Last night I watched the Shawshank Redemption. Let me put some more honesty into that: Last night I the Shawshank Redemption in 8-minute intervals and without scenes or pieces of scenes that were deemed irrelevant by someone who had no say in the production or direction of the movie in the first place.
Anyways, there's one line that particularly sticks out to a lot of people (and I am no exception): "get busy living or get busy dying." It's a good line and it's especially relevant and meaningful in the context of a prison, but should it carry the same weight for, say, overly-sentimental high school kids?
I don't know. Who cares?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death!
It's that time of the year again: very little sunshine and very many wet socks.
Enough about the weather, though, because that's a topic that's almost exclusively touched upon by people who barely know each other but are forced to converse (like in a transaction involving customer service).
This morning I woke up and got out of bed within the half hour of my alarm-clock going off. That's quite a rarity, especially of late.
Last night was interesting, if a bit irritating. I had a beer with Bella and Becca at Richard's Bar. The bar itself was nice in the sense that the music was at least 30 years old (much like the patrons, aside from the three of us), and that smoking inside was permitted.
Bella wasn't too thrilled to be at Richard's from the very beginning, and she let everyone know. On the bright side, though, I was able to talk to Becca for a while. She's a subtle elitist/narcissist, like myself. It was nice to meet someone has a very vain mind yet can intellectually put it aside to coexist with the rest of the world.
What else? Well, I on another hand: I often complain about people witting around killing time. I think that time is very important and under no circumstances should it be wasted on mindless television or, y'know, things that don't require active thought or judgment. The past week or two, though, has seen me fall into a cycle of hypocrisy. I've put down my books and parked my ass on the couch to watch ten minutes of Major League or the end of The Untouchables. This runs counter to what I believe, but begs the question: if mindless is counter-productive, what is my "productive" self working towards?
To answer this question simply, I could say that my mindset (or "ideal" mindset) is working towards actively reaching some kind of self-actualization... but doesn't everything I do lead me down that road? I mean, if I sit around and watch a Campus PD marathon all afternoon, does that not effect how my mind forms? If that's the case, should I follow every urge I have?
What about conformity? In itself, conformity is kind of a sickening idea, especially when extrapolated past examples include Bieber Fever and Nazi Germany. Does the fact that I occasionally conform (for instance, I watched a lot more hockey when the Blackhawks were good and everyone else became a fan) taint my whole persona, or does my dissension in more relevant aspects make me not a conformist? And is a non-conformist a person who refuses to conform to anything, if nothing more than for the sake of not conforming? Is that worth it?
Whatever. This world is based on people conforming because of the perception that they have to, whether it's to eat their next meal or to avoid being ostracized. It's a crock-pot of shit, really.
Enough about the weather, though, because that's a topic that's almost exclusively touched upon by people who barely know each other but are forced to converse (like in a transaction involving customer service).
This morning I woke up and got out of bed within the half hour of my alarm-clock going off. That's quite a rarity, especially of late.
Last night was interesting, if a bit irritating. I had a beer with Bella and Becca at Richard's Bar. The bar itself was nice in the sense that the music was at least 30 years old (much like the patrons, aside from the three of us), and that smoking inside was permitted.
Bella wasn't too thrilled to be at Richard's from the very beginning, and she let everyone know. On the bright side, though, I was able to talk to Becca for a while. She's a subtle elitist/narcissist, like myself. It was nice to meet someone has a very vain mind yet can intellectually put it aside to coexist with the rest of the world.
What else? Well, I on another hand: I often complain about people witting around killing time. I think that time is very important and under no circumstances should it be wasted on mindless television or, y'know, things that don't require active thought or judgment. The past week or two, though, has seen me fall into a cycle of hypocrisy. I've put down my books and parked my ass on the couch to watch ten minutes of Major League or the end of The Untouchables. This runs counter to what I believe, but begs the question: if mindless is counter-productive, what is my "productive" self working towards?
To answer this question simply, I could say that my mindset (or "ideal" mindset) is working towards actively reaching some kind of self-actualization... but doesn't everything I do lead me down that road? I mean, if I sit around and watch a Campus PD marathon all afternoon, does that not effect how my mind forms? If that's the case, should I follow every urge I have?
What about conformity? In itself, conformity is kind of a sickening idea, especially when extrapolated past examples include Bieber Fever and Nazi Germany. Does the fact that I occasionally conform (for instance, I watched a lot more hockey when the Blackhawks were good and everyone else became a fan) taint my whole persona, or does my dissension in more relevant aspects make me not a conformist? And is a non-conformist a person who refuses to conform to anything, if nothing more than for the sake of not conforming? Is that worth it?
Whatever. This world is based on people conforming because of the perception that they have to, whether it's to eat their next meal or to avoid being ostracized. It's a crock-pot of shit, really.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Candy Cigarettes, Capguns, Issue Problems and Such
It didn't take me long to realize the unavailability of clean spoons. I suppose it's just that kind of day. Then again, it's February. I should know this already.
Anyhow, clean spoons or not, it's been difficult to get out of bed every morning. The difference from the old days is that it's becoming easier to turn it in at the end of every night. I used to find inspiration in boredom and energy in exhaustion. Maybe all this means is that I'm not 16 anymore. Kind of a scary thought.
But what bugs me now is this feeling I have: it's very nagging and very particular, yet still elusive-- as if I'm addicted to a drug I can't quite put my finger on. And coffee doesn't help. Cigarettes don't help. Beer is time- and brain-consuming and only delays my mysterious withdrawal.
Heroin, maybe? Maybe, but that's a stretch.
So my cure is to leave town-- if not physically, then mentally. If not to Denver, Colorado, then to the bar on the corner, aptly named The Oasis. And this creative bend will not be nurtured, and the loves of my life will remain on hold. And my calls will be dropped or avoided like my eyes off passing strangers and onto the ground.
But my mind will no longer go begrudged, as I'll no longer be looking down my nose, but straight into the eyes of those I once felt better than, and what I could have been will move another mile higher, or stay perched on a pine tree in the mountains whistling while it waits.
Anyhow, clean spoons or not, it's been difficult to get out of bed every morning. The difference from the old days is that it's becoming easier to turn it in at the end of every night. I used to find inspiration in boredom and energy in exhaustion. Maybe all this means is that I'm not 16 anymore. Kind of a scary thought.
But what bugs me now is this feeling I have: it's very nagging and very particular, yet still elusive-- as if I'm addicted to a drug I can't quite put my finger on. And coffee doesn't help. Cigarettes don't help. Beer is time- and brain-consuming and only delays my mysterious withdrawal.
Heroin, maybe? Maybe, but that's a stretch.
So my cure is to leave town-- if not physically, then mentally. If not to Denver, Colorado, then to the bar on the corner, aptly named The Oasis. And this creative bend will not be nurtured, and the loves of my life will remain on hold. And my calls will be dropped or avoided like my eyes off passing strangers and onto the ground.
But my mind will no longer go begrudged, as I'll no longer be looking down my nose, but straight into the eyes of those I once felt better than, and what I could have been will move another mile higher, or stay perched on a pine tree in the mountains whistling while it waits.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Dazed and Confused
I haven't been writing much lately, probably because I've been feeling uninspired. Well, no, that's not the right word... "disassociated"? Hm... definitely "dis-" something. "Disheartened," probably.
I can't seem to find a good balance between being happy and staying happy, between being healthy and being random. Quentin cleaned his room before killing himself in the end of The Sound and the Fury (the end of his section, anyways). It was very humorous and tragic, seeing the duality between necessary and absurdity in regard to trying to establish order in this world.
Speaking of this world, how can anyone do anything when trying to be well-informed? The question of the existence of a god aside (because that's way beyond anyone's perception and popular interpretations seem to be the most misinformed), how can someone try to be "good" when the full extent and workings of our own government are beyond comprehension by any individual person? Is there a point of trying to independent and genuine and caring when something as trivial as the shoes I buy could be immensely detrimental to some poor kid in China? Is the solution to buy all my groceries locally because I'm more familiar with the circumstances that produced it (even though I there are many aspects I neither understand nor trust?). Is every product being marketed geared towards escapism so people like me can be blissfully engaged in killing time so as not to notice large injustices happening right below my nose? Are my attempts at transformation futile? Should I, instead, spend my time being comfortable with who I am? Am I anyone yet? Is this chaos and confusion part of the growing process or have I stunted my growth and entered into a perpetual voyage of teenage angst? If so, should I be writing pop punk for confused teenagers who are eerily similar to me? Am I "settling down" in various aspects of my life because I'm truly satisfied, or because I'm tired or bored or dissatisfied with my other options? Do I sell myself short?
I can't seem to find a good balance between being happy and staying happy, between being healthy and being random. Quentin cleaned his room before killing himself in the end of The Sound and the Fury (the end of his section, anyways). It was very humorous and tragic, seeing the duality between necessary and absurdity in regard to trying to establish order in this world.
Speaking of this world, how can anyone do anything when trying to be well-informed? The question of the existence of a god aside (because that's way beyond anyone's perception and popular interpretations seem to be the most misinformed), how can someone try to be "good" when the full extent and workings of our own government are beyond comprehension by any individual person? Is there a point of trying to independent and genuine and caring when something as trivial as the shoes I buy could be immensely detrimental to some poor kid in China? Is the solution to buy all my groceries locally because I'm more familiar with the circumstances that produced it (even though I there are many aspects I neither understand nor trust?). Is every product being marketed geared towards escapism so people like me can be blissfully engaged in killing time so as not to notice large injustices happening right below my nose? Are my attempts at transformation futile? Should I, instead, spend my time being comfortable with who I am? Am I anyone yet? Is this chaos and confusion part of the growing process or have I stunted my growth and entered into a perpetual voyage of teenage angst? If so, should I be writing pop punk for confused teenagers who are eerily similar to me? Am I "settling down" in various aspects of my life because I'm truly satisfied, or because I'm tired or bored or dissatisfied with my other options? Do I sell myself short?
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
It's hard for me to concentrate in the presence of other people. Working at a coffee shop and knowing this about myself makes me wonder why other people prefer a public setting to do their thinking. Is it because they grew accustomed to the classroom setting, surrounded by people their age? I don't know. What I do know, though, is that it's nearly impossible for me to begin a book or write a coherent entry in my journal under these conditions.
It doesn't help that I've gone out on a regular basis since returning from Florida, nor is it beneficial to be smoking cigarettes on an inconsistent basis. When this happens, my mind feels detached from my brain and almost inaccessible.
Here's an excerpt from a letter I'll never write:
It's not that I hate my life. Actually, that couldn't be farther from the physical locality of the truth (actually, "further from the truth" will work just fine). It's that I hate other people's lives-- the inconsistencies in logic, and the conflicting principles people hold, and how "praiseworthy" is synonymous with "out of reach." It's the lack of a practical approach and the quick fixes. And that becomes a refusal to accept and take responsibility. And these banks and drug companies offer a slippery slope that wouldn't seem so steep with the application of pragmatic thought.
Can't sleep? Maybe going for a run and adjusting your diet could help. Or Ambien. That's cool too, I guess. Can't keep up with mounting credit card debt? Maybe a student in the middle class of society wasn't meant to live larger than the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt. Or maybe a new television is in need of purchasing, as some more outfits and expensive dinners.
This is life: the shortcuts to happiness have repercussions that far outweigh the fleeting moments. This is rudimentary stuff-- cheating on your homework assignments will usually leave you several steps behind on studying for the test.
Enough complaining. Time for some oatmeal.
It doesn't help that I've gone out on a regular basis since returning from Florida, nor is it beneficial to be smoking cigarettes on an inconsistent basis. When this happens, my mind feels detached from my brain and almost inaccessible.
Here's an excerpt from a letter I'll never write:
It's not that I hate my life. Actually, that couldn't be farther from the physical locality of the truth (actually, "further from the truth" will work just fine). It's that I hate other people's lives-- the inconsistencies in logic, and the conflicting principles people hold, and how "praiseworthy" is synonymous with "out of reach." It's the lack of a practical approach and the quick fixes. And that becomes a refusal to accept and take responsibility. And these banks and drug companies offer a slippery slope that wouldn't seem so steep with the application of pragmatic thought.
Can't sleep? Maybe going for a run and adjusting your diet could help. Or Ambien. That's cool too, I guess. Can't keep up with mounting credit card debt? Maybe a student in the middle class of society wasn't meant to live larger than the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt. Or maybe a new television is in need of purchasing, as some more outfits and expensive dinners.
This is life: the shortcuts to happiness have repercussions that far outweigh the fleeting moments. This is rudimentary stuff-- cheating on your homework assignments will usually leave you several steps behind on studying for the test.
Enough complaining. Time for some oatmeal.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Ishmael and the Bank
Ishmael is a book that examines current problems by looking into the past. One of the key assertions is that human existence was going great for over two million years. Then, along with the agricultural revolution, people realized that the harder they worked, the more they could enjoy particular things they liked (food, mainly) instead of being limited to what was available. One thing led to another and food was no longer free.
Anyways, the books is 263 pages for a reason, and I won't spend the time to give it a proper summary. One thing I will mention, though, is that the gorilla (who's the book's main character) alleges a sort of conspiracy. Well, no, "conspiracy" isn't the right word... but I'm not sure what is. Anyhow, because the food eventually became "locked up (meaning one has to indirectly work to earn it as opposed to foraging or hunting or cultivating small gardens)," human beings, essentially, willingly incarcerated themselves. And because some people are willing to work harder than others for food that used to be free, these individuals have more control of the food (which would evolve into money, to be used on things other than food, like birth control and fast cars).
The whole idea, once every detail is laid out, is entirely convincing and makes me skeptical of the last 10,000 years. But this isn't what I'm trying to get at. Here is:
A customer came in earlier and commented on the gift cards we offer, saying something like, "You need credit cards to make these things work?" It was part question, part statement, so I just agreed. I know this guy, by the way: he owns a bar downtown. He went on to mention that he doesn't accept credit cards. (Hearing this reminded me of Kevin Whiteley, Terra's friend whom we visited in San Francisco, and his frustration over places not accepting credit cards because the business isn't legitimate (meaning more so that the business isn't run by legal citizens than meaning the business is a front for something else).)
So I asked the man if this was simply to avoid paying the credit card fees. "Pretty much," he said, but added that the whole business seems to be a conspiracy (seems to be working like one, anyways). Like this: credit cards are so convenient that everyone should have one and they should be an acceptable form of currency wherever currency is taken in exchange for a service. But what convenience is free? So they charge a fee for every transaction, usually letting the merchant foot the bill (like it's a choice, ha).
In the second half of the man's rant, he mentioned that there are two kinds of people in this world: those in the banking business, and those not in the banking business.
I don't know where I'm going with this. I thought I had it all figured out, but now I don't know who should be blamed, the banks or the people who spend money that isn't yet in their pocket.
Whatever, fuck credit cards.
Anyways, the books is 263 pages for a reason, and I won't spend the time to give it a proper summary. One thing I will mention, though, is that the gorilla (who's the book's main character) alleges a sort of conspiracy. Well, no, "conspiracy" isn't the right word... but I'm not sure what is. Anyhow, because the food eventually became "locked up (meaning one has to indirectly work to earn it as opposed to foraging or hunting or cultivating small gardens)," human beings, essentially, willingly incarcerated themselves. And because some people are willing to work harder than others for food that used to be free, these individuals have more control of the food (which would evolve into money, to be used on things other than food, like birth control and fast cars).
The whole idea, once every detail is laid out, is entirely convincing and makes me skeptical of the last 10,000 years. But this isn't what I'm trying to get at. Here is:
A customer came in earlier and commented on the gift cards we offer, saying something like, "You need credit cards to make these things work?" It was part question, part statement, so I just agreed. I know this guy, by the way: he owns a bar downtown. He went on to mention that he doesn't accept credit cards. (Hearing this reminded me of Kevin Whiteley, Terra's friend whom we visited in San Francisco, and his frustration over places not accepting credit cards because the business isn't legitimate (meaning more so that the business isn't run by legal citizens than meaning the business is a front for something else).)
So I asked the man if this was simply to avoid paying the credit card fees. "Pretty much," he said, but added that the whole business seems to be a conspiracy (seems to be working like one, anyways). Like this: credit cards are so convenient that everyone should have one and they should be an acceptable form of currency wherever currency is taken in exchange for a service. But what convenience is free? So they charge a fee for every transaction, usually letting the merchant foot the bill (like it's a choice, ha).
In the second half of the man's rant, he mentioned that there are two kinds of people in this world: those in the banking business, and those not in the banking business.
I don't know where I'm going with this. I thought I had it all figured out, but now I don't know who should be blamed, the banks or the people who spend money that isn't yet in their pocket.
Whatever, fuck credit cards.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sister, Do You Know My Name?
I feel that I should write, yet nothing's coming to mind.
I suppose I'll recapitulate the past few days. Sounds boring? I'd say.
The evenings of both New Year's eve and New Years day were spent at the Aragon, arriving in time to miss the Greenhornes but to enjoy the Black Keys. Their set was pleasantly surprising as they played older stuff, for the most part. Oh, and "I Got Mine" was played as if their record player was accidentally on 45 instead of 33. It was awesome. "I'll Be Your Man," on the other hand, was slowed down a bit. I can not and will not complain-- both shows were great.
After the show on New Year's eve, Lucy and I went to Chris Montoya's to hang out. Well, we headed over there with intentions of hanging out, but we ended up driving everyone to an all-night taco spot before dropping Earl, Matsuo, and Juan at Earl's house (Chris and Woj had sneaked off and wandered home while the rest of us were ordering food).
New Year's day was cool-- but I ended up getting home at 6 in the morning (and nearly falling asleep mid-conversation in a cab). Matsuo went home soon after the show so Chris and I went to Wicker Park to hang out with Christina, Bella, and Rebecca.
This whole re-cap thing is really starting to bug me, but it's necessary. Well, in a way. I really noticed this in Florida when I tried to write in a particular journal that I rarely use:
beginning a new entry was like meeting a friend (one that you already know... say, meeting for dinner): the first few lines of conversation are an exchange of pleasantries and an abbreviated version of each other's lives since they last met. It's a good warm-up, really, and is only skipped in dire emergencies (death of a mutual friend, recent marriage proposal, car just broke down).
Also like a real, live conversation, the longer the writing session lasts (measured in text, not time), the deeper the content delves. A negative parallel can be seen when one page drags on over the course of an hour-- nothing gets said and the experience is pretty awful, in a general way.
Now that we're past that, I should go clean up so I can go home before 9 o'clock tonight. Sweet.
I suppose I'll recapitulate the past few days. Sounds boring? I'd say.
The evenings of both New Year's eve and New Years day were spent at the Aragon, arriving in time to miss the Greenhornes but to enjoy the Black Keys. Their set was pleasantly surprising as they played older stuff, for the most part. Oh, and "I Got Mine" was played as if their record player was accidentally on 45 instead of 33. It was awesome. "I'll Be Your Man," on the other hand, was slowed down a bit. I can not and will not complain-- both shows were great.
After the show on New Year's eve, Lucy and I went to Chris Montoya's to hang out. Well, we headed over there with intentions of hanging out, but we ended up driving everyone to an all-night taco spot before dropping Earl, Matsuo, and Juan at Earl's house (Chris and Woj had sneaked off and wandered home while the rest of us were ordering food).
New Year's day was cool-- but I ended up getting home at 6 in the morning (and nearly falling asleep mid-conversation in a cab). Matsuo went home soon after the show so Chris and I went to Wicker Park to hang out with Christina, Bella, and Rebecca.
This whole re-cap thing is really starting to bug me, but it's necessary. Well, in a way. I really noticed this in Florida when I tried to write in a particular journal that I rarely use:
beginning a new entry was like meeting a friend (one that you already know... say, meeting for dinner): the first few lines of conversation are an exchange of pleasantries and an abbreviated version of each other's lives since they last met. It's a good warm-up, really, and is only skipped in dire emergencies (death of a mutual friend, recent marriage proposal, car just broke down).
Also like a real, live conversation, the longer the writing session lasts (measured in text, not time), the deeper the content delves. A negative parallel can be seen when one page drags on over the course of an hour-- nothing gets said and the experience is pretty awful, in a general way.
Now that we're past that, I should go clean up so I can go home before 9 o'clock tonight. Sweet.
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