Til the Sweat Drips Down My what??

So I found myself in a little club called the Cantina tonight, surrounded by what appeared to be the sleeze of Davis, sprinkled with a a handful of unwitting visitors.

I dont know how I got there. i was invited to a friend's house. he lured me there with the promise of cute girls. He failed to mention that they were all involved in relationships. Thanks Nate.

I felt like I'd seen the scene before, and I realized it was the same shit i had to deal with every time a dance floor was involved in a social gathering. I'm not terribly uncomfortable dancing. Its the initiation that is difficult. i dont know what I'm supposed to do. There were plenty of guys on the floor I did not want to look like, so I knew there was a wrong way to go about it... And once on the dance floor, through the wall of sweaty guys awkwardly dancing with eachother in an attempt to get into it, whatever the fuck it is, what was I supposed to do? dance with myself? just start dancing with strange females? Pick and choose females? Ask said females to dance? Rub on and otherwise degrade said females? I dont know the protocol, and it was too loud to present such questions to my more experienced comrades.

So I spent most of the time sitting in a chair, considering these questions. I imagine I had a rather dour expression, because I was asked three times by people I didn't know if I was alright. One told me not to look so happy to be there. I imagine I was wearing my "I Hate Humans" expression.

I danced a few times, the first with the aid of female friends in whom I had no interest. The following times (after the long period of contemplating the strange mating ritual) were inspired by sheer terror, as I convinced myself that in six months I would be in Iraq firing a rifle and dodging shrapnel. I tried to dance with a few girls. I'm kind of picky, which probably isn't the best policy. I thought I was dancing with one girl I found remarkably attractive. After some time (who knows how long?) i asked for her name, trying to start one of those half-heard conversations one is supposed to shout through when they go to a club. Clubbing... I didn't get to club anybody. It might have been a better night. Anyway, she answered me. Breanna, she said, with a slightly embarrassed smile. "She's my dancing partner," her slightly huskier and considerably less attractive friend said. I was amiable. I was charming. "Think you could share for a bit?" I asked. "No. Go away."

To all you ugly friends out there, FUCK YOU. Anyway... I tried to go away. I can respect that, and didn't want to make a creep of myself. There were far too many in the building anyway. There was, however, no escaping the dance floor, and I ended up behind her anyway, which made me nervous lest her friend suddenly prove ravenous. God, she was gorgeous. Nothing else happened. i evacuated as soon as a route became available. Mission failed.

Friends, family, readers of the strange sort that doesnt fall in those two categories, hear this:
I need to get laid. Some will shake their heads or their bibles or rattle some statistics in my face. Whatever. Its been seven months, and i'm pretty sure that's biologically unhealthy. Something is going to pop...

Another Chance

Behind a wall of smoky disregard fights the old beauty of thought, the forgotten explosions that threw me out of our atmosphere so long ago.

The dust is settling, and my chest has seized and squeezed the mud from my lungs. The dust is settling, and I can see again.

Page 1

4 panels, wide shots with spaces between each panel to indicate time passing. 4 horizontal bars…

Static camera

Panel 1

Eryn sitting comfortably in one of the few trees that speckle the surroundings: hills and grass, with Ealdulf’s forest in the distance. She is looking upward, and we have a profile view. She is absorbed in the sky. The clouds are whispy.

The comfort is important: she does this a lot. She is sitting on a branch, one leg dangling lazily. Maybe add a moon for dramatic affect. Up to you.

Panel 2

In the background, a cloud of birds rises from the trees. Eryn’s clothes and hair are blown by a breeze. She looks like she’s noticed something different.

Panel 3

The cloud of birds has spread, some flying higher, some farther. They are less dense, to indicate movement. Eryn has turned her head and seen the birds. The birds were frightened by the drum (it’ll be heard later).

Eryn: DAMN, IT’S STARTED ALREADY?

Panel 4

The tree branch is empty now. The scene is unchanged, except eryn can be seen in the middle ground, beginning her run.

Maybe make the clouds drift across the sky from panel to panel.

They Should Stick in our Throats

You look great. Good work today. Thank you for all your help. No no, you've definitely lost weight. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I'm sick. I'm injured. I don't feel well. I have somewhere I need to be. Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. Life is good. Things are good. Everything is okay. I've been keeping myself busy. I've made a lot of progress. I've been dating. Yeah, its been fun. I'm totally okay with being friends. I'm not ready for a serious relationship, but we can be friends. I'm over it. I've moved on. No, I'm free, lets go. No, nothing pressing-- I have plenty of time. I was bored, so I thought I'd give you a call. I'll be there in ten minutes. I lost track of time. My alarm didn't go off. I had a flat. I ran out of gas. Traffic was terrible. You look beautiful. You're all I can think about. My dearest, you are in my heart and in my mind always. I love you.

These are the lies we tell, the shiny layers of lacquer we apply in coat after dripping coat until our pores suffocate and our eyes seal open and our smile freezes to our bleach-white teeth, tottering stiffly until one day we tip and we shatter, a suicide bomber in a fun house sending shards of our illusions to pierce passers-by, more deadly, more heinous than explosives strapped to a child like American flag suspenders to keep our pants from falling about our legs, but we continue to let the bubbling ooze boil from our burning throats, fresh tar on the asphault on the hottest day in summer, filling the cracks that can never really be fixed, turning soft like chewing gum that hides the nervous twitch in our face and makes it easier to smile as we vomit Elmer's glue into our hands and gather together the bits of colored construction paper roughly hewn with plastic scissors that don't cut because our teachers know that if we knew that our life would never be so pretty or precise as our collage, we might save ourselves from our frozen fates, and slash the fresh sheet to shreds and let them fall to the floor.

The Curriculum

A kinder wind is blowing, and life is not so bitter in my mouth. I have engaged myself in some formal mental discipline, and I have taken a rather large step away from the glossy eyed idiot I'd been playing for... Oh goodness, I don't even like thinking about how long I'd been that way.

I am in the middle of designing a study curriculum for this academic quarter. I decided to approach this time I made myself as Independent Study. I am in the midst of synthesising formal goals and plans into what my ideal educational system would look like. This requires that I be both student and professor. My classes are as follows:

Eastern Philosophy

Creative Writing—The Graphic Novel

Creative Writing—Long Fiction

Bass Fundamentals

P.E.--Boot Camp Prep

I might also include Study of an Individual Author-- Faulkner, but I can't say I'm terribly excited about that, and I probably won't have time after finding that second job.

Eastern Philosophy is an easy A. We meet twice a week, and spend the first half of class discussing the assigned reading, currently Mindfulness in Plain English by Gunaratana (Venerable Henepola Gunaratana, the cover says). There are no tests. The professor says that if we want to learn, we will, and if we just want an A, then we are seriously wasting our time. We are required to come to class, but will be excused with no questions asked if an excuse is provided. "If you lie," we were told, "then you'll be doing the exact opposite of what this class is trying to teach, so you're not only not learning, but backsliding as well. Come to class, or you will errode your soul." He was grinning when he said that last part. The second half of class is spent meditating, and during this time we can address questions or concerns that escape us otherwise. Easy A, and I expect to learn a great deal about myself, and hope to see improvements in myself as a person as I exercise my personal awareness.

The Graphic Novel class promises to be a good deal of fun. The assigned reading consists of a handful of what I hope are enjoyable and artful graphic novels, in addition to a text called "Writing and Illustrating the Graphic Novel". We will have a complete and working script by the end of the quarter. Its not all cake... We will be expected to analyze pages of graphic novels, recognize elements, and discuss what and how the author is accomplishing whatever it is he is accomplishing. I really will need to study the graphic novels, but its a hell of a lot more fun than doing to same to Shakespeare.

The Long Fiction class assumes we already know how to write short, and teaches us how to transfer this ability to novel length. We will be completing a small novella by the end of the quarter. The professor claims there is reading involved, but he's letting us choose our pieces of long fiction, so I have a feeling the class, except for the final project, is going to be easy.

Bass Fundamentals is exactly what it sounds like. Having minimal musical training, and rather high and impatient expectations of myself, I expect this class to be the most frustrating. I'll probably be looking for help on this one. The text is a compilation of Hal Leonard's Bass Method 1, 2, and 3. We will only be getting through the first, though fast learners will be accomodated.

The P.E. class is based on the rather simple pre-USMC boot camp training manual. It is designed to make sure I can perform the minimum physical requirements. The guide covers exercises for people in three stages of fitness: Inactive, Relatively Inactive, and Active. I like to think I'm active. I'll be able to challenge myself regardless.

I'm in the middle of writing serious syllabi for these classes, and will be working diligently because I want to improve, and not because I want an A. I expect this to work because, well, I just don't care about A's. I am also finding that if I read as though I am preparing a presentation on the subject, I do more than just skim for key phrases. I am actually taking notes. Skimming is fine for passing tests and bullshitting papers, but if I honestly want to teach somebody this stuff, it will require closer attention.

I have high hopes for myself right now. Historically, I have started every quarter with good intentions and lofty plans, but those plans never last. I don't know how I'm going to make this any different. Right now, my repulsion for the lazy mind that has been in control is driving me. Hopefully, I can remember what I do not want to be, and what I want to become.

The blue pill is really a book.

The Beginning, The End

I'm worried that I'm losing it. I'm going to go with it, and try to keep myself focussed on what I am trying to do, and hope that I am wrapped in a cocoon, and not slipping into madness.

I need to feel something. Something besides frustrated. I could stand to be happy, I think, but I seem to have gone numb that part of the body.

I need more friends

I need more friends. Or maybe I need to meet a girl. I think its about time to do that again.

Blah, I'm such an awkward person though.

Goodnight.

Cutting out the Cancer

It is time for a change. It is time for a life change. It is time to restructure my existence, my approach to thought and my method of engagement in reality. It is not working, and I have become frustrated, disgusted, distraught over what I see in myself.

My mind has become lazy. I do not seem to engage anymore, cruising without learning, where every opportunity should be spent observing, analyzing, and growing. I am asleep at the wheel, a zombie, descending into a progressive state of mental retardation created by perpetual disinterest. Everything must change if I am to rescue myself. The disease must be cut from my body completely, or it will regrow.

No more idleness-- This includes pointless internet surfing and other time thieves.

I will instead be eating and drinking as healthily as possible, maintaining an athletic lifestyle, and spending set portions of time studying and working. It is important to seperate my activities into these three categories. I have had enough leisure time. It is time now to learn to do without it. Everything I do must be a task. This does not mean that it is not enjoyable--My studies currently consist only of things in which I am interested, and the majority of my work is going to be writing.

I'm having my hair cut off tomorrow. It makes me look retarded, which might be part of the reason I'm so down on myself. We'll see if it helps. Tomorrow, the tard is gone. Ryan is coming back.

Reefer Madness!

Since you are reading this, you have probably already checked today’s Penny Arcade, which links and briefly discusses this article. My own incredulity spurs this post, though I don’t know if I will be able to organize my thoughts into a response that does justice to the topic—I am still at work, and apparently I am expected to be working.

This affront to journalism is an assault on cannabis and video games on that harkens back to the days of Reefer Madness. The article includes quotes doctor-like individuals and offers statistics without linking them to studies or discussing the legitimacy of said studies. It maintains a focus on cannabis use and the consumption of violence through the video game Grand Theft Auto, the conclusion of the article concerning itself exclusively with the affects of cannabis and its correlation with mental illness.

“Paul Jenkins, chief executive of mental health charity Rethink, said: 'While there can be several triggers for mental illness, we know that if used by people under 18, cannabis doubles the risk of psychosis.”

That is interesting. I would love to read this study and see what kind of sample size, what kind of blinds, and what data collected could indicate such a thing and not be purely correlational. Were there ECGs taken to monitor mental activity in pre-adults? Did they administer cannabis to healthy individuals? I am inclined to believe that a study run by a mental health institute will probably work with people who have mental health issues. These people may also have marijuana issues, but the two are not directly linked by any solid evidence. Here’s what their “study” probably looked like: We have 100 nuts willing to take our survey. All of them have received treatment through the program, meaning all of them have mental health issues. 66 of them had also smoked cannabis before the age of 18, and 33 had not. This is not a real study. This is correlation.

Or maybe it is a study. I have a study of my own. I have spoken to twenty UC Davis students or graduates, and 15 of them smoked cannabis before college admittance. Therefore, cannabis triples a high school student’s odds of getting into UC Davis.

Hurray, I’m a Scientist! I’m ordering a white coat as you read this.

“Professor John Henry, a clinical toxicologist, said: ‘People are beginning to realise that cannabis is not the puff and relax substance that people used to use.’”

Okay, I’ve forgotten how to name all my logical fallacies, so someone should help me out. Our dear professor leaves little room to disagree with a totally unbased claim. And if you do not agree, then you are not people. And you are stupid.

I don’t understand how this article can draw all its conclusions against cannabis. The article stipulates that the guy is a paranoid schizophrenic, that he was also using cocaine and had not taken his prescribed medicine in two weeks. Drugs and violent video games may have spurred the act of violence, but it cannot be forgotten that this kid was already damaged. Perhaps instead of doing the conservative two step and pointing the finger at societies vices, the journalist should have asked how a previously diagnosed pre-adult paranoid schizophrenic gained access to cocaine, cannabis, and a violent video game, in addition to copious amounts of time to immerse his mind in said game. Maybe the journalist should be asking who was responsible for this unstable individual, not what catalyzed the crazy into violence.

I could continue, but I don't really have any interest in writing a serious rebuttal.

Good Mornin', Good Moooornin'

My work schedule currently has me at my station at 8 am Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I make the ten minute ride on my brother’s bike, borrowed because mine fit me eight years ago, and because I ruined the pedals trying to replace them with reverse threads. The morning is brisk, though the sky is an unstreaked blue-grey that promises stinging sunshine and hot pavement.

I actually like the mornings, and would probably enjoy them more if I went to bed at a reasonable time. I fell asleep last night at midnight and woke again at two, and did not fall asleep again for two frustrated hours. I cursed my alarm clock this morning and silenced it three times before sagging myself off the edge of my bed.

I am stuck here for seven hours, and will probably post again, for the sake of my sanity. For now I’ll just keep writing.

My body isn’t awake yet. I wish I’d risen at seven when my alarm went off. I lifted weights last night and I’d be feeling a good deal more alive if I’d had an opportunity to stretch out the ensuing stiffness. But no—I fed my morning to the alarm clock, slipping it ten minutes at a time in return for its silence, a peace offering in hopes that I might find meaningful sleep in return.

I didn’t, of course, and I arrived at work poofy haired and disheveled.

And now I’m surrounded by people already rushing from office space to office space, pushing and blaming and rolling eyes and sighing when they think backs are turned. They just want to do their job, but they’re just another cog in the murder machine, and so am I, and so is UPS, so they need to chill out and wait for their stuff to be delivered.

Bothering me isn’t going to hurry the supplier. Thank you.

My leisure is invincible.

A New Quarter, A New Drive

I supposed its time to make another push. My posts will probably become semi-regular for a while, though I can almost promise it will last fewer than three months.

I will be taking Spring quarter off to rest my mind, purge colon of residual acadamia, and to focus on things I have been wanting to give more attention. Among these are my fiction writing, my contributions to several projects, and my bass guitar.

I find that my ability to stick to anything is rather lacking, and I'm hoping that a few months of training myself to work diligently at things I enjoy will help with my study habits come Fall. If nothing else, it will leave me fresh and ready for more school.

I'm going to try to make this a daily blog, regardless of how boring my day is. There's got to be something to write about.

Today... or... yesterday, i suppose, I worked from 8-3, and then headed into town. I washed my car in one of those quarter-operated dealies, and spent around two hours waxing and detailing. I also picked up a guitar stand so I can stop leaning my bass in corners.

I'm still unpacking, cleaning, and otherwise recovering from my trip down south. Apparently I left Davis in a hurry. Its good to have my music in front of me again. I also missed my bass like crazy.

Tomorrow: work, haircut, five mile run, bass and writing practice, update and polish my resume.

Soonish: Gather work applications, look pretty and lie well whilst being interviewed.

Other things to work on-- drawing, reading style manuals and school stuff for personal pleasure.


I'll probably post again tomorrow from work.

Small text in italics as random closer.