be seen. You know where they go? Boston. And that’s where I should be on the weekends.

So what have I been doing with my time? Reading. Mostly vegetating. Hanging out with my seven year old cousin. Tip-toeing around my thirteen year old cousin who’s been sick and recovering from surgery due to appendicitis. You mustn’t upset temperamental sick people. So yea. My aunt is great. She’s got an awful lot of free time. Her job, I suppose, is being a house mom, working out, giving a few Pilates classes here and there in her gym/studio, and cutting or coloring hair in her salon. So she stays busy, but it’s mostly busy work, in my opinion. Now that it’s summer my uncle plays golf most of his days, so he’s generally in a good mood. ‘Business’ is what they call it, or ‘networking’. I’d love to get into that business. Or would I?

My boss generally works less than ten hours a week. He’s self made, doesn’t owe a dime to anyone, and has plenty of residual income that allows him to travel or spend money on a whim. A house here, vacation there, more boats, new cars, a pool and new landscaping, remodeling… it’s all fair game and he’s a fanatic about it. So I work with his other three partners who specialize in actually managing the wealth of their clients. I’m learning a good deal from them, but they aren’t exactly the managerial type. They mostly watch stock tickers, make phone calls to clients about how their investments are doing, or receive phone calls from anxious investors who get squeamish every time they see the market hiccup.


Anything to Anyone

(Unfinished excerpt)

“…There’s a point in everyone’s life when they realize their talent. For some this occasion arrives sooner than later, but nevertheless it arrives. If you were to ask me how I it is I came to acquire this talent, I might begin by giving you a breezy account of my upbringing, of the tumultuous transitions that marked my meandering life; or I might start off with a detailed account of my fascination with self mastery; or I might illustrate the parental influences that indelibly pressed upon my conscious. Whatever story I end up telling is more myth than fact. It may serve to inspire you,  kindle your fascination with me, feed your imagination; in the end they all serve an act of false generosity. False in the sense that it is the very talent in question that renders these myths.

To say my talent is people would be a gross underestimate. The more accurate telling would capture something supernatural and transient. You see, I am amorphous. I have no character that stolidly weathers the winds of time and the tides of change. But I am much more than my nebulous nature. I am a mimicking mirror: reflective, to a greater or lesser degree, of your exacting desires. There are no constraints, no guidelines, no rules, no method to this madness. It is a poetic perversion, a pantomime of subtle revelations mixed with mystery and madness, and nothing regular.

I work out of curiosity, out of the competitive challenge of can’t. I overcome these hurdles by moving myself towards a suit of interests. And when interests cannot be uncovered, it is my job to sow them.

You see, I can be anything to anyone. But surely, you say, this is manipulation, a farce of fabricated facades. I may disagree with fabricated facades, for they are surely fabricated and surer still facades, but I am by no means manipulative. On the contrary, my interests lie in you and you alone. There is no one else I hold in higher esteem. Your well-being is my well-being.

My vocation may be untraditional, but it is nonetheless legitimate and requires respect. It is not easy being other people. It demands constant work and attention, for people and their tastes are always changing. Fickle people. Fickle and flaky, but nonetheless predictable. If you do the thinking for them, that is. People begged to be swooned, to be lulled into a comfortable complacency. Defenses are an exhausting expenditure if there is no threat to counter or reward to reap. These walls always come down in time. Persistence is the key. Persistence and planning. If success is to be secured, you must increase probability with planning. Memorizing the mechanistic behaviors of man is just half of it. You must understand context, conventions, values, motives. Where are they from? With who do they acquaint? How do they behave? What do they value? Why do they act? To understand these is to understand the harrowing heart.

First and foremost, keep their best interest in mind, always. This must never escape the attention of your work. To absolutely achieve this, you must deny the self. You have no self. Subjugate whatever ego that sits at the window of your consciousness. He must observe from a far, with patience in mind. Every action is calculated for its long term returns, not the short term satisfactions. In this way the ego must sit idle and wait. His opportunities to whittle a path come at night, in solitude, under deep reflection.

A smile is the most disarming gesture you can offer. Let it

When you are something to someone, you become them. Their desires must be sought as if they are your own. More accurately, they are your own.”


Yellow Sunshine Pt.1

My vision: Pt.1

It really shakes you outta the stupor of life. Everything shows itself as absurd machinations of the mind, mental metaphors, crazy constructions. The contours of experience bleed and seep into a kaleidoscope of color. Everything shakes and shudders. It bubbles and boils over, spewing out of my mind, my mouth. My eyes consume the uncertainty that entertains the world.

10:30. Three hits. We talk about what’s to come. Drink water. The paper tabs begin to mush under our tongue. I roll the paper between my teeth. Music pulsates in the background. I switch tracks between eclectic electronica, to aural ambiance, to dithyrambic instrumentals, to melancholy melodies.

I play videos on my laptop. My friend watches from the bed. His face is serious, but inquisitive. There is something creeping behind his veiled expression. Something is beginning to swivel and unhinge. He hasn’t put his finger on it yet. My eyes catch his. A smile wraps around his face.

Hilarity begins to boil. My limbs feel weak. A faint vibration ripples around the periphery of my vision. It is almost out of sight, but it resonates with the growing uncertainty lurking at the edge of my thoughts. What’s to come? An impulse stands ready. It is barely noticeable, but it pervades my experience. Apprehension? No. Anxiety? Not quite. It is a steady waiting. For what? For nothing. For my senses to explode. For my experience to erupt with something. At this point I’m not quite sure what that something is. Meaning? Color? Laughter? Absurdity? Noise? Overwhelmed with possibility. Fragments of thought begin spinning off and collect other disassociations. They amass into knots. Clarity begins to merge with severe obfuscation. Inky residue clouds the genesis of my thoughts. Where do they come from?

We need to walk. We need to go somewhere. Something wants to crawl out of me. Creation. Explosion. I need stimulation. External stimulation. I need to make memories out of my mind.

I look at the glasses of water resting next to the computer monitor: short and fat, tall and skinny. His stubby glass of water seems icy and pure.  I examine mine. Smudges seem to ossify into bedaubing patterns of residue. I pick up the glass. My eyes probe the contents. Light refracts into millions of splintering shades. The edges of each dividing shade is strewn with a spectrum of variegating color. Something is moving within the water’s current: particulates. A blue fuzz. My face contorts with a look of disgust. I glance at the other glass. It sits still with pure glistening coolness.

“My water is contaminated,” I declare to the room.
He shifts his attention to me. He’s been watching my inspections with perplexity.
“Your water is perfectly fine.”
“No. It’s not. It’s contaminated with debris. I cannot believe I’ve been drinking this water.”

My stomach tightens at the thought of microbial contents worming its way into my blood stream. I swallow the writhing reaction down and head to the kitchen. I pour soap all over the glass and furiously clean its walls. Repeatedly I hold it up to the light for inquest. “Not clean enough” I mutter, and continue cleaning. The bubbles on my hands seem to froth mystically into existence, like tiny worm holes spontaneously forming and combusting.

I return to my room with a clean glass of fresh water. I seat myself and inspect it one last time before sipping its contents and returning it beside the stubby glass. There is a pause. My world begins to shudder, my skin titillates, my eyes strain. Suddenly I get up.

“We need to do something.” I say this with conviction.
“I agree” my friend replies, “let’s go somewhere.”

A confusion has set in. Beginnings and endings seem elusive. Thoughts and goals, a peradventure. Is it cold? I go outside to audit the evening: Cold, really cold, with a mounting moisture.  We bundle up in garments, grab apples and a bottle of water. The process seems difficult to organize. I cannot forget the necessities: but what are these necessary items? Wither are we going? and for how long? He goads that we are ready, that nothing has escaped our attention. I hesitantly subscribe.

We exit the comfy confines of my home and begin walking down the street.

“Traffic calming neighborhood” he says. “Reduce speed ahead”

The two of us are paused in the street examining the sign.

“What does this mean?” I say with my hands on my hips. I tilt my head thoughtfully. “Who is doing the calming?” I am bewildered. Who put this sign up? How long has this gone unnoticed? “Is the neighborhood calming? This doesn’t make sense. Who in this neighborhood is calming? The traffic? How does this work? What does it mean?” After a good deal of speculation and confusion we decide that the question is better left answering for another time.

We walk down the street.

We look into the windows of passing houses. A gaggle of children sit round their instruments and play harmoniously with mechanical precision. The parents recline in the adjacent room. Each wears a pacified expression; or is it sedated?

The trees force an atramentous outline into the caliginous sky. From giant branches sprout thousands of nascent limbs, covering the tree like coarse cilia. The thick branches look hacked and mutilated. Only in the winter can you see the atrocities these trees bear. They bear their scars proudly and persist the fight upwards. Missing limbs, brutal reminders of mans molestation.

We continue walking along the sidewalk. Street lamps illuminate the misty air. It glows like a neon lamp, smooth and ambient.

Vegetation seems to glisten with oscillating shades of purple, orange, pink, green, red and yellow. We continue thinking about the plants. I begin a diatribe.

“Plants are raped. Flowers are abducted. They are thrown into these whore houses we call gardens and flowerbeds, unnaturally solicited for our aesthetic indulgences. Our eyes molest their natural colors. They try their best to impress us in this new and foreign land. Rows of plants, plucked from their homelands, their natural environments, are forced into crowded corridors and tight boxes. All for human indulgence…” I mutter inaudibly, lost in thought, and continue “for the gratification of manipulation. We manipulate nature, whore her out, rape and molest her natural beauty, exploit her fertile flowers. This grass is not at home. These trees? Stolen away in a violent struggle. Their offspring, the tiny seedlings huddling to her ovaries, clutch for dear life. They are stripped and implanted into a city, cast into pots, verges, medians and swales.”

An elementary school passes beside us. Four giant columns support the architrave holding the massive pediment bearing its name.

“Let’s vandalize it.” I say enthusiastically.
“No way. That’s a horrible idea.”
“No, not like, vandalize it. I mean, lets try toppling these columns.”
“Like Samson?”
“Exactly like Samson. I mean, he did it. I feel like if we can topple these columns, we deserve to vandalize it.”

We laugh and position ourselves between the columns and give a few exasperating heaves and hoes. Nothing. We abandon the pursuit and sling insults at Samson.

“What a woman. I mean really, who gets stronger the longer their hair is? Isn’t long hair emasculating? I think they had it all wrong. He should be ultra strong the shorter his hair is. Psh.”

We continue walking along, admiring the various colors bleeding from the leaves. The twigs tremble in the breeze. Green buds hang from their tips and weigh on the weak winter branches. The trees seem alive. They probe the air like colorful coral creations, like the fingers of sea anemones.



LSD is like a surprise party you’ve heard all about; even before the first encounter you believe yourself to be distantly acquainted like an astral soul mate. As the time approaches you believe yourself prepared and ready, maintaining a perfectly formed idea of the minute details comprising the events of the party: where it’s at, whats going to happen, who’s gonna be there. You are terribly excited and cannot wait to be greeted by the anticipated surprise.  However, as one who savors the novelty of life, you go to great lengths to ensure the vernal appeal is fully preserved. You sneak up quietly, tip-toeing, trying not to disrupt the au courant beauty of your expectations. You await the glory, the thrill and approbation.

At the last expecting moment you feel an abrupt slap in the ass that throws you into an utterly befuddled, confused state. Swiftly, you swing around to find a retinue of happy, joyous, strange, aliens cheering your arrival. You do not know these people, you do not know why they are looking at you with such glib enthusiasm. You don’t know whether to greet them with a smile and beam equal joy, or recoil in alarming fear. This does not parse well with your expectations. You were expecting a party, but this is not the party you thought you’d attend. These are strangers, unknown to you. Their visage may suggest a warm disarming invitation to stay, but there is a strangeness. Do I embrace these outstretch arms and party with conviviality and without consternation? Or do I attempt to run? Should I escape and flee to a more familiar place? Perhaps the party I expected?

Little do you know, in that moment, you have no choice in the matter. You cannot cross  the thresh hold twice. Fate has left you here and this is the party you must attend. The sooner you embrace it, the sooner you can appreciate it. Running from it is like running inward. There is no escape. You only go deeper and deeper, until you lose yourself. You cannot escape yourself.


“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

Last week I ran an errand for the office to deliver some time-sheets to the medical payroll office. My director told me to make sure they were time stamped before I submitted them. When I arrived, there was no one at the window so I was a little confused as to how to do this. I lingered for a moment, trying to figure out what she meant by time-stamping. The next moment a girl walked up with a stack of envelopes. With my attention was elsewhere, I watched as she began processing her documents. I casually asked her if she knew how to time-stamp a time sheet. She showed me with thoughtful instruction and I proceeded to process and submit the time sheets before walking away. As I walked, my thoughts returned and it struck me: that girl was breathtaking. Although I didn’t take time to appreciate it in my busied state, her beauty was instantly apparent the moment I looked into her eyes. I walked down the hall and reflected. Beauty moves. It tugs at something deep inside you. Whether it’s art, nature, complexity or simplicity, it transports you to a better place. Her physiognomy held a child like innocence. Her blonde hair was wispy and pure, streaming and sun kissed. She was tall, but not overwhelmingly so. There was a delicacy in her figure, womanly yet youthful. Her eyes seemed to capture the simplicity of life. As I was reflecting, I felt compelled to do something, to obey those unwieldy passions. Her presence incited an irrational passion within me. I wanted to recapture that. I had the urge to turn, walk up to her with a decisive confidence, and ask for her name. I wanted to revel in another moment of her presence and ask if she was free that evening for dinner. While my reserved judgement told me to tame such responses, my youthful zeal demanded that I act now, that the opportunities of love beg not to be overlooked. Hume said that reason must be a slave to the passions. Since when did I begin believing otherwise?

As I walked, I continued to think about our exchange. I held her image in mind and let the pleasant and uplifting emotions it generated pour over me. I told myself that I would see her again, that I would not forget such a face and that I would work to find her again. I believe, and life has taught me truly, that we attract what we think about. I know from experience that what the heart desires most, if we act honestly, it attains. As predicted, I did find her again.

I write this because it’s not often that a girl has this kind of affect on me. I admit that there are many beautiful girls out there, but it’s rare that I’m left with a longing that lingers after such an encounter.

Of recent

Recently I’ve been much more focused. My birthday acted as a catalyst for the reexamination of my priorities. I’m 24 now. Usually birthdays are a cause for celebration. When that day came, I realized there would be nothing unique about another celebration. Sure I’m 24. How should we celebrate? Socializing with food and alcohol? The past month my drinking (partying) habits have been uncharacteristically desultory and unrestrained. If celebration is characterized as rejoicing in life through indulgent festivities, I feel like that’s been all I’ve been doing as of late. A birthday celebration of that sort would be no different.

Instead, I chose to study and work, and I found it to be much more fulfilling, much more of a celebration of life and progress than any other activity.

I decided to reframe my approach to fulfillment. Its easy to get sucked into the tyrannical approval of the masses. They say: happiness is derived through partying. Im a slow learner and I continually have to remind myself that those gratifications are no investment in my life. They yield no long term value or pride, only fleeting memories that we desperately hope to recapture.

Anyway. I’m happy. Focused. Life is great. I’ve got my eye on the ball, as they say.

The dilemma  I find myself continually facing time and time again is the value I derive from relationships and people. Why is that a problem? Well, it just so happens that many of the people who I cherish spend the majority of their past times indulging in ephemeral glories and menial activities, i.e. binge drinking and other bacchanal activities . I need to seek out people who value similar passions. Passions that include personal development, the pursuit of truth and knowledge, creative thinking, quality discourse, new adventure and an overall interest in improving their value as a person.

Anyway… Study time.


Every once and awhile I find myself pouring over old journal entries. Juvenile musings. They actually inspire me. I was so… naive? Yet, genuine. I spoke with subtle vulnerability. I was open, the world was open. Earth and all its greenery wasn’t tainted by the shadows of worldly criticism. It thrived on pure joy. I can’t say whether these joys were derived from girls, friends, drugs, rebellion, music, adventure, or some other delusional teenage romance. What I can say is that I spoke with brutal honesty. I didn’t hide my devilish joy, or embarrassing hurt. I threw it out there.

Nashville is beautiful. Its slowly transitioning its way to fall. The night brings a cool chill with it. Pretty different from the summer sauna.

I always fantasize about freedom. Freedom is a state of mind. It is inside your being. I judge too much. My self; others. It’s in the name of reason, of truth and justice, but it erodes the value. It ruins the essence by peeling a wonderfully true experience into a fraying cognitive conundrum. It renders the experience useless. It wears it out. Its magic dissolves.

I don’t want to think anymore. I want to be. I want to exist moment by moment, feeling by feeling. I want to explode outward like a dazzling display of fireworks and illuminate the world with my sparkling embers.

I will hold no grudge with myself; nor will I hold a grudge with others. I must remember that when I judge, I am condemning myself. I am holding myself to one more impossible standard. My only standard should be to live loudly. Be boldly.

School’s going alright. I haven’t applied myself at all really. Not sure what the consequences of my lack of discipline will be, but I don’t seem to care too much. I’ve been doing my best to get real with myself, to shed the bullshit facades. Self deception, in all its vapid power, has an insidious nature. “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” (Nietzsche) It stole into my life and left me paralyzed; wholly entranced with its emptiness. Analysis paralysis. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t give a shit. It doesn’t mean that I won’t face my demands with a fierce resolution. It just means that I won’t reserve any energy for condemning myself or others. I refuse to hold myself to standards. Standards only stifle potential. They cap it. They put limits on something that operates in a world beyond definable limits.

I love my friends. One specifically comes to mind: Ravi. Half italian, half indian, he’s one of the most genuine people I’ve met. The real deal. There’s nothing opaque about his intentions. They are out there for general review, and he’s ok with that.

Lifes good. I am defiant at the moment, and I’ll continue being defiant. Either existence is a heavy burden, or it is no burden at all.


Have you ever experienced a sudden ‘coming-to’, where an utter repulsion sweeps over your body? An unfamiliarity stings the air and you become uncomfortable with your place and time. The walls, the paint, the clothes, the people. All strange and repulsing. Anxious and aware, you are lost in the scenery. You’ve created this world, and yet you are disgusted with the way it has unfolded. A sickness sweeps over you. The desire to refuse it all begins to glow. Nausea turns to anger, to bitterness, to helplessness.


Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering. ~St. Augustine

I need problems in my life. I mustn’t think that I’ve got it figured out, or that my current path or methods are best. I need to recognize dilemmas and confront problems that don’t seem so obvious.

I realized that, when I am happy, I become content. Not that I cannot become content with certain pursuits, but it seems that my zest for certain pursuits begins to dwindle when happiness and contentment come over me.

Girlfriends really are draining. I often think that I will be single for the rest of my life. In my mind there is a women that is without maintenance, without upkeep. She doesn’t rely on my efforts to make her happy, nor does she seek them out.

My life recently…

I’ve had this girlfriend for some time now…. a couple months. Early on I perceived some emotional baggage, potential issues that may pose as problems later on in the relationship, but I overlooked them with an optimistic eye. I had hoped that these issues would soon allay as our bonds deepened for one another. I’m not sure that happened and I’m sorta done with exercising patience. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else’s happiness. If I make you sad because you expected differently from me, because I didn’t make you happy, or I failed to cuddle, or I lacked affection a few nights in a row, then I’m not sure I want to be in a relationship with you. Too much pressure. I’m in the opinion that my happiness comes from within, despite circumstances, despite the emotional investment.

The bottom line is that I really don’t want to be with this person. Primarily because I am not attracted to who this person thinks she is. I am attracted to someone else… someone she could be. Unfortunately she doesn’t see that person, and I don’t have the patience for it. Her critical attitude, complaining and low self esteem do not bring me up, nor do they make her any more attractive to me. Instead, they reaffirm negative perceptions and draw criticism into my thoughts. I don’t want to spend time with someone who isn’t capable of seeing the best in the world, in others, or in themselves.

I recognize that this comes off as hypocritical. I should see the best in her, and I do, but her attitude has an insidious grip on my state of being, on my mood. It saps my energy and doesn’t leave me in a better place. I’d much rather devote my time and energy to someone who is earnestly searching for the best in themselves and outside themselves. Maybe I’m suppose to lead this girl there… but I just haven’t the patience.


Work is good… and when I say good, I mean monotonous and boring. However, it allows me to cognize and discuss thoughts with my fellow interns. I always have something on my mind.


I’ve been reading a great deal about the negative impact on computers and the internet and the positive impacts of books recently.

I need chaos in my life. Homeostasis must NEVER be reached. I must always throw off the balance, perceived or real, and approach life as a crisis to be solved. Only in this way does life become meaningful and challenging. What life is there for me at the moment? Working, interning, cultivating future aspirations and networking ties. I am bleeding my critical thinking and creative insights dry on a daily basis. There is no intellectual stimulation within my routine.

The occasional news article, or chapter from a book, but nothing substantial to dwell on. No problems that need solving. I should learn economics more fully. I should read Bertrand Russell and William James, and master logic and prose and poetry and painting. Why don’t I?

I don’t want a girlfriend. This girl has sapped my attention, my free time, or what little free time I’ve had. And for what? Emotional pleasure? Ephemeral gratification? I would like my energy expenditures to be more rewarding. What is a relationship that yields pleasure, but no great intellectual, or emotional, insights? Where is her curiosity? Ugh. I’m done with it. I’ve decided now, in this moment.

I need to journal more. I’ve had little time to myself, and I should have all the time in the world. Summer is the occasion for personal development, for the cultivation of internal growth. Working out, getting fit, is wonderful and all, but the mind must find similar attention and stimulation.

I’ve been frustrated recently. I should journal out all these thoughts, all the daily occurrences. I will… everyday. Starting today. Night.


I have a tendency to sound sententious. Forgive me.

My generation, and all those proceeding mine, have me embarrassed. I have been born into a time and place where people are no longer hungry to survive, nor are they hungry to thrive. The great majority of my peers are no longer hungry. What scintilla of hunger remains is reserved for idleness. They are pathetic, passive, consumers, hungry for leisure and ease.

Daily I delve into a commotion circulating society, void of zest, void of passion, void of purpose.

Advertising, academics , entertainment, all woo the willful intellect into a lullaby, a deep slumbering recant.

Our lives are not our own. We have lost ourselves, our traditions, our roots, our history and heritage, to the media, to the experts. We are no longer fit to brave life’s excursions without a guiding figure. Uncharted territories exist in a space beyond us and our imagination. We are not fit for such adventure. So we suspend the will to live, forfeit the alms for something greater. Where bridges would be, we spend our lives building walls and cling to our emaciated dreams.

There is no personal history, no family, no origin. We are nationals, Americans, raised by television, the Internet, our schools, our jobs. Starved of new light, our conscience shirks in the penumbra. We are drones.

How do you wake up a nation cultivating and perpetuating its own poison? How do you lay claim to an intellect defined: circumscribed and standardized. What is will? what is freedom? Notions lost to the strong and gifted, a chance missed by all but a few.

In a word, Emerson said ‘A man is what he thinks about all day long.’

Given this description, what state do we find ourselves?

I talk to young minds who have never developed the ability to question. They never ask whether they are on the right path, whether their beliefs are toxic delusions, whether their behaviors and habits will reap negative consequences, or consequences at all.

What becomes of a man who does the minimum in school to get by, who watches TV in his free time, who absorbs societies prescriptions for his health, wealth, future, happiness? Four hours of TV a day? Six hours of TV? Never mind the trash, the propaganda, celebrated on television as glorified miscreants who are impoverished in spirit. Hours of mindless internet surfing? Playing mindless video-games that envelope the consciousness, sucking its attention into a digital world of no consequence?

What will become of our future leaders? Who will follow them? The zombie fascination is a prescient of our future condition.

TV, Mass media, even the beloved science community, has led us to believe a lie. Everywhere we move but rarely do we progress. We adorn our external lives with material fixtures that fade with the fads. Never to do we exercise reflection to look within, to ratiocinate about the barren pallid walls of our world, home to the human spirit, private to us. Instead we chain ourselves to the flux of the masses, the appeal and approval, and overlook the function, the utility of our laboring aims.

Time has become an inconvenience, not because we have so little time, but because we have too much.

I despise the corpulence, the venery, the stolid and dull, all foibles born out of the American malaise.

We need to grow radical. We need to act now, but within. Our fight should exist internally and should be waged endlessly in the name of freedom and imagination, of humanity.

Finale done.

And summer has begun. I just finished sending my last four essays. Total relief to be done.

Finals week is always so taxing. It’s incredible how much pressure you experience your last two weeks of school. The culmination of a semesters worth of effort is hinged on your last week of performance.

I have an atrocious amount of laundry that needs to get done. That’s priority number one. Followed by a thorough cleaning of my room. This involves vacuuming, a good dusting, and organizing all the course materials strewn about everywhere. If I didn’t live here, I’d be pretty appalled by my standards.

This semester… geeze. It’s probably… no, definitely, my most disappointing semester in college. Instead of focusing on academics I let myself get carried away with ephemeral indulgences. I failed to practice the discipline and self control that characterized my studies the past two and a half years. Why? Well.. no excuses really. I decided to get more social, something I knew would jeopardize my focus and, in turn, my studies. I did though. Am I better because of it? Not to my standards. Do I feel any better about myself? Not at all. So why? Eh..

I let myself buy into the idea that social life provides life with a richness. And it does, in the moment. And thats what I don’t like. These social investments are temporary ‘feel good’ exposures. From prior experience, I know they aren’t lasting. I think this is something that I really need to focus on absorbing. My whole life I’ve watched as I’ve poured myself into relationships, deep and wide, and ultimately watch them fade away as I moved on in life both literally and figuratively. In the end I come back to realizing that my energies could have been more wisely allocated in academics, thoughtful reflection, writing, reading, planning, hobbies, or other pursuits of personal development.

But I also recognize that a social life is necessary. The distinction between the social life I’m inclined to partake in and the social life I should partake in has to do with the type of socializing I do. Destructive or mindless activities such as heavy drinking, promiscuous encounters, or superficial antics to gain approval should have no place in a life with a purpose- assuming that purpose doesn’t entail the aforementioned. The kind of social activities and friends I should be entertaining should directly support the means to my ends. This means quality people involving quality conversations partaking in quality activities. These activities should have purpose and direction towards a higher chief aim.

I suppose this goes back to the maxim that if you value your self, then you value your time, and when you value your time, only then do you make the best use of it. Seeking self affirmation from others through mindless social interactions is an indication that your entire self worth isn’t fully recognized by you. As a result, we seek it from other people. Shame on us.

I love people, I truly do. They are my passion. Or actually, my passion is exploring life with people, engaging in critical debates and adventures that yield invaluable lessons and insights and experiences. Anyway…

Hm… what to do.

I guess I don’t have much else on my mind at the moment. I should start cleaning.

My morning.

I will journal.

Today was fine. Funny word to describe a day.

We all live in these gardens, menageries of wonder. Behind every smile, every inquisitive eye, every coy and daring gesture, there is a world in need of exploration. This is why I love people. Why do we run from these worlds? We should embrace people. (Of course these worlds are gated; many have high walls. I believe, and curiosity would agree, that every wall should be scaled.)
Continue reading “My morning.”

Memoir & Devoir

I’m writing my book. Its got me excited. I get these little bursts of creative inspiration where my life seems to coalesce into a singular story. During these times I begin to see how my story can be told. The outline is expanding. I was always shocked how authors managed to write five hundred plus pages. It seems like such a daunting task. Now that I’ve been working on my outline I find that I have well over 200 points to talk about… and if each of those points was about 3-4 pages long, I have myself a really long book. My initial approach will be to organize all the events. From these I plan to detail the experiences associated with those events. This is where I will retrieve info from all my journal entries. These detailing will be more factual. When I have all these stories together, I will begin weaving them together into an idiosyncratic autobiographical account. From there I will cultivate the prose and rhetoric expected from quality writing.

‘Stories’ or the notion of ‘story’ has been a frequent theme thats been cropping up in my day to day life. From narrative fictions, to tradition and history, to meaning, to context, etc. Stories play a powerful role in explaining the world around us, our relation to it, the truths that reside within it, and our feelings about it. There is no better way to communicate than through a story. This is why I’m inspired to tell mine. Although, its greatly unfinished. The older I become, the more perspective I have to contextualize all these life events. I fear, however, that with this age and perspective will come the loss of rawness I seek to convey.

I have work. Will write later.

I can say that I am not living up to my fullest potential at the moment in my life. I find myself met with some mental barriers that have caused me to settle for less than what I know is truly my best. I’ve made a commitment to myself to overcome this mental and emotional stagnation. This is my proclamation. I commitment to myself, to my integrity, to improve my work ethic, hold steadfast to the continual cultivation of my life’s vision, and seek to lead through example, so that every person I encounter has a brush with my passion for harnessing the unbridled potential that constitutes life and its possibilities.

NOLA Spring Break 2010

Well, well, well.

Spring break was great. Probably the most enjoyable time I’ve had in a long while. I went on the Universities Alternative Spring Break program. Last fall I applied to do community service and/or research & learning at one of 36 locations around the world. I ended up in New Orleans (ironic), doing renovations on homes ravaged by hurricane Katrina in 2005.

The group I went with consisted of 12 students. No one knew anyone, but by the end of the week it was like I knew them for years. Every day from 9:00 to 300 we would do work on these homes by cleaning, scraping, sanding, painting, hanging drywall, etc. We did a lot of work. The organization we worked for was called OnSite. The trip took many interesting turns. Initially we were suppose to work with the St. Bernard Project in the ninth ward, but that fell through last minute due to a loss in our paperwork. The result was a scramble to find another site… and OnSite was the only place that was really a viable option.

Anyway… turned out they weren’t a legitimate non-profit… although they did do various sorts of community service throughout the area. The conditions were unsafe a good deal of the time, and there was a lack of overall professionalism. That is not to say, however, that the people running the program weren’t cool people. They had interesting stories and devoted their life (although its debatable whether it was by choice or not) to helping the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

For a community service trip we did a helluva lot as far as adventures go. We went to the aquarium with mentally handicap persons in conjunction with the best buddies program. We saw some traditional NOLA parades… beads and all. They actually were throwing vegetables during this parade… which was initially bizarre (in addition to the traditional beads, candy, cheap toys and…. ramen noodles?). I think we figured out that it was due to St. Patty’s day… and the vegetables were like for cheap soup and stuff… i dunno. (We ended up using the cabbage for wraps, potatoes for mashed potatoes, onions for tacos, and carrots for our salads). We visited downtown… went to the famed Cafe Du Monde, Bourbon street and Patty O’Brien’s for Dinner, visited a Bayou (although it was a little disappointing), went on a pic-nic, went to a famous New Orleans bar named Vaughn’s and listened to a renown jazz artist, and… did other things I’m sure. We ate great food, no doubt. Had all the traditional NOLA Cajun and French dishes.

The culture down in NOLA is incredible diverse… and I need to point out and stress how friendly and open everyone is. Its incredible. I’ve been to a lot of places but NOLA has a special vibe. Lots of different people from different walks of life converging in one small area. Its beautiful there too. The weather is like that of the Florida Gulf Coast… which is expected since its on the Gulf I suppose.

Every night that we didn’t go out for food we made home made dishes. It was a great experience. The Site Leaders lead a good deal of reflections.

At night two people would give their life map, which is essentially an oral autobiography. The life maps usually lasted 1-2 hours each. They really allowed us to open up to each other and learn things we never would have guessed.

I happened to give my story on the last day. My story straight up shocked people. They weren’t expecting someone who seemed so on top of it and ‘normal’. They said that it was surprising since I seemed just like one of them. Although I didn’t bear all, I came very close… and for times sake just included the important events. I wish I recored it so I could have transcribed it for my book. Oh well. The freshman girls in our group were spell bound with my story. They were all so innocent, coming from sheltered and privileged beginnings. They had never been exposed or even heard of some of my circumstances before. They were mostly shocked that I managed to overcome it all and end up at Vanderbilt, a rigorous top 20 school in the nation. They all were over achievers their whole lives.

Anyway… I think thats pretty much it. I’ll revise and update if I left anything out.

Puerile feelings.

Its 221am. I was sitting here the past few hours thinking about how I need to update my journal. Semester 1 is over. 5 more to go- and I’m excited.

I was thinking how I need to journal more. I was also thinking that my mind has flat-lined. Not too much to think about or reflect on. The past week I have been vegetating, quite literally. Sleeping 15 hours a day and waking around dusk to lounge around or go out to the wee hours of the morn, indulging in bacchanal mischief. This is the mode I contract when I come home. Not sure why this is the case. I always tell myself great things I’ll do- read several books for pleasure, workout like a maniac, continue writing my book… But when I enter through the door of my house, all my ambition flutters away and I’m left feeling completely listless and apathetic. Dunno why. I mean… wait… nope. dunno.

So i was pretty upset that I didn’t have anything at all to write about… so I was fumbling around on facebook and lookin through photos and stumbled on one of my “ex’s”. A surge of perverted feelings ran over me. First, and she’d kill me if she heard me say this, I never considered her a girlfriend. More like a comforting fuck buddy. She was needy for some love, and so was I. Not much else too it. I went for over two years without a girlfriend, hooking up with random girls along the way. i needed intimacy, no matter how shallow. And the truth is, I wanna care, I wanna give my feelings and heart, but its near impossible. I don’t think I am ready at this point in my life.

My ex girlfriends aid as a poignant reminder of these perverse feelings. When I am with them, I look at them as temporary artifices in my life. They come and go, and if you put too much in, they take too much when they leave. So I stay cool and stolid and emotionally reserved, acting on passions derived from sexual urges when the women demand it. Otherwise I am an empty vessel and they are emotionally needy women.

Anyway… so I transferred schools and my ex stayed in bfe. The people around her are, in my opinion, and my opinion is extremely critical, degenerates. She was real broken up when I left, endlessly crying and calling and doing her all to stay in touch and kindle the romance and intimacy… and I…I expected it to end from day one. As a result, I was fully insulated from feeling any tenderness of the heart. No voids here. Wam bam thankyou maam.

I admit this is absolutely horrible and I will say that I don’t hold this perspective all the time. At the moment I’m feeling pretty unaffected.

So ex girlfriends. I am actually repulsed by the vast majority of them. What repulses me most are the types of guys they go after. You’d think that as an ex I’d get jealous, but just the opposite happens. I think to myself “I thought these girls had better taste/standards”. And you know, that’s really harsh on the guys. I’m sure they’re all great and stuff… but I look at them and go… ‘those dudes are losers not goin anywhere.’ And then I look at my exgirlfriend and think ‘and I dated a girl who is ok with that?’. and then I feel repulsed and never want to associate with them again.

Of course, they think i’m a huge asshole. or insensitive. which is, probably, true.

I also can’t stand thinking about some nasty new boyfriend fuckin that same girl. I, obviously, consider myself a fine specimen, especially so in bed. And these guys? psh. makes me a tad ill inside.

In the back of my mind, whenever I break up with a girl, I tell myself “That girl was great. Real great. Maybe down the road I’ll realize how great she was and we could have a future together.” But after seeing them with a new dude… 95% of the time whom i consider a huge step down, I just wanna vomit and sanitize my genitals.

Anyway…point being is- fml.

i need shit to do. Tomorrow… beach day. My sleep schedule is FUDGED. and my bank account: PURGED. broke as a joke. Christmas is great, but we may as well save our money and splurge on ourselves once a year. I got an IPhone. (<-not sure if I should put an exclamation or not).

Gosh… lots more to say but shoot… its 251am. night.

Writing. Process.

Sitting in a room. Alone.

Two adjacent chalkboards hang at the corner of the room. A library bookshelf filled with very old philosophy books ranging from behavioralism to phenomenology sits caddy corner. On my right, there’s a large canvas painting depicting an ocean view from a deck, outfitted with a table for two covered by a red tablecloth; place settings and chilled wine wait patiently for the guests.

The walls of the room are made of decrepit brick. There is a long table at the center of the room. I sit at its head. I view toward the end of the room and peer out the lone window into the darkness.

The room is located on the second floor in a small classroom at the back of the building. I am the only one left. The building is large and foreboding, characterized by thick gray stonework and archetypal Gothic architecture. The cloistered main entrance is guarded on either side by two large embattlement towers topped with crenels and merlons. Furman.

Its 1:30am. I need to finish this paper. I need to concentrate. Need. To. Concentrate. Kant. Hypothetical Imperatives. Formulations of humanity. Formulations of Autonomy. Perfect and Imperfect Duties. When will the madness stop.

While I absolutely love Kant, his readings are torturous. At least starting out. After I spend like four hours with the text, it comes alive and I can actually makes sense of his precise vocabularly. That’s the thing, Kant is soooo vocabulary intensive. He uses strict definitions that make reading troublesome. You need to relearn the meaning of the words before you can read. Otherwise it makes no sense. But, once you spend time, and your mind acclimates to the new semantics, sentences become more clear. That’s another things- his sentences are unbearably long. Example: “All imperative are expressed by an ought and thereby indicate the relation of an objective law of reason to a will that is not necessarily determined by this law because of its subjective constitution (the relation of necessitation).” I mean… I understand it… but only because I’ve read the essay five times. Rearticulating his sentences is fun. poo.

Anyway… I like his way of formulating morality the bestest. At least when compared to those utilitarians or emotivists like Hume, Mill, Artistotle and the like. I do have some issues with Kant…though… I can’t really put what they are into words right now.

Anyway… onto the last four parts of this essay. Soooooon.

Prose Writer.

So… today I had a surge of inspiration. Recently I’ve been having a ton of conversations with friends, usually about life and my experiences. At the end of the conversations they tell me my stories are inspiring and I should write a book. I’ve been planning on writing one simply for my own gratification, if not for publication, for a long time now. The reason I haven’t started one was because I was convinced my story wasn’t compelling enough, or I wasn’t finished evolving as a person, or I didn’t have a pinnacle experience to top it off. And I actually still believe I need to finish my evolution and have a mega achievement. However, I have plenty of my past that I can still write about and work on. I realized that I have a plethora of stories that I typically tell people- therapist, psychiatrists, friends, family- when I explain my past. These stories mark monumental turning points or make up major components of my past that shaped who I am today. I decided to outline each of these components and turning points. As I did this, a chronological outline of my life began to emerge. It was sort of exciting to see each of the words that marked these influential experiences.

On the outline- each word marks a vital experience that has made me who I am today. I have carried these stories with me- in my head, journals- in an effort to help me explain my origin, my development- who I am. The next step is to simply begin writing these stories out. These are stories I’ve told dozens of times- whether it was to myself or to others.

I’ve contemplated this book/ writing process for a long time now. Initially I thought a self help book would be the best book I could write. Overcoming depression etc etc. Or maybe a manual for parents. Then I thought an autobiography would be easiest where I simply dictate different events in my life in the first person. I still don’t know. All I know is that I want to to touch on every experience, dilemma, emotion, struggle, triumph, passion, love, achievement, defeat that a person goes through when they grow up. I just want to explain my experiences in an effort to convey to the world, or just the ones searching, that someone else shares the intimate sufferings and joys of life, on some level or another.

Anyway… I have a ton of work to get done tonight. I’m sorta burned out. (at a policy dabate meeting right now- listening to my peers practice their 1&2AR/NR’s.

Here’s the outline… its too large to keep it in its nice format so yea.

Book Outline

1. Childhood
a. Family
i. Mother
1. Influence
ii. Father
1. Influence
iii. Sisters
a. Origin
b. Moving/Transitions
i. CA
ii. VA
iii. IA
iv. NJ
v. Home Renovations
c. School
i. Academics
ii. Medication
1. 1st grade
d. Adventures
e. Christianity
i. Influence
2. Middle School
a. 6th grade
b. 7th grade
i. School life
1. Academics
a. Stop Medication
a. Trouble
i. Detentions Suspension
1. Friends
a. Joe
b. Mike W
c. Steve
ii. Home Life
1. Family
2. Friends
a. Nolan
ii. Depression
1. Self Mutilation
2. Suicide Pact
iii. Joe Suicide
1. private school-public school transition
2. Therapy/counseling
ii. Summer
1. Hospitalization
a. medication
b. 8th grade
i. School
ii. Friends
iii. Depression
1. self mutilation
iv. Best friend Jamie
v. Experimentation
1. NYE alcohol
vi. Music
3. High School
a. 9th grade
i. school
1. academics
2. extracurriculars
3. Sports
4. Friends
ii. experimentation
1. alcohol
2. weed
a. trouble/ fires
iii. Parties
iv. Decision to transfer to vfma
b. 10th grade
1. Boarding school life
a. Crazy experiences
2. Academics
a. 1st semester
b. 2nd semester
3. Sports
4. Lifting
5. yearn for music
ii. Experimentation
1. drugs
a. pills
iii. Honor Council
iv. Party
1. 300 ppl
2. lost virginity
3. rape
4. epic
5. police
v. Depression
vi. Decision to transfer back
c. 11th grade
i. School
1. Academics
2. Friends
a. close circle of friends
ii. Arielle
iii. Mallory
iv. Todd Suicide
v. Depression Coping
1. Self Medication
a. Drugs- gp’s
i. benzodyazopines
ii. pain killers
2. Parents hands off
vi. OD
1. hospitalization
a. Bridgeton Adolescent Mental Health Unit
b. Arthur Brisbane State Mental Hospital
i. Experiences
c. Outpatient
vii. Summer School
viii. Move to florida
d. 12th grade
i. School
1. Academics
ii. Culture change
iii. Love affair
1. Jenn
1. Jon
iv. Jobs
v. Friends
1. development of groups
a. jupiter
b. dwyer
c. school of the arts- marrissa etc
vi. Partying/ Experimentation
1. Drugs
a. alcohol
a. weed
b. pills
c. shrooms
d. lsd
e. ecsatsy
f. cocaine
g. cb-i
h. CCC
i. absinthe
2. Girls
3. Fights
a. Moniques/ Phil
b. etc
4. Offroading
c. Random occ.
5. Tattoos/ piercings
6. Addiction
a. Drop out
b. kicked out of house
i. marrissas house
ii. Jesses
7. Partial intervention
a. sobriety/ partial recovery
8. Marines
d. Jon
e. Bailout
9. Job: Oakwood grill
a. Jacob
10. Rachel
4. Young Adult: 19-20
a. Rise of Recovery
i. Job: Cheesecake factory
ii. Partying
1. Halloween fights
iii. Selling to erin
iv. Kicked out/ Homelessness
1. Jons house
2. drug binge
3. hit bottom
b. Revelation
i. Reflection
1. Thoughts
2. Books
ii. Personal responsibility
a. rent
b. car
c. phone
d. job
i. admirals cove
iii. Night School
1. HS Dipolma
iv. Tommy Copeland
v. Apply to college
vi. Ariel
1. Beginning
2. Middle
3. End
a. Breakup
b. Chad
vii. Routine
viii. Balance
5. Landmark College
a. Year 1
i. First Impressions
ii. Academics
1. study ethics 4.0
iii. Extracurriculars
iv. Search for truth
v. Friends
1. scott
2. influences
vi. Life-> balances
b. SW Company
i. Houston
c. Year 2
i. Beginning of loss of faith
1. transitions
2. influences
d. SW Company
i. Wisconsin
ii. coming home
e. Summer Vegetation
6. Vanderbilt University
a. Fall 09
i. School
1. first impressions
2. academics
3. extracurriculars
ii. Existential Crisis


I visited the doctor this afternoon. The psychiatrist.

We met for roughly an hour.

He was a gentlemen in his early fifties with an opinionated air to him. Dr. Chris White I believe. Approachable and easygoing, but always ready with a response.

I sat down in his office and, for the first time really, I began to consider why I chose to make this appointment. The obvious answer was medication for my distractability… a crutch to aid my attention. But as I sat there, I realized that simply handing over some IQ tests and explaining that I thought I was a candidate for medication wasn’t going to convince him to write a script.

Since I’ve come from a long history of psychiatric therapy and evaluations, I began weighing my options: I could manipulate him and play the role I knew would satisfy his clinical diagnostics, or I could be straightforward, transparent and honest about my history. I decided in a split second decision to let him into my life.

This is not without risk, however. I am painfully aware of a psychiatric system that is inherently flawed. It approaches humans as simply a sac of DNA that secretes neurotransmitters that contribute to our personality and mood. I disown this philosophy. Obviously they are aware of environmental and nurture factors, but genetics take center stage when chemical therapy is sought as the solution. I also knew how dangerous it is when doctors label you with these mental disorders. The reasons might be far removed from the reality, but they hold the MD so they decide. Its actually scary when you lose your rights and the ability to advocate for yourself because they told you what and who you are.

Anyway… I decided that I was safe at this point in my life. I had gone years without any sort of depressive relapse… or any severe mental relapse for that matter. I continue to succeed and am mentally at peace with myself and the world that I create using my thoughts. (Attribution theory and explanatory style is my modus operandi).

So I began… the story of my life… told soo many times. Starting with first grade… mentioning the suicides, the thirteen moves, the six elementary schools, two middle schools, and three high schools… along with my stint in home school. I went over my psychiatric history with doctors and over all the diagnosis I was labeled, and the medications I was prescribed. I talked about the oppressive and destructive relationship I held with my parents growing up. Then we got into a little of my most recent history with my revelations about life… my turnaround. Then we proceeded to recap in detail all the events… mutilation, suicide pacts, overdoses, substance abuse, moves and transitions, etc.

After an hour all we got through till about my senior year than had to call it. He told me to set up an appt in two days… and to bring back additional ADD testing… and if I was up for it any of my past medical history and documentation(and I’m probably not… cause I’d rather not having too much of this crap on a file… insurance reasons etc).

The doctor was an uppity doctor. He definitely exuded an air that said “I’ve got it figured out”. Throughout my retelling he would interject with an explanation as to why something turned out that way… sometimes I corrected him with additional information and my own explanation and he would appear thoughtful and say ‘Interesting”… other times I just nodded and agreed…mostly to boost his ego and build an receptive relationship. I’ve heard so much of their explanations that I could practically be a psychologist.

The whole time I was telling this story I was trying to imagine what exactly he must be thinking. I mean, if you heard my story you would think that I was clinically insane. Based on my adolescent history, there is no logical reason why I made it out of all that with my mind and emotions still intact. He was asking me if I was bipolar, depressed, or suffered any of that stuff… I stolidly replied no. Not in the slightest. I could tell he wasn’t convinced… he was fighting to believe it.

He was like… “its important that we talk about all this so I can help you… so if you have another depressive relapse I can set you up with the right doctors and get you help.”[sic]

My reaction was like… um… that is the farthest thing I could ever imagine. No way could I go back to that place. He, of course, reminded me that those with depression have a 50% chance of relapse. Although I didn’t say it, I was thinking “… that is impossible. I choose my world… it does not choose me.”. In the end I had to agree with him… i mean… there is a statistical chance that my whole family is tortured and dies a horrible death, and I am forced to watch, and I have to bear that burden for the rest of my life…. and even then I still believe I’d make it out alive. Other than that, I am not a victim of circumstance, my world, my past, my feelings. I choose thoughts… and they make up my world.

Anyway… It was sorta funny. He was extremely fascinated with my whole story… often pondering after one of my responses to his questions and responding with “Let me be selfish for a moment… and when I say selfish, I say that as a joke really, but let me be selfish and ask you a question…” and he’d ask some question to satisfy he personal curiosity.

I won’t lie, the last doctor I saw about medication simply wrote me a script 15 minutes after I introduced myself and told her my academic history with ADD. Probably illegal, or unethical, but I was happy. Expedient drugging.

Dr. White told me at the outset that pretty rigorous ADD testing is done to protect the phenotype…. or people who have are legitimately disposed to ADD. I was fine with that.

Big Smile.

Today was a great day.

I rose early this morning for a dental appointment. I gotta say, it was the best dental visit I’ve ever had, or ever could imagine having, in my life.

I walk into the office and was greeted by two vibrant ethnic receptionists with the most spell bounding smiles. They literally infused me with their joy. I sheepishly smiled back, and explained that I had an appointment for 1030 with my two sisters and that I was a few minutes early. They told me they were expecting me and to have a seat- but boy, I really felt like they were expecting me, like they were glad to see me. It made me feel good!

So I sat in the room and examined its contents. A beautiful painting stretched across the adjacent wall. It was obviously French… and my first thoughts were Monet or Van Gough or something. It had that vibrant color. It was an outdoor scene at a dark with ladies and gentlemen drinking spirits on cobblestone pavers under broad trees in a park. It was beautiful. But that was just to start. They had elaborate crown molding, and walls that were covered in a classy textured paint that looked sun bleached. It was brownish.. or goldish.. or yellowish. It was pretty. The furniture looked like it should’ve been in one of the newport mansions. Plush love seats, chairs that looked like throwns, and a tables that were stained solid mahogany with elaborate finishings on the legs. To top it off… I realized that my heart was swaying to the magnificent music I was hearing… Handel! The baroque melodies melted me away as I sunk into the chair. Truly amazing dental experience. Did I mention that everyone was beautiful?

Then there was the hygienist… probably the nicest person I’ve ever met. I think she was native South African. Beautiful. So nice. Constantly asking me how I was, smiling, giving me detailed accounts of what I was going to expect… xrays, an examination and such. So nice. The Doctor, or dentist, was even nicer. He spoke slowly, articulating every word as he looked me in the eye. He chose his words very carefully as to convey a clear, relatable message, uniquely for me… or it felt that way anyway. All I remember was him saying something along the lines of “My job is to give you knowledge about yourself. You can then take this knowledge where ever you go with confidence. You can use this knowledge to make decisions that are best for you.” He said “I can only give you this knowledge. You have known yourself alot longer than me, so I am not in a place to tell you how to use it.” My God. Probably the most empowering words I’ve heard from anyone in a long time… Let alone my DENTIST! HA! I was blown away. Knowledge about my teeth! Who could’ve known that I felt so empowered upon acquiring that knowledge.. about my teeth. Anyway.

I had a single cavity 😦 Considering I haven’t been to the dentist in five years.

I did notice that there were books all about these dental rooms.. positive literature. I read a quote like this “A positive attitude makes for a positive life.” How true. I wanna go to the dentist every day to get those vibes. I want to grow to be a person who can instill that kind of comfort in another person.

Narrative Biography

Within the first eighteen years of my life I had moved twelve times in six different states and had attended eleven different schools. This constant transition taught me invaluable interpersonal skills as I continually formed new friendships. I also learned to deeply value and appreciate my relationships.
In a series of events throughout my middle school and high school years, I lost some of the closest relationships I held dear. In my seventh grade year my best friend took his own life, hurling me into a confused and lonely state. As I slowly recovered from this devastating tragedy I was met again with the cold and penetrating sting of loss my junior year. My mother sat me down for a second time and explained that my close childhood and family friend had taken his life. These two experiences would change me indefinitely as I entered the dark realms of depression. My family thought it best to start over and again moved across the country to start over. Angry and resentful at myself and the world, I lost interest in the world around me and became rebellious. I no longer saw the significance of school and my motivation to better myself withered. While most seniors in highs school were busy taking SAT’s and applying to schools, I was seeking comfort in relationships that I hoped would heal my wounds.
I failed to graduate my senior year. Being a person who was so fascinated with the world around me and craved the acquisition of knowledge and understanding, I was, oddly enough, alright with that. Coming from a disciplined Christian military family with a strong moral conviction, this was unacceptable and soon I found myself living on my own. It was during this period about two years later that something miraculous happened. I saw myself where I was, and I envisioned where I always saw myself to be and was met with a cold reality. Where did I go wrong? While I was asking myself this question my mother had mailed me the book, “As a Man Thinketh” by James Allen. As I read this book I was transformed by the idea that we are what we think. I realized I had not been responsible for my thoughts and as a result, was constantly met with struggle and strife. I made a commitment to acquire the very best thoughts and began reading voraciously, consuming book after book by every successful person I could get my hands on. I slowly began modeling their behavior and the principles they lived by until, through discipline, I developed the habits and eventually character of a successful person.
Since then I have made and set goals for myself that I stand by unwavering. Goethe said “It is not enough to take steps which may someday lead to a goal; each step must be itself a goal and a step likewise.” I know that I alone am responsible for my success or failure and I am convicted that success is achieved through persistence and determination above all other virtues. I have a vision for my life and one day this vision will be fully realized. My aim is to help everyone find and tap into their fullest potential and find the best they have to offer this world. When Michelangelo was commissioned to sculpt the statue of Kind David, they asked how he was going to create such a fine figure out of such as enormous chunk of marble. His response was “That’s easy. All I have to do is chip away everything that is not David.” That is a powerful sentiment. I hope to show people that they have all the potential they need and all that’s needed is to lose everything they are not.
Since enrolling at my current college I have been successful at achieving every one of my academic, extracurricular, and personal goals. In one year I brought the business club of our school together as a team and organized a variety of fundraisers to local foundations, reinstating the club on campus as a legitimate organization. My proudest accomplishment has been with the Phi Theta Kappa (PTK) honor society.
Being a small school located in a semi-remote region in Vermont, there are very few study locations outside of campus. As enrollment increased over the years, students have found that quiet study atmospheres are hard to come by and began voicing this concern to SGA. Seeing an amazing opportunity, I set up a committee with SGA and collaborated with PTK to draw up a proposal that would allow for students to remain in the Center for Academic Support (CAS) after closing hours. The initial dilemma was that the CAS needed responsible supervision due to technology and security issues. To solve this I proposed that the PTK Honor Society students could supervise, while simultaneously provide academic tutor support to their fellow students. In the fall of 2008 the PTK Tutor Program was initiated and out performed all expectations. It was a win-win for the school and the honor society. Not only was the student population provided an excellent study atmosphere on campus, but the honor society was actively exercising its ideals of scholarship, fellowship, leadership, and service. We are currently initiating coaching workshops for the PTK peer tutors that will improve each student’s effectiveness as a peer tutor.


Depressed might not be the word for it. I’m numb. I haven’t worked out in a while.. about 3 weeks. That may be playing a significant part. Maybe its the 6 hours of daylight I see daily. Its getting colder, everything is getting grayer, and more lifeless. Schoolwork is increasing, leisure seems like a luxury. My heart has abandoned my mind, leaving it to roam where it shouldn’t. Dark corners and deep recesses, mulling and brooding over insignificant matters. Lifeless. Void of emotion. I am detached. Everything is fragmented. My thoughts are not complete. My direction is vague and irresolute. The flame that burns within me, the passion that wants to desperately devour more and more, has dwindled to a mere ember, barely thriving. Everything seems so superficial and mundane. There are no answers that I am content with. No secure direction.

Sunshine is a precious commodity. It is rare and when it shines, it’s rays coldly shine for a few brief hours before a carpet of clouds strangle its radiance. The landscape is completely pallid. People are not smiling. There is no hoping for better days. The mountains provide high walls for our imaginations. It confines and suffocates. We have the trees and our books. Together we offer no community. We are all floating islands in this sea of confusion. We aimlessly float and bump into one another before drifting off to be left with our own thoughts once again.

My schoolwork is boring. Its hallow and trivial. Classrooms are simply labs where professors try their best to impress their passions into the withered cavities once filled with colorful imagination and zeal.

It’s getting colder. Cold. Cold. Every man is my adversary. No one wants whats best for me. Their idea is skewed with their false experiences. Only I know whats best for me. And ‘best’ is my decision.

I almost feel that ungirded passion is more important that constructed logic. It ignites and flows and is satisfying. For the time being anyway. Passion is alive, but shortsighted. Logic is dry and lifeless, but it is resilient and stable.

I want to blaze! I want to burn like a billion of the hottest stars!

heavy air

I’m in Bourdeux Texas at the days inn motel. Room 161.

The air is heavy and still. Laughter echoes in the parking lot. Pillows prop me up against the headboard. The hotel beds are typical of most cheap motels. Abrasive and kitsch. The floral teal and pink design leaves me feeling uneasy. Children laugh in the parking lot. The door is open. I watch boys talk to girls in their second story rooms. Trying their seductive skills.

Ambiguous Biography

Brief Application Biography:

By the age of eighteen I’ve moved eleven times, attending eleven schools across six states, living in California, Virginia, Iowa, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Florida. I’ve attended six elementary schools, two middle schools, and three high schools. I’ve been tutored at home, attended public schools, private schools and military boarding schools. I’ve experienced the small towns and small high schools containing 100 kids per grade to cities containing 700 students per grade. Throughout the years I would go on to complete six years of extra curricular art school at a variety of art studios in New Jersey. I would become a highly competitive athlete, participating in soccer, swimming, football, wrestling and baseball.  In soccer I would go on to winning division and state soccer championships as well as playing on select traveling teams. In swimming I would take home gold and silver medals in Gloucester County, South Jersey, while placing at State championships as well as earning MVP my freshman year in high school. In eighth grade I would pick up the guitar and teach myself how to play music, eventually taking up classes in music theory and jazz band throughout high school. I was diagnosed in the first grade for ADD, attaining straight A’s until the 7th grade until I began to struggle with a variety of emotional problems that would continue to compound as certain life circumstances would bash any progress and hope for overcoming the struggle. Throughout high school these problems would persist, and compound, and prove to hinder any ability to succeed, leading to mediocre performance in school and a rising rebellion against any idea of conforming to the rigid expectations others, especially those of the formal education system. I would soon develop a listless and all around apathetic approach to life. Eventually I would go on to drop out at the end of my senior year, working as a server for a year, still lost and confused, I continued to search for some kind of meaning in life. After getting thrown out of my house, and continuing on to struggling with a variety of debilitating vices, I found myself wondering where I went wrong. A series of realizations occurred as I began to look for answers and place the responsibility for my life on myself. I read a book called “As a Man Thinketh” by James Allen that would go on to change the course of my life. Although the change wasn’t immediate, I slowly began weeding out the negative habits of thinking that persisted for so long, and began seeking out the words of wisdom and advice from those who were at the pinnacle of success.  The progress has been slow and challenging, the change has been undeniably hard, but I’ve persisted with a positive attitude by putting my faith in the principles that I’ve learned to guarantee success.  Over the past two years I would go on to set goals for myself and continually reach them, owing it to myself to create the life that’s within my reach if my desire was strong enough. I soon returned to high school and went on to graduate. During my search for colleges I happened to read the book Learning Outside the Lines, co-authored by David Cole, a Landmark alumni. I would look into the college, eventually realizing this would be the place to start stretching my wings and tapping into my potential with the security of people and resources that support and encourage only my best.