Lost Aesthetics

Anime!

2009-11-16T00:07:00.000-08:00

I've been having an anime binge, of sorts, lately. It's the same sort of self-delusional fanserving crap as Twilight and it's successors. The only detriment is feeling ashamed of it, or embarrassed, which I meant to say before (it escaped me), is entirely in the perception of the individual. Unless you're a weak individual or are in an unusually strong situation, no one can inspire embarrassment in you, not in the way they can inspire anger or sorrow or joy. You say, "I just ran over your hamster." I react, "Oh my god!" Sorrow and anger are the natural reactions. You say, "Your fly's down. I forgot to tell you; it's been that way for hours now." So? I'll fix it the first chance I get. Embarrassment doesn't really transfer over people like insult to anger, or humor to laughter. Or perhaps this thought experiment is tainted by the subject being a heartless asshole. Such tastes lie in the perception of the audience.

This, too, applies to tastes in anime (or stupid teen romance novels). A series may have no values, a lame plot, transparent or weak characters, adolescent diction, or worse, but if one enjoys such drivel, then they are not obligated to accept disparaging remarks from third parties. After all, it is entertainment, of which the sole purpose is to entertain. Even movie sequels do well in ticket sales, though they're never as good as the original.

Before this whole anime binge, I actually held a private marathon and watched every single episode of Futurama in some kind of order, and discovered that there was not a single episode among them I had not already seen on television (the movies don't count). I'm so proud of myself.

Resolve

2009-01-03T02:03:00.000-08:00

My New Year's Resolution(s) for 2009 is to write more blogs than the previous year.

By doing this I'm actually completely 2008's resolution: to make a resolution.

Another thing I should strive for: more paradoxes.

If you thought this post was too short, go read some old posts, just for nostalgia's sake.

It's a Cold thing going around.

2008-12-27T00:55:00.000-08:00

I was going to write an artfully delicious blog about how cold it's been, but it's too cold to type.

I am literally immobilized by the cold. It ices my flesh and freezes me to the bone, drawing my tendons taught until it pains me to open my hand too wide. My jaw is numbed by the wind, halting any speech with an addition breath of vaporous sleet, sinking into my lungs with a penetrating cold. It possessed me, much like an evil spirit, and slowed my movement, punishing me with ache and tear each time I strained against it. That I endured for most of eleven hours, and even after I was not escaped from it. That, and else, I was half on the verge of tears, and half on the verge of crying out in fury. I could swear the cold was gripping my mind, and perhaps the minds of my fellows, as they, too, were succumbing to it. But still we pushed on, growing more and more zombie-like as the day waxed and waned. By the time I arrived home, I was in an altered state of mind, not unlike the semi-conscious daze from just waking, or when someone drops an unexpected event upon you.

So was the cold. This was all I could muster, and I honestly tell you, I am far too cold to add to it. I can't imagine a time in my life I've been colder. I'm so cold I can't even be bothered to look up a synonym for art's sake. It'll have to be left hideously repetitive for the night, or something.

Where ketchup does well for most meats, salt does well for fish. Remember that.

We're not as great as we wanted to be

2008-12-10T21:36:00.000-08:00

I'd originally created this blog in the hopes of writing tons of enlightening material about how people don't appreciate good art anymore.

Eventually it's evolved into this ugly thing and I really don't care about it anymore. It's not about the art. It's not about me (maybe it is). It wasn't even venting some pent-up stress or whatever kids do on their blogs these days.

It was about sating the curiosity of those rare few that would ever come here. They only came here for one thing, one answer only, and I wanted to hand it to them right there so there'd be no mystery about it.

Then they could go nuts over the art and the artist and junk.

I've decided to remove the old Biz comics from this blog. I'm rather ashamed of them, and if you'd still like to see them, simply contact me. I'll be making more, someday...perhaps when I'm not so challenged as to the purpose for creating them.

[END]

Jin Reidler

2008-11-27T19:19:00.001-08:00

Anyone happen to know if Windows Live deletes inactive accounts after some time?

It is immensely infuriating when I'm trying to retrieve a password for an old account, and it decides to spit in my face by telling me I don't exist.

Why, of course I exist! I made numerous accounts and such, including this one, with the address. How could such a thing not exist.

My inner conspiracy theorist suggests: you were erased.

So, with that all well and done, I cleverly thwarted the fiends with pure persistence. For that, I will never forget...

It's two.

2008-10-04T02:08:00.000-07:00

Having just finished reading a book, I find it difficult to sleep, difficult to rest, difficult to stop thinking. Reading stimulates my mind in such a way that it's literally impossible to stifle it. Even now it seems a challenge to put together a sentence in a way that doesn't sound entirely idiotic.

But reading has it's challenges as well. I find it difficult to sit down for too long before I get that urge to write again. I think so much that, after twenty-minutes or so, I'll put the book down and think for ninety minutes straight. It's one of my greatest strengths, this, and one of my greatest weaknesses. I shouldn't have to describe the pain of sacrificing sociality for intelligence. It is painful, yes, but worth it.

In a way I hate reading. It's like sitting for hours on end, listening to one person talk, they will never let you interrupt. To me, it's torture. I love to talk, to inform, to be heard. In a very childish way, I yearn for attention. But it's more than that, it's that genuine interest that seems to have faded from the modern audience, or so rarely surfaces it is found only to be extinct.

The book I finished reading was a manga, a Japanese comic book. I sat for some time, listening to music, my imagination blazing with idea for new story, new characters, new action. I haven't time nor talent nor energy to bring such imagination to life, so while I'm so energized, I am also depressed. The depression leads to frustration, and the frustration, finally, to fruition. I have been drawing my dear Biz a bit too much lately.

But nothing too visually tolerable. By that I mean, view at your risk. Whatever.

Biz in plain clothes. I saw a cute girl and totally blew it with her, so I drew Biz wearing a non-plaid version of her shirt.
Something slightly more emo. I was being bored/dumb. Give me a break.
It's supposed to be emotive. Also dumb. Was meant to demonstrate Biz's emotions contradictory to her design (a robot). How cute.
It's some doodles. Don't ask me why. Well, actually, you can, but in all honesty, I know you won't.
Something lovey-dovey. Some Dark/Biz romance drawing. It seemed a lot cuter while I was drawing it.
It was raining, but then stopped. Sob. Apparently Biz loves dancing in the rain. Too bad I didn't draw rain in this picture.
Hail, your hat is weird on me. No, Biz, you're weird under her hat.
Everything looks better in anime. And by that, of course, I mean it looks terrible.
Last one, I swear, dammit!

Gee, I hope no clever computer geek sees a pattern in my filenames. Boo.

G'NITE!

...

Shit, it took me a half hour to write this! It's two-thirty already! Aaaaagh!

It's been rather untidy of me...

2008-02-08T22:02:00.000-08:00

So, what say you, who know only me which I display here? Do you believe you see the truth? Do you see a facade? Do you see my subtle nuances, that not even I can help but reveal?

Even I have minor slips, though perhaps only I notice it, scold myself silently for it, then promptly forget the mistake for it to be repeated at a later time. If one were to pay close enough attention, perhaps they might pick up the clues, piece together the evidence, and find an entirely different person than the one I'd like people to see.

Or perhaps that is the facade. Perhaps all the clues are a red herring, and there is no truth. Perhaps I've been leading you along a trail of lies, all the while promising the truth be revealed. Contrariwise, if you continue to second-guess yourself, it all becomes quite paradoxical. Where does it end? Which side ought you take, which no definite evidence pointing either way?

Here is were humans rely on the heart, that purely emotional aspect of the psyche many refer to as the gut instinct. Humans have a forgotten sense for truth, and yet all the while they can still pick up traces of it, often enough that some label is as ESP. Even so, some may try too hard and get a false answer, and then the theory is apparently disproven. I beg to differ: the exception does not disprove the rule, as there will always be exceptions to the rule (even that one).

That in itself is paradoxical. So, where lies the truth? The truth lies in reality, and only those with a true sense of that are able to be in touch with the truth. Yes, this sounds like the words of a soothsayer, perhaps, but then why are you reading this to begin with?

Because you sought the truth.

Walking between raindrops

2007-11-30T17:23:00.000-08:00

Rather unexpected, long after I'd given up on the idea of rain, I wake to a no less than a torrential downpour. I got up and got dressed in good spirits, contrary to my usual routine, and went through school quickly and without altercation (although there was a situation in first period, where I tore a muscle painfully, but I decided to not let it bother me).

I've only the vaguest idea of why the rain has such a positive effect on me. The general majority sees rain as an inconvenience at the least, and "a fucking pain in the ass" at the most. In the rain, I've been the most at ease during the day; it's almost as if the very concept of it is comforting. It's the most peculiar thing I've yet to discover the cause to, which, I assure you, I will find.

Every year about this time, we have Project Shepherd going on, which takes canned and boxed food for donation to underprivileged families in the city of Lakewood. Usually, I end up not bring cans due to my own financial crisis, or for constant forgetting. This year, however, I was compelled to bring cans for donation—Dr. Evans, an eccentric and well-known (as well as well-liked) teacher, would always lead the school in the competition for the most cans. I never knew her, hardly ever saw her, yet I knew she was always ahead of the other classes by nearly thousands of cans. She passed away several weeks ago.

I have no idea why I'm talking of this. It's far too depressing for a rainy day. I suppose it's because I haven't been posting as much lately, what with the demands of no loner being single, a new lifestyle which I still have yet to grasp. Yet, in light of that, I have this to say: I regret nothing, and I refuse to give up.

That all seems to go well together, doesn't it? Like hot dogs and rice, it does.

Raven Still

2007-11-20T22:16:00.001-08:00

Quite nearly by accident, I might have mentioned her, perhaps thought of her in passing, but never with the kind of purpose that might jeopardize my relationship. Frankly put: I have exhausted my generosity and can no longer afford to invest in the futures of young artists. I'm at the end of my tether with other young artists, who show no promise, and feel irked at the idea of another wasted opportunity.

Or perhaps I'm the one letting them down? I admit, I get bored easily, but a true artist should stand to dazzle and impress—not dawdle and wallow in their own self-pity. I concede this as well: I did, too, for some time, enter into the 'emo' mindset, but I never wasted anyone's time with helping me as an artist. Hah, at that time, I resented other artists, and thought only of pushing myself to that further extent, just enough to get me through...

I can't say for sure I'm through with the idea: it haunts me constantly, eating away at me at every moment (for all of one day, I'm afraid: it's been a rather long day; yet, already, it has been driving me mad). Everywhere I turn are ghosts of him, and yet, being mere ghosts, they serve only to anger and infuriate me. I must say, I will not allow them the pleasure of getting such. Perhaps that didn't sound like the most sane thing to say when speaking with ghosts, but it was certainly the most appropriate. After all, one cannot claim, 'ghosts don't exist, therefore I can allow myself to fall into emotional extreme to my own detriment, because I am satisfying no one in doing so.'

Is it bizarre to have dreams of a sexual nature? If not, what if the subject where of someone you knew? What if they were in a position of authority as compared to you? This would be awkward, yes? I can't stand to look at this person the same way, and I suspect they know this. What's worse, there wasn't the best relationship to begin with; I have no one I can really share this with. Ought I, though? Am I not sharing it with you in saying this here, in my public soliloquy? My heart lightens, yes, but only slightly, I'm afraid...

(Sigh.) I've extended the deadline for the poll, since I seriously want more responses to this. Perhaps I ought to petition you for response in the form of comments? Please, do elaborate on your answers. To admit, I am rather unsure of myself in asking this to begin with: In my heart I don't want to change who I am for anyone, but then again, I would gladly change myself for the one I love—he doesn't want me to change myself for him, either; he claims it unnecessary. But that's precisely why I ought to do it—because he's such a kind person, he deserves only my full cooperation.

..Speaking of 'ought,' I ought to be completing the accursed script I was depended upon to produce. I ought to also do all the other paperwork as well, seeing as no one else was responsible enough to volunteer. I understand, it was probably not best to take the entire project on myself, but no one else was. They'll all suffer for their shortcoming, but I'm more annoyed at myself for failing the project itself. I've failed you, my unfinished 3-5 minute student film.

Ah, so returns from the netherworld of memory (that which I forgot): ah, no, there—I've forgotten it again. What is wrong with me? Have I got some memory disorder, or something similar? I must insist, it would account for the phantom smells, dyslexia, and frighteningly frequent déjà vu. (Perhaps it might also account for frequent, erotic dreams, although I may also have adolescence to blame for that.)

Ah...I'll probably lay awake in bed, trying to remember what it was I was going to write (it's happened before, after all). Then, I'll find myself annoyed with myself for having not written it before. Surely, now you must understand where most of my anxiety arises from. And so rises the disorders from the anxiety. Ah, it's a vicious cycle, but, just as it had to begin somewhere it must end somewhere.

My eyes!

2007-11-13T21:34:00.000-08:00

Truly, the eyesight deteriorates continuously as a result of reading constantly. After all, what other mode of communication is available to the socially inept? By socially inept, one might imply that said person is entirely incapable of communication, whether it be verbal or visual or whatnot, but this is not so. Certainly, it takes more strength to speak to a person in one's own voice than it is to simply scatter one's fingertips across a keyboard.

Such a thing I would know from personal experience. Although, I will not argue that I wouldn't look as intelligent without glasses. Oh? Ah, of course. Yes, I would know how difficult it is to speak the truth in my own voice, rather than take the cowardly way and write it to them. I'm not entirely socially inept.

Ah, but did you know there was actually a name for that? Nerdiness, I mean? Ah, what I call this 'social ineptitude,' it seems already has a scientific diagnosis. Am I behind my times, or ahead of them? You can't possibly measure my annoyance at finding that a clever revelation of mine had already been revealed by previous scientists. Then again, it took them their entire lives to study and research the thing, whereas it took me but a few moments contemplation, albeit not consecutive, to arrive at the same conclusion. Or perhaps I am giving myself more credit than I deserve?

I don't believe social ineptitude is that much of a disorder, more of a condition. After all, the only aspect of the individual's health that is adversely affected is his social health, and even then, it's not the least fatal. After all, people such as these often clump together, and form their own little cliques, and as such, even have the capability of excluding people, who then in turn form their own cliques. It is the single individual who is excluded from all groups that may find this condition detrimental.

Perhaps it is such conditions as this that might help in explaining the mindset of students driven 'postal,' such as various school shootings all over the country. There were warning signs, people overlooking the 'misunderstood,' refusing to understand them. They pay the price for their ignorance. I'm not excusing the shooter's crime, but I have little compassion for the prey which so unwittingly taught the starving predator.

I would like to elaborate on the matter, but I'm rather ill at the moment, and can't continue. It needs to rain soon...for my sake, at least.

I've got the Vu's~! 8D

2007-11-11T12:13:00.000-08:00

No, it's terrible! Really! I sincerely believe I have some kind of memory disorder. Or have I already said this? It's rather unnerving, being so unsure of oneself: or perhaps it's more of paranoia? Even this, I am unsure of.

Well, it's not so unnerving if one isn't doing nothing. I must concede, helpless is one of my largest fears, right next to disability, and just below that, death. I won't go into much detail over that, since I'm rather paranoid that my enemies may discover this and use it against me. I do trust my readers to a certain extent, as I would trust any humane being, but anyone with less humanity than I, I would hesitate to trust.

Reading the title a second time, I realize it may be more appropriate for an entry to Livejournal, or something equally weeaboo, but even I should be allowed lapses in reasoning for the sake of randomocity. Certainly you weren't expecting it...were you? You might be annoyed that I question everything, but, to be honest, I'm rather annoyed that people hardly ever question anything. They just eat most anything they're fed, as long as it's justifiable to their limited intellects—much like cattle. Me? I'm a wolf in cowhides, strafing the edges for the weak and lame, and I'm drop you in a second if you give me the chance.

See what I mean by less humane? Most people might suggest helping the weak and lame, but even so they can't escape their prey mentality. The 'they're always after me' mentality: they see institutions like the government, big-box stores and conglomerates, all as enemies, out to pick the pockets of 'the little guy.' Maybe they are, maybe they aren't, but what if you weren't 'the little guy?' You would cease to be the target. Let the fools have their foolish dreams of a worker-only society, and we will have our reality of real possessions and real prosperity.

It's more therapeutic to speak of this, to go on with points and details, ideas and concepts no one cares to hear. Will someone challenge me with a true intellect? More often, people will challenge me with false intellect—they believe with all emotion that they might be intelligent—but in argument, when their challenges cannot stand up to true wit, they regress to chasing their tails, ruminating over old ideas which have no standing, no concrete defense to my ideas. This is because they themselves don't think, they don't challenge their own ideas so test their worthiness of competition (huh). This is what true argument should be: people, make your opponent think, and they might just pause to do so.

It's all rather theoretical, seeing as thought is a rarity in this era, or, at least, it is such in my peers. My peers! They aren't my equals, but rather a set of peoples I am told are my peers. My true peers are many years my greater, and to whom I have more in relation than my so-called peers.

Huh!

Note to self: make next poll about 'religion.'

Ought!

2007-11-08T19:07:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how important is it so me, really. For most peop...no, for humans in general, it's a basic need to have approval, whether it be from peers or parents or society at large. To a lesser extent, this is what grades are (since teachers don't really teach anymore; they drill the idea of obedience into your heads so you can be a good little drone). I don't seek approval from people I don't respect. I don't seek approval from people I believe to be below me. What I really should find it people to impress that I would be happy with their opinions, not a bunch of stoked teenagers who can't tell art from a hole in the wall (or in many cases, vandalism).

I suppose, what it eventually boils down to is the clichéd complaint about "how I can never find anyone who will understand me." For most, people generally don't even understand themselves. I say this because I differ from them in that I understand myself, and them, but because of clarity of thought, I think on a higher level than them. I got this way after I'd died four...well, nearly four years ago. I'll come back to that later. I imagine I might have some greater tragedy in my lifetime, by which I'll receive greater clarity of thought: although I believe my thinking to be superior to that of my peers, I still have reason to believe that I have yet to reach my full potential.

So, on to the night's subject matter: seeking approval from someone you respect and admire, although they do not respect or even recognize your excellence. How modest am I to refer to myself as excellent? I suppose Al Gore has more modesty in narrating An Inconvenient Truth than I ever have at any one moment (save for lapses in consciousness, in which times he may just outdo me). It really is so much easier to do nothing, and, although I really enjoy challenges at some times, I am more of a coward. Many people fail to realize this, which shows how terribly misinformed they are.

Now that I think of it, I believe my weakness lies not in mental capacity, but in physical stamina. I have very poor stamina, you should know. I can't sit for long hours at a time, I can't stay awake for more than ten hours a day, although I can't sleep for more than eight hours straight. Is this normal? I have nothing by which to compare myself to. I really should be working at it, anyway, instead of contemplating whether I'm able to or not. I believe, as an artist, the flow of thought is not going in the right direction for writing such an essay, although I certainly believe myself capable of finishing the thing. If only, if only I had more time, but, ah!—that is the one things we all have too little of.

And this, as you may realize, results from a misappropriation of resources—mainly, time. What have I spent my time doing? Thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking; this is my life's work, is all in thought. So, I record the accused things for posterity (though certainly not my own), so that not all is lost. By this, Dirges, do you mean that you've been writing some philosophy texts or something? No, I've been writing nothing of the sort—I've been doing any number of things, from reading, to thinking, to painting, to thinking, to writing and thinking, but always thinking. I believe that if I stopped thinking I would cease to exist and, as an Atheist (an Agnostic, rather; although I tend to lean more toward Atheistic practices), the idea of ceasing to exist is a frightening one.

So, we've managed to consume another night with the misappropriation of time. Tomorrow night I shall misappropriate further hours with someone who, most probably, seeks nor recognizes clarity of thought. How sad for them! Contrariwise, an intelligent person may seek to contradict me, which is terrible for a relationship. So, is it kinder to seek out a person who will understand the bare philosophical ideas, but not grasp them enough to challenge my thinking?

To close, I shall reiterate: I hate this chair.

Feet Numbinz

2007-11-07T18:02:00.000-08:00

I hate this chair.

I sincerely hate this chair.

I seriously suspect it hates me as well.

Oh, and AIM is hating me as well.

He and MSN Messenger are plotting my demise.

...

I had chicken tonight, and it was delicious. I haven't had a decent meal like that in weeks. Mother cooked it, and I ate it while Father and Brother had a rather extensive conversation with a Neighbor about crime in the neighborhood. Somebody died in a hit-and-run, some people's cars were broken into, and a few suspicious characters seem to know something about it. In reaction to the crime wave, I'm refurbishing my lightweight metal bludgeon (aka my aluminum baseball bat. I'm putting duct tape on the handle because it's weird and sticky).

Speaking of refurbishing, I might as well begin on my new art project, which works with cloth or something like that, only I really don't know how to sew. Advices, please? It was just after I'd spent all my money (and then some) on the materials that I realized I was missing a color of fabric, rather essential to the project. It may be another two weeks or more for me to get enough money to go out again, seeing as I'm so busy.

The above doesn't seem that much beautifully written; I'm tempted to do away with it entirely if I don't make up for it. But does the lack of art really demand more art to fill it? Is this where true art come from, a general void? As a rather reclusive artist, I haven't met with that many of my own kind to draw any such conclusion, although it certainly seems logical, even plausible, for this to happen. This may not be the case, if artists arise as siblings, and both are especially talented in their own field. It may be just the perfect case, if a child grows to become an artist, simply because his entire family is lacking in the arts. It really depends on the individual, and most often occurs in moderation.

I've been feeling rather Ska as of late. To-day I wore a black-and-red striped tie, black and white Chucks (one white, the other, black), and fingerless gloves. Then I sat in my room all afternoon, fighting with my computer and blaring music through my stereo from my iPod. I also had the thought of buying new shoes, and maybe a couple shirts, which was odd to me: I never actually think to buy clothes, it just happens while I'm out and coincidentally have money. Perhaps I ought to get thick framed glasses—no! Such a change is unusual, and unprecedented, and therefore must be influenced by some outside force, and therefore must be resisted or lose my sense of individuality! Which is strange, because that's what Ska and all those clothing styles try to do...

On the other hand, I may just be all to uneducated on the subject to be drafted into the genre. Then again, that's how most people are: pulled into the style for their image, but know nothing about it. If that's the case, I want no involvement.

...

I am still hating this accursed chair.

Missed the Bandwagon

2007-11-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

I envy those of you who can read my handwriting,
because I sure as hell can't.
Drew it up while pretending to write a biographical essay.
Man, it feels good to work in PhotoShop again...

You're really rather sick, you know.

2007-11-01T20:52:00.000-07:00

There's been this thing that's been bothering me for some time. You all know I'm a very honest person: I don't smoke, don't drink, don't gamble, and don't steal. I certainly lie a great deal, but that's more a social crime than anything else. But I don't break the law: I don't make illegal turns when driving, and I don't even jaywalk if I can help it (since crossing a residential street is technically jaywalking, but isn't generally regarded as such). So, I ask you now, is one considered a bad person for having indecent thoughts or emotions, if one never makes them evident?

I admit it now seems like a terribly petty thing, or even an unimportant thing. I say: if it's important to anyone, it is important, whether or not it may be important to thou. I, I suppose, in my self-righteous values of social justice, have an inescapable darker side, and, as the lighter side is so much more moral than most, the darker side is just as more hedonistic. I might suggest this is more of a confession, for my own psychological well-being, but you may or may not take it that way.

Sometimes I frighten myself. Just lately, I had a dream that was almost pleasurably disgusting. It was bizarre and sexual——certainly not something I would think up in my waking hours. But I wonder: what manner of Id beast would have conjured it? It frightens me to think I actually might be something like my stalker——I see very little of him lately, but the thought of him is still very bothersome. I will not identify him, as it would indeed expose my own identity, and I, his. But I will say this: I know from speaking with him that he is the sexual deviant he is because he was molested as a child. It frightens me to think that something similar might have happened to me, and my mind has blocked it out (as it so often does with ugly or unpleasant memories).

This morning a friend of mine was sobbing out of her poor little head. Her friends, excluding me, went around to hug and comfort her. I had been half-asleep when the sobbing began, and quickly became confused of the whole situation. I'd overheard snatched of a conversation, outlining some hardships, but I hadn't imagined they would escalate to such. The friends who were comforting her gave me ugly looks, or it may have been my guilty conscience. I really don't know what to do in situations like this. Sometimes I'm annoyed at people who cry, for being weak; other times I envy them for having more humanity than me (I can't cry).

They left earlier than usual, and I left the area with a peculiar sensation: like I wanted to burst out laughing. It was certainly a very serious matter, I'd told myself, who still continued to laugh internally. I continued on, still rather furious at myself for my withheld reaction; though it were withheld, I was disgusted that such a reaction ever came to mind. Perhaps you are some psychologist, reading this years after it's been written, and will note in your book: begins to show signs of split personality. I tell you now: it began four years ago, with my suicide. But I'm afraid that's a story for another hour.

I suppose, it's not so bad to have terrible thoughts, as long as those thoughts remain thoughts and nothing more. Although it plagues me, and tempts me into madness, as though some unlucky subject of Edgar Allen Poe's writing, I am much more thick-skinned than many give me credit for (or simply just more callous than most would care to believe). Unlike the sobbing friend——acquaintances, really——I can hold my own under far more adverse conditions.

Although, there is one instance I've been know to break into tears: utter helplessness. When my intellect fails me, and, I have no other powers, as you should know, it is rather frustrating. Or perhaps it's the sum of all instances where I am unable to act, such as I was in comforting my frie—— er, acquaintance. Perhaps my anger at her was anger at my own cowardice. Perhaps...lashing out at anyone is an attack against oneself...

Or perhaps I'm still just alone...

It's not allowed!!

2007-10-31T16:07:00.000-07:00

Halloween. How clichéd that one should speak of it, on such a holiday, and yet how appropriate. Contrariwise, one would look foolish to speak of a holiday a day later, or perhaps a week or even a month later. It's just gotten dark and already the sounds of children, teens, and adults carry up into my room and grate on my nerves. (I really detest small children, but respect their right to be little monsters, and as such do nothing to deter them.) Halloween is seen by many an elder as 'a children's holiday,' and in the elder spirit, is (like everything) never going to change (and if it does, it's an atrocity).

How very obtuse of them! Times have changed, if anyone hasn't noticed: Halloween is one of the best occasions for adult parties in the year. Is it so wrong for someone to take part and enjoy a holiday, despite their age? 'How immature.' I can imagine our dear elders preaching: 'You've long ago outgrown this silly idea of Trick-or-Treating.' Is that so, dear elder? And I suppose you've outgrown your livers and kidneys and joints? You believe that taking a handful of pills, or how many liver spots you've accumulated is a measure of how mature you've become, of how much better a person you are?

I suppose it's all too immature of me to direct my attacks at the one to whom I may be debating, but, then again, it's not very mature of them to bring in their little biases of what is mature or immature. Trick-or-Treating is a right: the right to pursue happiness. It's a very small liberty, to be able to go out at night, dress up as little monsters, and pester the neighbors for unhealthy treats, but it's the little liberties that add up to the larger liberties.

People have a terrible way of believing, honestly believing, that if something's not important to them, it's not important at all.

How obtuse!

...

You can tell I'm bored out of my skull because I can't go out to-night. =__=l|l

Oh my god, please shut up.

2007-10-30T18:47:00.000-07:00

I don't know how it quite came about, but my friends and I were going on about how some people simply refuse to shut up. I seem to have the peculiar misfortune of attracting such idiots to myself, and then having them exact such punishment onto me that I'll be trapped for uncountable moments while they drone on about a subject long resolved, about which no one could ever care more about.

Please don't find it hypocritical of me: there is a different between speaking for long moments, and droning on about nothing. I always make it a point to either put things beautifully, at which people are not bored out of their little minds of it, or put things concisely, at which one is sure not to forget the subject matter before the conversation is concluded.

That is, if and when it is concluded. I, as a matter of habit, when having concluded speaking of a particular topic, will either move on to another topic, or clam up entirely. Such is the affliction of these individuals that, given the chance, will continue to speak, and speak, and speak, until they get hungry or something unavoidable which requires use of the mouth (as they will continue to speak otherwise, and expect you to follow them).

And so I propose a slang term be created to designate such people (which is more in mockery than in commemoration), who's very fetish is to speak, and nothing beyond that. The word jabber comes to mind, but it is too easily confused with the word of the same, meaning to prod. I might suggest something from a verb, like Filibuster, but it seems all to archaic already. Might one of you suggest something, or will you wait for one of these...these people to talk one up?

There are a sad few who actually make careers out of talking so much, but very few are successful. The rest were voted off early, and, though the scenes were edited out for being too grotesque, forced to listen to recorded audio of Al Gore, during his years as Vice President.

You heard me.

But there are BIRDS out there!

2007-10-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

It is rather tiresome, sticking to the long, tough rough of enlightenment, and the arduous task of drawing others to it. So, we leave the road a bit to self-indulge and focus on the petty things.

Though it's rather dark, I heard a birdcall just now. How peculiar, that birds should call at night. It sounded nothing like an owl: more like a mockingbird, actually. We have mockingbirds in this area, the suburbs. There's one in particular that perches on various telephone poles near the line of high-tension wires which hangs over South Street between the intersections of Woodruff and Bellflower.

The other morning, while driving to school, I saw an owl in a tree. It was maybe ten inches in height, and brown and white and speckled. It was, for sure, not of the wooden variety, as I saw it turn it's head to show me it's flat-faced profile. Of course, driving is not the best moment for birdwatching, so I had redirected my gaze toward the road—er, that is to say, I was constantly scanning the road in all directions, like a responsible driver. I would hate to hear the condescending tone of my driving instructor had she seen me not turning my head completely when I look.

Is that petty enough? Have we more? Ah, well, on the subject of birds, I used to carry with me such a birdwatching set: compact binoculars and a book for identifying birds. Of course, it wasn't a field guide, seeing as it was a gift and how terrible people are at truly understanding what should be given as a gift. Anyway, it was past gone that I'd carried the thing with me, and by the time I'd spotted the owl, I had no such viewing device with me. Lucky, how I'd never seen such a bird when I had the thing with me, or else I might not be complaining about it here.

So, there is a post about birds. Tomorrow I shall have to post a blog about nightschool or perhaps monogamy or something horrid like that. Perhaps there is beauty in bringing light to those things we find so hideous.

[END]

Recovering the Lost Aesthetics

2007-10-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

I am sad to reveal that I will no longer be posting on my previous blog, Remains of a Human Psyche, as I can no longer access it from this account. Note the word reveal, seeing as the problem persisted for some time before I finally gathered up the courage to give up and start anew. In mild deviation, I state:

Google, it is all your fault!

But I digress, what is it we are here for? We're here to rediscover the lost art that is art. Merely speaking, beauty for the sake of beauty: the making of things so beautiful they have no other purpose than to be admired and appreciated, though in modern era, this purpose is long obsolete.

Or is it? Shall we resurrect the old Ideals and salvage the old Principles of the truest Art—that which cannot be replicated or manufactured, but it the result of a single creative human mind? Is it so lost that humanity is doomed to creative mediocrity? I should Hope not, but current evidence is inconclusive at best. There may be individuals which deviate from the norm, and in doing so, have their own creative tendencies, but there are so few it makes no difference.

I so detest beginning these things in the first person. Rather, I would like to start with the diction of an essay, but so was the circumstances disallowing that I had no choice: so is it this way all my life, but that is a lecture for another hour.

[END TRANSMISSION]