si quando precor...

It seems I only come to you when I feel hopelessly overwhelmed, more as a sort of last alternative than anything else. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't find comfort in those rare moments when I do turn to you. Tomorrow scares me. I'll be going around, facing what I can only imagine as a seemingly endless torrent of rejection. I can just see the looks on their faces right now: either apathetic or disdainful, but always simply cold. I wish tomorrow would never come, that somehow I could just stay in this moment for just a bit longer.

Lately, I've been losing sleep, again. It seems those demons have finally caught up with me. And all I have is this chipped blade and this decrepit armor, totally useless. The last time that I hit the trough, I cried out to you and I remember that, soon afterwards, there was a definite sense of peace. Something was able to melt away those choking anxieties. I pray that you would be with me again, if only for a just a little bit longer until I get over this all too familiar hurdle.

Ah, me of little faith. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't let these little waves throw me into such disarray.

Appendix 3

Just a few quotations I want to get down before I return this book (the one on mixed-blood Aboriginals).

My mother's cousin owns a shop on the reserve, so we go and visit her every now and then. I was up at the reserve recently, and I went to see her. And she gave me a really big hug. I think it was a turning point for me. It was almost as if receiving a message - "It's okay, you can come back. You're a part of this family now." Maybe I always was but this was an acknowledgement of it. It felt really nice.
- A "C-31" Story

But you know, I still feel kind of disconnected, sometimes, around who I am. Because when I really put it in perspective, coming from an Indian family - there's not one person in my family that has not been affected by some kind of violence. I have cousins in prison. I have people who killed themselves. I have alcoholism and residential school. This is my blood family, but I still feel pretty disconnected from all of those experiences. It's hard to explain, because genocide touched me in a different way.
- An Adoptee's Story

These excerpts are from the stories found in the appendix. They are the last two in the section (in the order presented) and I can't help but think that the author had indeed intended the ordering of these notably varying accounts.

I'm definitely going to try and pick up a copy of this book somewhere (though it's definitely available on Amazon, I'll check the bookstore first).

Active transport

So, recently, as per the past few insipid blog posts, I've been reading on the topic of culture and identity. So far, I've gone through works regarding the cultures of the Vikings, Mi'kmaq, "mixed-blood" Aboriginals, and a little bit on Chinese diaspora. I honestly wouldn't have minded reading more on the Aboriginal cultures but that, ultimately, is something that I won't be able to fully relate to.

And with that line of thinking I've begun reading this work on Chinese diaspora  ("At Home in the Chinese Diaspora: Memories, Identities, and Belongings", edited by Khun Eng & Davidson, 2008). One chapter spoke on the role of intergenerational transmission of memories in creating senses of nostalgia and belonging, particularly in those whom had never experienced it first-hand. I remember one phrase in particular: "culture is a discursive construct rather than a natural one". The idea is that memories of home are conveyed not en masse but are done so in a purposeful way in which only information that contributes to the narrative that the conveyer wants to construct is passed on. Well, that's my interpretation of what it means, this book is actually heavily academic so I really do feel out of my element as I go through it.

I took from that reading that the development of cultural knowledge is an active process. And so, if I do want to break out of the current cultural confusion, I'll need to start engaging the people around me that had at one point been immersed in "Chinese". It's not like I can just put a book under my pillow at night (not that I really use it nowadays) and hope that the information will enter my brain via passive diffusion, right?

And, no, it's not a particularly radical notion in that I have to exert effort in order for my will to be enacted. Still, I'm glad that I came across this. I really think there is a good chance this simple concept would've completely eluded me had I not encountered it. I'm not exactly the most critical of thinkers...

Can't stop

I can't stop, I can't stop yeah
I can't stop, I can't stop yeah
-"Can't Stop" by M83

When I told my friend that I periodically went to campus to read, he suggested that I not as I should really get away from the place that had caused me so much stress during the year. I appreciate the sentiment, but, as I lie here stricken with these thoughts and emotions that I thought I had finally been able to purge myself of, I can say with some semblance of confidence that it was never really the institution that set me on my downward spiral, but quite simply just an uncontrollable impression of inadequacy. And that is something that follows me around like a bad habit.

I've been taking the summer easier in the hopes that I could have some time to gather up those broken, shattered pieces on the floor around me. For a while, I really thought I was making progress. But, now, as I hit the two-month mark of my self-imposed vacation, I realize that I'm really still a smouldering wreck inside. I just wish I knew what I could do. The usual suspects of my anxieties are as easily discernible as the birds casually chirping outside my window or the sun that's set to rise about an hour from now. I guess there aren't too many things I can do about them (since regret comprises a majority of my qualms, and, well, simply put, I can't go back in time). However, I guess I should go ahead and take care of a few small things.

Maybe then I'll be able sleep again...

Right?

Continuing along with my exploration of Aboriginal culture, I’m currently reading “‘Real’ Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood” by Bonita Lawrence. All in all, this has been a real engaging read and I find myself getting through it like a hot knife through butter.

I’m approximately 60% through the book and I find that, though she describes very well the issues that have affected and are still affecting Aboriginal identity, both at large as well as in the individual, there hadn’t yet been too much attention specifying what Aboriginal traditions actually consist of. I’m glad that on page 160, the author had begun to elaborate on this topic. The following is a portion of an interview that I just found said so much.

I can say that I’m traditional, coming from being raised by my grandparents, having them raise me in their traditional ways – a Métis way. But it’s not like traditional with the sweetgrass, or other things. We were traditional in that we were isolated. There were not a lot of white people we were exposed to. We didn’t have electricity, or running water … I grew up with trapping. So for me, I’ve seen skinning, I’ve seen meat smoked, fish smoked. I grew up with fish and traditional meats, and they passed all that on. And the uses of certain teas, and bear fat, that are good for certain things. 

But it’s also the way I was raised, right? The language was passed on, the way of raising children – I grew up in an extended family, where children were never hit; you are taught by example. You don’t realize, until you’re an adult, the values you’ve been raised with. My grandmother would teach me things. Like, if I did something bad, she would say, “You shouldn’t do that – think about how that person is feeling!” Right? So we were taught to put ourselves in the other person’s position, so that we would not do something to hurt somebody. And we were taught by example. They gave us verbal examples. That’s the way our morality was taught. So they taught me a lot of things, even though I didn’t realize it until I was an adult.

My recent forays into topics of culture seem to consist of one part lame identity crisis as well as another part of desire to understand the diversity found in the human experience. And, yeah, the passage itself isn’t an exhaustive exposition on native tradition or whatever, but for a second there, I find myself relating to something in those words on a very fundamental level. And, because of this, I feel that, somehow, this topic was a good idea. Right?

文化

I’ve been reading this book on the Mi’kmaw people from Nova Scotia (“First Nations, Identity, and Reserve Life” by Simone Poliandri, for those curious). As I read this work, which focused on aspects of identity and culture, I found myself questioning of where I stood when it came to matters of what I see as my own identity and culture. This has certainly been a growing topic of interest for me for a while (and quite likely one of the reasons I was drawn to this book in the first place).

Quite obviously I’m ethnically Chinese. But, in terms of culture, that’s much more questionable. What is it of my day-to-day that is an expression of “Chinese”. Truth be told, the only overt examples I can think of include my ability (though perhaps “inability” would be a more realistic description) to speak Cantonese as well as my daily consumption of Chinese food. Well, I guess also how pretty much all my friends are Chinese (and pretty much only naturalized, English-speaking ones).

But, truth be told, I don’t know much about “Chinese” culture, and I refer specifically to HK culture since I see myself relating to that more than I ever would with that of mainland China. And so, from the get-go, it’s not even that I can say definitely that such and such aspect is or is not “Chinese”. Nevertheless, the more I reflect on my life, the more I realize the nature of my own cultural ambiguity. And it’s not so much something that I want to be “Chinese” as much as it is just the realization that there can be real and tangible discontinuities between myself and others of my ethnicity.

So, back to the book, language was something that occasionally came up as a measure of cultural identity. Some of those interviewed by the author had outrightly said that to be Mi’kmaq means to speak the language. Furthermore, the unfortunate population that had been subjected to residential schooling would often refer to their loss of lingual fluency as a primary indicator of cultural loss.

And, on that note, I can relate to that line of thinking, in that I do view my inability to speak fluent Cantonese somewhat ruefully. Certainly not because it prevents me from watching TVB shows or listening to Cantonese pop (the latter, in fact, might be for the better). The primary source is probably my inability to communicate meaningfully with my grandparents. I am, and most probably will be, their only grandchild. And whenever I do think on this topic, I can’t help but feel a little remorse that I am willingly letting all that wisdom and cultural wealth acquired over the span of their lives simply end with them, all because I couldn’t be bothered to learn a few extra words and grammatical rules.

And I think it goes further than that. Language also influences the way one thinks. I’m not sure of the specifics but surely words can serve as a constraint upon our understanding of certain ideas. As I reflect on some poorer examples of communication with my mom, I can’t help but begin to wonder how much of it was due to a concept simply lost in translation or due to a perceived implication that was there only because of a literal translation between languages. Although, I guess this is more about language itself, rather than anything to do with culture.

Anyway, those are just a few musings on what is certainly a far-reaching topic. The rabbit hole of cultural limbo surely goes far deeper. 

Essence

A part of a Q program (on CBC Radio 1) I heard a few days ago recounted the life of photojournalist Tim Hetherington. At one point, the interviewee, Sebastian Junger, said that Tim's primary approach wasn't as a photographer, per se, but as someone who wanted to understand the human experience. That desire was apparently key in his subjects opening themselves up emotionally and ultimately allowing him to capture photographically the essence of whatever particular moment or situation he was pursuing.

Well after many minutes of painstakingly typing and deleting the various attempts I've made to continue this entry, I seem to have lost perspective on what I was initially trying to get at.

I guess I just wanted to note that interesting point that a person's career can be more of an indirect extension of him/herself and that I definitely relate to that desire to understand the human experience, that is, to understand those unique sets of circumstances that each member of our species finds itself in and then attempting to distill all of that into a few essential human components.

Reflection

So yeah, I like wandering around downtown as a means of relieving stress, that's certainly not a new revelation. During my recent meanderings, I've begun to notice something new: all the high-functioning go-getters in the city, you know, productive members of society kind of thing. Of course that's nothing new; the downtown core is where all the business is at, so, unsurprisingly, there is where one would find all these type-A's.

And then I look at myself, who I am, what goes through my mind, and one thing consistently goes through my mind: "Who is this girl I see, staring straight back at me?" (ok, I don't consistently think of the Mulan song but it just happened to pop into my head today, as I was looking into a mirror, in the midst of all these perfunctory thoughts; also, feel free to replace "girl" with any derogatory term that would fit your fancy).

I'm not that. I can't talk on the phone like that guy in the suit, fully convinced of whatever he's trying to push, or that guy walking confidently down the sidewalk in his well thought-out costume plus sunglasses. I mean, I could wear a pretty shirt or walk like a normal person but that'd be it, it'd just be some external piece covering an internal reality that is really disparate in quality.

And I'm sitting here, typing all these words out, and don't really know what to do, as fucking usual, I guess. lol...

Blank

My emotions are useless. Well, no they serve a role, though one that is completely dispensable from my perspective.The emotions that I feel seem to be largely limited to anxiety and regret. Such should not be for a mid-twenties guy like me of course, right? Well, all I can say is that they are my natural responses to stimuli, such are emotions, would that be a fair statement? It's not like I choose to feel certain things because it makes sense. Emotions are not, after all, necessarily rational (interestingly, when typing "are emotions" in Google, the second suggested search string is "are emotions irrational").

Anyway, I'm not complaining about my life. That's silly. My life is great and my perspective has been shaped to recognize that quintessential truth of any (greater or equal to) middle-class person. And that perspective really helps me calm down whenever I find myself going through an episode of one or more of those not-so-pleasant emotions.

But the fact of the matter is, and I say this earnestly, I just generally don't feel good emotions as much as I probably should. And I know that running water and Internet already makes my life so much better than too large of a proportion of our Earth's population. Yet, having that perspective still doesn't serve to evoke any emotional response. And I don't know what to do. Am I just exaggerating my situation? I don't even know. I don't know anything right now. I don't want to know anything right now. I just want to go back into my quiet dark place, assume the fetal position, and just rock back and forth until everything just fades away when I can return to my tabula rasa.

Submission

乖

After many years of conditioning, I think I've finally attained the state of "乖" ("gwai"). It has become one of the more frequently used adjectives when relatives describe and/or attempt to compliment me.

The adjective describing good behaviour or, less glamourously, submissiveness and the expected state of any child. I don't know how conscious a decision it was for me to embody that quality but, for better or for worse, it is now a central aspect of me.

I guess it has its roots in my constant desire to receive good will from others. Since I come into contact with my extended family a lot, naturally, a part of me just tries to play the role of the obedient younger person placating their whatever expectations.

As I look back, I see that attitude spill into the other aspects of my life, most prominently in my volunteerism. I volunteer a lot (i.e. work for free). I've always tried to keep a positive outlook and do my best, even if there really is no apparent benefit other than a gentle nod from my supervisors. The goal was to impress them so that they would finally give me a job but that obviously wasn't always the case. And, sometimes, when I get unlucky, I get the distinct impression that they are slightly taking advantage of my good will.

And now here I am. Certainly, 乖 can describe me. But what use is that now that I'm 24, now that I am no longer a child (or shouldn't be anyway)? After the years of submissive volunteer work and the submissive robotic memorization of two degrees that never required a noticeable level of critical thinking, I sit here realizing that most of the things I've done have been to satisfy demands outside of myself.

A while back I happened across a few talks by Noam Chomsky and he talked about how one of the goals of the school system was to promote obedience and submission, to instill into people the notion of "doing things for the sake of doing them", such as meaningless assignments. And, boy, that sure was an eye-opener. If only it were isolated to my school experience but no, that sense of submission has, unfortunately, permeated quite well into my approach to life.

Well, that's no good, it's no good at all.

Mundane prophecies

There's a guy I bump into periodically, from my program, and we are bonified acquaintances, though I guess that is how I am with most of my classmates.

It is strictly business whenever we talk: school, extracurriculars, and summer plans (not the recreational aspects of it). And, I'll be honest, I'm a little behind others as far as my extra-curriculars go, which was also a huge factor in my prolonged period of anxiety culminating around a month ago. He has a tendency of prodding on those subjects, I imagine he does this in order to keep a current idea of the "pulse" of the general achievements of his colleagues. Well, let's just say, my responses are never quite impressive enough and I always get a huge judgmental vibe from him, pretty much every time. It's a huge turn-off and I hate it when the conversations end up like that, which unfortunately seems to be an inevitability every time.

It happened today again and, yes, the conversation progressed through its predictable course. And, as I reflect on it, I wonder, does he share in the disdain that I have for our conversations? The reason I can't stand our conversations is because, probably, we just don't have the same priorities and so when we talk, we just completely fail to relate to one another, making it a wholly futile exercise.

A similar thought came up yesterday. I was walking around the neighbourhood and happened to cross two yuppie-phased men and one was talking about some aspect of his work and he seemed to talk about it with such conviction. It dawned on me that that sort of attitude is so far removed from my experience. I don't just don't rank work-related issues (ok, not that I'm working right now) very high at all in terms of things I actually give thought to.

And so, it is actually curious to think about how my dear acquaintance views the conversations we have. He probably thinks I'm some ambitionless dumbass who doesn't apply himself nearly enough if he actually wants to get anywhere in this short life of ours, someone who would be much better off in some dark cave on Trill (DS9 7x03, duh). We certainly don't talk normally and so I imagine that he doesn't take our conversations to be the highlights of his days either.

Hopefully, though, I don't come off as an asshole.

Sunshine lollypops and ...

So here I am again, a familiar environment for sure. But, this time it is much different: it is completely optional. There are assignments to complete, no tests to prepare for, no nagging obligations to take care of. A strange vacation in the place where I usually am.

I got a Metropass this month so that I wouldn't have that disincentive of using tokens. I feel this was a good call as now I can finally go explore all those nooks and crannies of this city as well as be in a better position to read all those books I had short-listed a while back (as well as to catch up on my web development and database skills).

So far, I've found it to be much better in the sun and in the midst of people than to be lounging around in the dark isolation of the house...

Not sure if ironic or...

This post is less... extensive than the past few.

For someone as melodramatic as I am, I find myself quite easily perturbed by the exaggerations of others. When I look for music on Reddit, I oftentimes see embellished titles that are nothing but indulgence. Here are just a couple from /r/postrock that have pushed me to go on this tirade, "Not strictly postrock, but incredible nonetheless" (ok, that one's not too bad) but then there's "Giants - Sleeping False Idol (from 3:07 I just stop counting how many heart attacks I suffer from listening to this song)". Are you being real right now? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Save your heart attacks for something worthwhile, gotdam.

And yes, I've heard this song before. In fact, I quite like it along with the rest of the album. But it doesn't give me fucking heart attacks. Can I rock out to it? Yes, of course. But.. ugh.

You know what, it's post titles like those that give me motherfucking heart attacks.

Rule 32

It has been two weeks since I've been squatting at my mom's place. She went off to a few distant lands for vacation and I, as the obliging son, offered to look after her place while she was away. Definitely, the past two weeks have passed relatively quickly and I've come to a better understanding of home-ownership. But that's not what this post is about.

I brought both my guitars here with the intention of playing uninhibited, due to the lack of fellow house occupants for whom I am ever volume-considerate. And, since my arrival to this foreign landscape, I can say with great pride that my guitars have been utilized a sum total of zero times. I don't even sing much, which I had probably been looking forward to doing more than fiddling with the guitars. So, here I am, and as I sit in front this giant wide-screen, typing out another block of text, I find there really is no desire within me to be musically active to any degree.

Music factored in way more when I was studying. Having something on while I was doing my mindless studies seemed just enough to drown out the multitudes of thoughts that try to encroach upon my consciousness when I attempt to memorize verbatim words and ideas that, truth be told, mean nothing to me.  Singing also served a cathartic role as I would try to relieve those pent up academically-mediated frustrations with strained utterances with whatever tracks happened to exist in my limited vocal range.

Now that we've entered a less busy phase, I find there is less drive and incentive for me to look to music. I've been through this thought process before, probably last summer, but clearly I had forgotten its significance, as I had enthusiastically been looking forward to honing my musical abilities this summer.

Quite simply, I just don't see any point in developing those abilities. So what if I learn how to strum and sing concurrently or maybe just a few extra obscure chord progressions? I could much more easily listen to those same chords by the original artist. Even if I were to create my own music or make covers that were stylistically distinct from their originals, I just don't think I'd be really into it. And, the thought of me recording and publishing myself for the entire world to see just seems to elicit a slight sense of narcissism, which does nothing but make the entire exercise just a little more distasteful.

There are two possibilities that come to mind as to what's going on here. Either A) I'm just missing the beauty of making music and just need to do it a bit more to understand it or B) there was some aspect of listening to music that was enjoyable, that I've yet to abstract. I'm sure there are other possibilities, but I, as I've recently been discovering, am the greatest of thinkers (but that's something I'll probably write on a bit later on).

The title of this post "Rule 32" is a reference to Zombieland, where the lead actor narrates a set of arbitrary rules, the last of which being Rule 32, "Enjoy the little things". It came up as I was talking to a friend about this very issue and he said that maybe I should stop analyzing the process so much (namely the narcissistic elements that I accuse it of harbouring). But, as I write this post, I guess I've become more aware that maybe it's not so much that my anhedonia is due to my disdain for the process but rather that maybe it was never that process that I was enamoured with (that is, option B).

Beats me...

Vulnerability, addendum

This isn't the second part, just an addendum to the previous entry.

It's not like I'm oblivious to the necessity of some tenacity in this life. I've had the great displeasure of witnessing certain friends and family members enter terrible work environments and seeing their struggle through it. My grandfather fought in the war and when I ask him what his earlier life was like, he summarizes with the single term 捱 (this is Google translate, so um slight possibility this isn't the right one), Cantonese for "endure". Suffice it to say, I haven't brought up that topic ever since.

No, the realities of 捱 have been making themselves known to me, particularly during this school year (see "Ecclesiastes"). Of course, I also say this knowing full well that my life has been, by many orders of magnitude, easier than all my previous generations: food is so easily accessed, a good amount of money secured more than sufficient for a modest lifestyle, no persecution or war. Whatever the 捱 that my grandfather was referring to, I've been lucky never to have experienced it and I might just be lucky enough to never experience it.

These kind of reflections are always positive experiences. Much like that time I had that epiphany facilitated by the famously photographed Afghan girl (see "The problem with first world problems"). Of course, I'm not going to stop seeing the negative sides to things, I still feel that it's an important consideration, but definitely, I shouldn't let these things bog me down as much as I do.

So, that's half of what I wanted to talk about, hopefully I get time to jot down all those fleeting thoughts before they once again vacate the premises, as my tenants are so prone to do.

Vulnerability

Manliness, what is that exactly? As corny as it sounds, one of the things I had set out to do this summer was to refine my understanding of it. Surely responsibility factors heavily into it, that's honestly easy for me, I'm pretty mindful of my obligations and do make an effort to attend to them. But what of stoicism? Certainly there is some place for it? I find that I am less keen at adopting that one. I was never one to shy away from expressing my emotions and it just happens that the frequency of negative ones tend to outweigh that of the positive. Is that a problem?

Our society does not look kindly to whiners. And, I guess I see why that may be the case. Whining may be an expression of an inflated sense of entitlement: "I deserve more than this, why aren't you providing this for me?". In that sense, whining is an act of indulgence and serves only to further the self-centred desires of the whining party. "Stop whining" and "Don't be a pussy" are two immediate quotes that come to mind (Schwarzenegger from Kindergarten Cop and Downey Jr.fresh from Iron Man 3).

Something that holds me back from adopting a purely stoic approach to life, however, is honesty. Of course I'm not equating those who don't bitch about their problems to snake-oil salesmen. But I mean, to omit negativity from our daily discourse, to act as if the problems were less troubling than they really were, it seems a bit disingenuous. And my optimistic outlook deems that we embrace those aspects as much as we do everything else. Surely our lives are littered with trials and tribulation (some much more than others) and it seems only right to recognize hardships as a communal human characteristic.

And yet the only we can really bond over this sort of thing is if people are both cognizant and open to share about these aspects of each other. Not in an indulgently, but in a way that is mindful and respects the degree of one's particular trouble, in a way that keeps these instances in our discourse in order remind each other that our lives are not perfect specimens but, contrarily, speckled with blemishes.

Maybe that's why, right now, I'm just not that sold on the ideal that stoicism is a core attribute of manliness. Keeping it all locked inside definitely seems to be an unsustainable approach, especially with the increasing awareness and understanding of mental illness.

This post originally was going to be me bitching about having no friends I can truly be vulnerable with (hence the title) but I opted not to continue with that because it seemed a bit too indulgent and somehow this semi-intelligible monstrosity was conceived.

It's late, I should sleep, there's a second part but I'll finish that up tomorrow.

Another incoherent rant

All day staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something

I'm talking to myself in public
Dodging glances on the train
And I know, I know they've all been talking about me
I can hear them whisper
And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
Out of all the hours thinking
Somehow I've lost my mind

I find myself, more often than not, relating to the lyrics of "Unwell" by Matchbox Twenty (the two verses above) ...most prominently the accidental mutterings to myself publicly and the bouts of sleeplessness. Of course, I'm not that off the top (e.g. I don't make friends with shadows nor do I hear whispers) but I do feel the instability creep far too close to my core cerebral functions for comfort.

Obviously, I'm not crazy... just a little unwell? Would that be a fair thing for me to say? Would that just be indulgent and totally unmanly? I guess oftentimes I can be quite the whiny little bitch... add to that my overt naivete and, dayum, you've got a stew going... a stew that no one in their right mind would ever partake of. But, to be otherwise, just seems so foreign at the moment...

Unfortunate, as always...

Ecclesiastes

I think the realization that life is fucking hard is only now really dawning on me. Until now, everything had been pretty much handed to me or obtained with minimal struggle. For whatever reason, only now has the true nature of struggle become a reality for me, before it was always just soundbite I quoted from Ecclesiastes.

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was really, really scared. Decades of toil. The very thought numbs me in a very undesirable way. My heart shudders and falls from the cloistered fortress that had previous hidden me from life's reality.

I feel like such a fucking kid. I'm 24. When my mom was my age she already had a fucking kid, and I'm still here moping in my room like some dumb-fuck teenager.

I guess I don't blame people for not giving a shit. I suppose it's hard enough to focus in order to keep one's own life in order. But, it would be nice if.... well I'm not going to go there.

Someone today said that life is slow. Truly, at times, it seems interminable, moving at a snail's pace. For me, it is now, during this interglacial period between obligations and deadlines, when that definitely seems to be the case.

This post is shit, where is the overarching narrative? Nowhere to be seen. This is why I'm in fucking science.

Greener

The summer is finally here. Why then, do I find myself completely unable to relax? Why am I still plagued with anxieties? Well, there are many reasons and I've grown sick of going over them again and again so let's skip that part.

I feel different. Something in me really did change over the course of the last year. What a fucking brutal year. I don't think I was always like this. There seems to be this persistent weight that I drag around, perhaps all the accumulated self-loathing over the past bit. I've done quite a bit of that in the past three years, if I recall properly.

It's probably up to me to let it go. I don't even think there's anything wrong with me. When I try to analyze my current state (which I am oft to do now that.. well.. that there's pretty much nothing else to do), I get the impression that I only feel the way I do because I've put myself in a box, a very particular frame of mind that is completely intolerant of any perceived mistakes committed by the self. Oh, a sentiment I can relate to all too well.

Maybe it was better that I didn't get a job this summer. I feel like I need the time to pick up my heal my battered psyche, to pick up the pieces of my shattered spirit that have been strewn all across the landscape.

Right now, I think the best thing I can do is just to breathe. Slowly let all those accumulations diffuse out. I must arise from these ashes or else, well, I'd have to start worrying about how I'll get through the next few decades...

Ain't no rest for the wicked

Forgiveness is a cornerstone of the religion to which I proclaim allegiance. I'd like to think that I've been able to develop some semblance of mastery with it. But there is one particularly noticeable discrepancy in my application of this tenet. There is always that one person I can never bring myself to forgive and that person is no other than ... me. You know, over the span of the last two decades and a bit, he has amassed quite an abundance of fuck-ups. An idiot of Herculean proportions. I look back and all I can do is cringe and apologize in my head to all those who've been so unfortunate as to having been dragged into the twisted inept logic of my former self. It is truly gut-wrenching my idiocy, the insufficiencies of my rational components.

Thankfully, the degree of disgust associated with my "misactions" nowadays is quite modest, generally (except for those two stupid giant elephant demons that I inadvertedly summoned, but, fortunately, dispelled recently). But me, as the misguided youth as I was, was truly a senseless creature. How does one come to accept that? How does one persist for the entirety of one's life while constantly accruing these regrets?

Roller Coasters

It's all going to collapse soon ... it's all been leading up to this moment ... the culmination of all my works, actions, decisions are about to come to fruition, that is, its self-destruction. For a person so unskilled in the art of fire-breathing to play so casually with fire is certainly folly to anyone with half a fucking brain.

Why couldn't I see the writings on the wall? They all glaringly pointed to a spectacular demise, one unseen since Lucifer's descent into the eternal darkness.

Part of me wishes that these fragile supports that still suspend me in the air would just give way already so I'd be able to feel the full fury of freefall, unhindered. That I may hit the cold, hard ground and finally begin my real life, unabated by these present spectres that haunt me so.

But, alas, I must wait. The seconds, minutes, hours, and days pass by agonizingly. A strange and pathetic limbo, neither in Hell proper nor anywhere close to salvation. It is here that I sit, on the top of the hill in my roller coaster, awaiting, powerless.

Is Anybody Home?

I hate Saturdays, that strange fucking limbo between Friday, the last day of work, and Sunday, the preparatory day for the next week's work. I can't do anything but be paralyzed by this constant sense of emptiness and seclusion. Sometimes it really does feel like I'm the only person alive, despite the multitudes that share the common spaces (library denizens and TTC commuters). When exactly did Saturdays become so worthless? At least since 4 years ago... but I suspect it's been even longer than that...

Why am I typing this out... when has any of my outrage ever resulted in anything worth a damn... more meaningless inquiries... fantastic.

Shipwrecked

On a cold night, we lay down
Under starlight, we break down
Spent my whole life, seeking shelter
Til the last time, gone forever

Shaka, when the walls fell

Behind the walls ... waiting ... always waiting. The oceans have swollen and consumed my once glorious homeland. This ruined fortress is all that remains of the now shattered kingdom, and I of its once buzzing populous. The walls creak as the waves batter upon them unrelentingly, as if mourning for times long past. And as I stand and gaze at this place that once held so much meaning for me, I wonder what I can do other than await for that inevitability when my entire world will come crashing down. No, there is no hope, no chance for escape. Although my lungs still take in air with each breath, my heart has already sunk to the very bottom of the seas. But what other choice do I have? I will persist ... stalwartly ... resolutely ... and oh-so-very ... futilely.

The Hours

Can I wait the hours...

The past few days have been horridly unproductive and I've tried, my god, I've tried... I go downtown and stay in the library... but to no avail, nothing is accomplished... if not only because I'm not convinced that I can study effectively with exams still comfortably far away, the important ones anyway.

So here I am, lying on my bed, typing out this meaningless post. I have a small meaningless thing I have to do for tomorrow but, seriously, who gives a shit? I don't. I'll finish it later tonight. For now, I'm just lying here, listening to whatever to make the time pass as soon as possible...

I'm also waiting for something else ... it's been steadily growing over the past bit and has swelled into a distractingly noticeable mass ... but I am still not totally convinced, my resolve is a bit incomplete ... there's a fair bit of conflict stirring in that chaotic pool of ideas of mine ...

All and all, I think the Beach House lyrics (from "The Hours") above and maybe its entirety, are pretty relevant... ugh, what a twisted web we weave...

Conviction

"We have seven exams."

He said it with such fervour. The intensity in his eyes were like embers burning into mine. Now that I look back, maybe a part of me was intimidated, if only for a millisecond. To be escalated from a placid conversation to a point of such conviction was definitely unexpected. But, he was always a studious one, a lot of them seem to be. Myself, I care, of course. Just passing is no way to live after all. But my conception of good study habits doesn't necessitate a desperate obsession. And, maybe, just maybe, I'm being unfair to the particularly studious ones.

Maybe, it is not them, but me that is doing something wrong. They certainly are a dedicated bunch. Most of them work part-time jobs, while studying, and one even tries to keep up playing guitar for an hour a day. Me... I don't do jack shit anymore. I don't even try to play the guitar, despite not working and not having as many volunteer obligations anymore.

Where did the fire go? Did something extinguish it? Was it ever there in the first place? I don't ... really remember.

Maybe I do need a break...

Warmth

You're thick-skinned, but it seems 
You're hiding in daydreams
Can't find our way to the light 
And when this routine ends, through nights and weekends 
We'll see daylight through the blinds

The excerpt above is from the song "The Kids Were Wrong" by Memoryhouse. I guess for the past bit, it feels like I've been wandering in the dark, slowly edging my way across a wall, feeling its surface, in the hopes of finding a door that'll lead me back to... somewhere, the place I ought to be? I don't know that part exactly.

At this point, it definitely feels like I'm just waiting. That it's not a matter of me finding the door but rather just for me to endure until the door opens. That time was originally summer. After all these dispensable academic obligations are done with, I was wanting to spend an inordinate time (I was intending the whole summer) in improving my musical competencies.

Well, whether or not I'll actually have an entire summer (rather than just the evenings and weekends) to recharge my empty cells, there's no doubt that the end of this school year (which, I'll admit, has been particularly arduous compared to all my other years) is what for which my mind yearns. I can't wait until those nights and weekends of memorizing things for the purposes of having a favourable number assigned to me are a thing of memory (for a few months anyway).

It'll be nice to see the daylight again, to be enveloped by both its brightness and its warmth...

Your system is infected!

These commutes seem to be becoming more unbearable with each passing day. For around an hour each way, I am left alone, unstimulated, unoccupied. It is now that my mind is left to its own devices. It is now that my mind runs its viral scan. A great process to have. Problematically, I only have the detection module installed. The other half, the cleaning module, seems not to have been included in the installation package. I blame the manufacturer but the warranty expired long ago and I don’t think any manufacturer will really take a look at this chunk of coal anymore.

So, we have this normally useful process picking all these viruses. To be honest, I’ve seen the detection screen countless times. I could probably recite both the directory as well as the time of infection for each individual instance verbatim.

Another flaw in the installation package is that I cannot control the calendar option. It just seems to run automatically whenever the system load falls below a minimum threshold. A good option that would maximize efficiency in a normal setting. But this is not by any means a normal setting and I am forced to recall every infected instance far too often, with no reprieve other than to increase workload on my aging (though still relatively superior) processor.

I should get a refund...

Discontinuity

Why do the days seems so ... disjointed? They just seem filled with one thing after another but these things are all independent, separate, they lack cohesion. The days pass by, I see them pass with my very eyes, they pass before me as a river flows onwards unrelentingly. And, like water, they flow around me, pass me, even though I try to capture "it" (a futile maneuver), they evade my grasp. And, so, after everything, I am left with nothing.

Nothing but these cloudy images that linger. Remnants of whatever had transpired. Bits and pieces, but never even a semblance of an overarching narrative. Stuck with my... machinations... vapid, arbitrary associations between arbitrary points that would have no qualms with having nothing to do with one another. And, all I can do with these amorphous things I hold onto is to force them into these meaningless combinations of lines and dots.

Why I try to convey these "ideas", I have no idea. Arbitrary fates for arbitrary entities, seems fair to me...

Reckoning

Captain's log, supplemental:

It seems I've sat in this same area for an eternity, albeit discontinuously. The people come and the people go, their faces never staying the same for long. Here, mingling and earnest studying seems to blend seamlessly. All these people, from different walks of life, from different programs of study, they indeed seem a disparate, heterogeneous group of people. But there is one thing that binds them all these different people together, one critical aspect that no one is probably aware of: they are destined to remain strangers, to me at least. They will continue on with their lives without ever knowing me, the snowflake-man.

Curses be to fate! Why do they not shower me with their attentions and their affections? I would so gladly do it for them and yet they seem content to allow me (the snowflake-man) to wither away in obscurity. Oh, the casual cruelty; oh, the humanity.

Surely, they will rue this day. They will, won't they? Their destined omission is surely justification for their eventual torment, right? Yes, and I will be the instrument of their demise. Every last one of them will fall before me. They will look back, at the very end, and wonder, "What did I do to deserve this?", and they will know nothing, because they had shielded their eyes, their minds, for far too long.

Blessed will be the day that justice will be reaped for (and by) the snowflake-man (me).

Excision

By now, the parasites had become legion. He could see them squirming around his chest cavity on the ultrasound and he would swear he felt them too, as if that were possible. Infection had become a common phenomenon since the water supply had become tainted all those years ago. But, people smartened up quickly and infection could easily be avoided if one simply took the time to boil one's water and cook fully one's food.

But he had become sloppy, haphazard in his day-to-day dealings with what he consumed. He found himself retracing his steps and regretting his inattention, his lack of insight previously. But now it was too late, the parasites had seeded themselves into his viscera, with particular liking to his cardiac muscle. Slowly eating away at him.

The only thing the doctors could do now was to excise his unsalvageable tissue and replace his heart with a mechanical prosthesis, a contraption that experienced quite a boom in the past decade.

And now, as he lay there on the operating table, he waited with bated breath. The doctor was clearly in no rush as she nonchalantly joked around with the assistants and nurses. He just lay there, eyeing the surgical chainsaw that the doctor would need to gain proper access into his chest. He wished he could just reach for those serrated blades, push them straight into his own sternum, and tear it open with his own bare hands so that he could rip out his diseased heart, with parasites and regrets in tow, by himself. He wanted to be rid of all those evils he had accumulated over the years. He couldn't wait for the day that he could start anew, with a clean slate, never to make those obvious mistakes ever again.

But, alas, this was all but fancy. The local left his whole body paralyzed and all he could do was lie there ...like the poor sap he was.

vaka

It's a quiet night. I'm sitting in my room, illuminated only by the glow of my two monitors, listening to some calming indie pop ("Hounds" by The Antlers, if you're so inclined). How many nights have I sat here in this exact same spot mildly dreading tomorrow's arrival? How many nights have I tried to stave it off by steadfastly refusing to go to bed? It's an all too familiar situation, unfortunately. (just look at the last post)

Back when I used to play Diablo 3, I would often hear my monk say, "Break beneath the endless tide". Well, I'm not breaking and I don't see myself doing so anytime soon but it really does feel like that, an endless, meaningless, joyless tide that washes over me in an oh-so-casual and effortless manner. 

It's a shame I don't know how to swim. Maybe if I had learned earlier, I would be better able to maneuver myself. And so, as I struggle, I ask myself, "Why am I even in the ocean?", "How long have I been here?", "Was I going somewhere?", "Where did I even come from?". 

And I can't seem to answer any of those. It seems that it isn't only my body that has been washed away but also my ...

My what? My memories, my motivations, my intentions ... what do all those constitute anyway ...

I wish I could leave this room. But where would I go? I don't think any physical location could placate me right now. It's not my body that I'm concerned with.

Where was I going with this post anyway? I look up and see ... a degeneration.

brb...

Somnolence postponed

For the past few nights, I've been staying up way longer than I ought. I stay up because I don't want tomorrow, and all those oh-so-desired responsibilities, to come. And so, by staving off sleeping, I stave off  tomorrow from arriving. Bullet-proof logic, right?

Let me tell you another reason why I seem unable to sleep.

It is at night, in the stillness and the silence, that the demons come out to play. In droves do they congregate around my conscious sphere and begin to peck and gnaw at my already waning sanity. They intrude into awareness with memories of perceived inadequacies and of past transgressions. And, unfortunate for me, I find my only recourse is to lay there, paralyzed, and to bear witness to the gruesome massacre scene. These carrion, they pick, not at my flesh, but at the very core of my spirit. They taint, corrupt my heart to the point where my only desire is to excise it and cast it into the very void from whence these demons come.

And so the question is... to sleep or not to sleep? Well, I guess it's not the sleep itself but the transition process into it. Well, there's not much I can do anyway. It's not like I can control the wayward wanderings of my stupid mind and what it wants to recall...

Grr, arrgh

Violence stirred in the otherwise calm night. The creature, confined in a darkness that mirrored its own thoughts and desires, thrashed in defiance of its prisoner's chains. But its actions were in vain for those very restraints had been developed specifically for this purpose.

For ages past, this foul entity had stalked the countryside. By its hands, with its jagged blade-like fur as dark as the night itself, would it spoil the fruits of hard labour that went into carving the expansive tundra into a livable landscape. By its furious fiery red eyes would it gaze into the eyes of men and women alike, piercing into their very souls to instill an awing, paralyzing, sense of terror. Truly, it was proud of its work, both its destruction and infliction, though perhaps too proud.

For there eventually came a time when the countrymen banded together to produce a plan as cunning as anything that could be conceived by the great beast itself. In one fell swoop did the it fall into the trap. Although it resisted capture with all its might, the combined strength of the countrymen proved the greater force and the creature was subdued.

Bound as it was, the band could not find a way to destroy the creature. All forms of injury proved to be neither fatal nor even permanent. And so, to the chagrin of all that had hoped to rid the earth completely of this plague, the folk settled upon the eternal physical containment of the darkness. A location far, far away from the settlements, deep within the wilderness, was selected to be its forever holding place.

There, caged and chained, the demon was hidden away, out of sight, out of mind. However, despite their mortal enemy being contained and kept far away from their normal day-to-day, the memory of the age-old sin would never truly leave the minds of its former victims. Every night, upon toiling against its oppressive manacles and the inevitable frustration that would accompany that ever-futile exercise, there would be a great cry of agony coming from the darkness, so loud that even the ground would reverberate in its wake.

Confined in darkness did the creature languish, awaiting that faithful day when its bonds would finally weaken and it would once again be afforded its freedom to terrorize all that had the breath of life. Day after day and night after night did it plot and plan in painstaking detail its inevitable revenge upon the world that had dared to rebel against its rightful tyranny.

Bikini

Something I found myself doing periodically in my uneventful holiday break was watch documentaries, one of the few things that I would say I actually like doing. A good number of these were about illicit drug usage.

Psychoactive substances have always been an area of interest for me. Just how do these compounds push us into the states they do and why do these compounds (and these states) have such a hold on some of us who end up using? And what can be done to those who have entered into a seemingly unbreakable cycle of addiction (some unwittingly while some not as much)? It's a very multifaceted topic that easily succeeds in holding my attention.

Recently, during one of my journeyings through cyberspace, I came across a post about a person's whose worldview had been significantly altered after taking acid (apparently a common phenomenon). When watching television or movies, he would see actors on a set. Watching commercials, he would only see individuals pushing products they have absolutely no interest in. He also began seeing his life as being a much more menial affair than it had been prior (e.g. doing a 9-5 he had no interest in, spending money on meaningless things, etc).

Something about that post really resonated within me. Something along the lines of how there is probably so much in my own life that is appreciable if only I stick my head out of the trees for one moment to see the forest. Now, I think it's safe to say that I'll probably never do acid, so epiphanies are not going to occur through those means. But, still, I find that something is different in the way I approach my day-to-day. The world somehow seems a bit bigger than it did before, the sky a bit higher. I find myself being less pessimistic about those things that I do, seeing opportunity where there was once but a dead-end.

Taken together, tomorrow seems just a bit more hopeful.

Idiosyncratic

Something I've recently been trying to do more of is the accepting the, as my friend calls them, "idiosyncrasies" of others ...in other words, their flaws. I don't know which is more the case: that I extrapolate too much from the actions of others or that the vast majority of us are just deeply flawed people. 

Of course, many people may not offend with malicious intent. Ultimately, outside of what I'll consider a small minority of people who derive pleasure from hurting others, I'd say these idiosyncrasies are more likely instinctual reactions developed from various moments in their upbringing, i.e. they are defensive mechanisms. Still, there's no doubt that, in the wrong context, these actions can be deleterious and can erode away our relations with others. 

I wonder what my own idiosyncrasies are. I wonder if I offend people regularly because of them. Hopefully, one day, I'll be able to shed all that garbage.

Happy new year...

Well, that concludes another set of winter holidays. School resumes tomorrow and I find myself wholly awake, unable to fall into that resting state of mind, something of which that I surely require to prepare me for the incoming torrential onslaught. But, for whatever reason, my thoughts have deemed it necessary that I stay awake just a while longer. And, so, perhaps, as a final act of rebellion, I'll indulge it some more time for my consciousness to peer around my mind's vast landscape, memories of both great triumph and utter regret (though unfortunately, it seems that the latter seems to predominate).

As I tried listening to my iPod to transition into the sleep phases, I find many songs associated with very specific memories. These memories are sometimes innocuous such as the vague recollections of particular settings I had listened to the song in the past or times the songs had come up in discussion somewhere. Other times, these memories pull towards less desirable states where I well up with feelings of rueful disapproval.

Times that particular disturb are instances where there is a pronounced perception of naivete on my part. Something turns me afoul faster than watching my younger self act in his all too typical pompous self, only to neglect something obvious of vital importance (though, in his much needed defence, I guess, many times in hindsight), finally finding himself back to square one when his own deluded machinations have so inevitably failed.

Oh what a chump he was. And, oh what a chump he still is. And, oh what a chump he will e'er be. I don't doubt for a second that many more nights of such a quality await me in those ominous spaces of tomorrow.

A breath of air (or, Rage Against The Machine)

So here I am, in the library, where I am prone to be. Studying, or making some futile attempt towards it. And I'm listening to all these new artists. More and more frequently, these artists are my age or even younger. And, I look at my own life. I see that the last seven years have been the same drill: class, study, volunteer at some places (generally to build up my resume to some self-theorized ideal).

As one can imagine, the question pops up asking why I'm choosing to go through this routine (which has become troublingly more and more tiresome as of late). What am I aiming for? Well, the short-term answer is obvious, to get the degree and work in its particular field. But looking at the bigger picture, I have to wonder what I really want out of the few productive decades that I have. And to that, I have no answer. I've probably never really had a solid answer. As far as I can remember, I've been semi-mindlessly following through with my routines relentlessly (a friend whom I hadn't seen in a long time commented that I was always a very routine person). It seems there has never been a very clear, defined goal that I've been working towards.

I mean these existential questions are nothing to me but I suppose it's been a while since I've poked my head above the water's surface to steal a glance of the horizon. I keep saying to myself that once I'm through with this phase of my life that I'll begin living life for myself. But I wonder if that will truly happen. What will that look like? I'm definitely excited to move onto that phase of my life (after spending the better half of decade in the same post-secondary institution). Although I seem to be chained to the same routines right now, I really hope that that will not be my ultimate fate in my next life. I don't want to be a machine.

Well, I guess that's enough of that for now, I really ought to get back to struggling so as not to drown under the weight of these crushing self-imposed waves.

ಠ_ಠ

The defensive look with the scrunched eyebrows. You know what I'm talking about. That casual look of disdain and disapproval momentarily breaching through the other party's normal social inhibitions. Maybe it's just me being a little oversensitive but that look somehow seems to be finding its way into my conversations much too frequently for my liking.

Ponder and obsess as I may, I still have yet to isolate the precise conditions required to precipitate that cold lifeless look with its piercing eyes. Was it my choice of words? The content of my message? My tone that seems to have become lost in the spaces between irony and insincerity? Maybe it's my tired unengaged look or maybe that shit-eating grin that I greet you with? Well, I have no idea.

But since those instances have been piling up, my desire to make small-talk with effective strangers has reached near-zero levels. And so, I'll have to ask earnestly that you forgive me if I "don't seem to notice you" and don't say hello. It's nothing personal.

Hubris

I watched "Into the Wild" yesterday. The rest of the post will be a giant spoiler if you haven't seen the movie, read the book, or are generally unfamiliar with the story upon which those two are based.

It's 5 a.m. and I am awake and I find myself bothered by several aspects of that movie, that story, ...ultimately, that person upon which it was all based, Christopher McCandless. And I mean no disrespect to the family. I realize this must have been a huge loss for them. But, still, I think this story serves well as a precautionary tale, one that others have undoubtedly already stated in the past but I think would be pertinent, if only for my own edification, to work through.

I guess the heaviest aspect of that movie was the suffering, both of Christopher himself near the end of his ordeal and of his family whom was completely unaware of his whereabouts until after the fact. The part that hits me the most is the aspect of self-infliction. From what little I've skimmed on the issue, it seems that McCandless' ultimate demise can be traced to the inadequacy of his supplies and equipment. The last person to have seen him alive was the person driving him from Fairbanks to the trail where McCandless began his stay in the Alaskan bush. Apparently, that person had tried to convince McCandless to reconsider his trip due to a perceived inadequacy of his supplies and equipment, to no avail.

If this is true, I'd hazard to say that a major determining factor of his demise may have been sheer arrogance. And I say this not completely as an outsider to that facet of humanity. It is something of which I have been sensitive ever since my childhood. Whether it's because of misguided actions on my part or that of someone close to me, arrogance seems to be a larger contributor to the hurt that goes around my block (not just me, I don't mean this in a self-pitying way). There's definitely something to be said about having good knowledge, especially when entering into foreign and novel situations. I guess, ultimately, I see the potential of an uninhibited version of myself doing something this audacious and paying the consequences for it and then forcing that payment out of those close to me. And, really, it just scares me that that potential is always there and that that part of me can rear its ugly head at any time after a mere momentary lapse in attention.

There's a photo of McCandless that appears at the end of the film (it's the first thing that comes up if you Google his name), a self-portrait taken sometime during his Alaskan stay. Something about that picture just creeps me out to no end, maybe something about seeing the dead, maybe something about knowing what he'll have to go through between that photo and his unfortunate end. Rest in peace, Christopher McCandless.

Much Ado About Nothing (and not the euphemistic kind either)

There seems to be a pattern forming wherein the absurdity of the things I worry about hits me like a wave when they are juxtaposed to what goes on outside of my protected bubble.

So I parked at the mall today to use the subway. I parked pretty much right next to the entrance, despite the sign saying it was customer parking only, despite the other sign pleading transit users to park on the upper levels only. I've done it numerous times in the past so I didn't think anything of it. Until I left my car and some dude was eyeing me (no it was definitely not because I was ridiculously good-looking, though I'm pretty sure I was at the time). Some part of me thought for sure he was some person employed by the mall to catch transit users parking in customer only areas so as to enact punishment for those who would dare to violate the directions of the sacred signage. And, as you can well imagine given the preamble, I pretty much was freaking out inside about it all day (also, I'm aware that this is pretty overt paranoia but I assure you that I'm not typically this deranged).

Fast forward to the evening when I am driving home (in the car that was obviously not towed) when I'm listening to a Yemeni journalist who had won the Canadian Journalist Freedom Award last year. One of the questions revolved around the person's daughter who had taken, akin to her father, a keen interest in political   journalism. She was said to have frequented protests in the protester's square (I think people refer to it the "Change Square") and report on revolutionist women. The journalist said that though supportive conceptually, he, as a father obviously would, worried something would happen to her daughter, having bore witness to actions that were occasionally used against protesters.

And so, in retrospect, my parking violation, even if it somehow did end up with my car getting towed, just seems completely petty and inconsequential. There are just so many worse things than simple disruptions in my routine. I really should worry less about these potential disruptions. Maybe then the grey hairs that are beginning to accumulate on my head will cede some of their territory back to its once more luscious and full-bodied occupants.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

How I wish I could excise these memories and those paralyzing, gut-wrenching emotions they seem perpetually to evoke. How much more unhindered, unshackled, would our lives be without these festering wounds, these artifacts of times long past, that linger in the backdrop of our consciousness? Of course, of course, these spiritual eviscerators serve as cautionary reminders of what it means to be "doing it wrong". But, what of times when they are intent on intruding arrogantly into those private spaces where they have no place, when those knives have seemingly forgotten their context and begin to enact their gruesome massacre upon the undeserving? They are merciless and, tragically, inevitable. Like my own shadow do they follow me, stalk me, cruelly. And though I run with all my breath, all my might, I cannot escape that eventual end. Slowly bearing down, knowing fully that its approach is fully known, savouring even the apprehension that comes before the insidious act. As it takes hold of my mind, it sends its corrupting roots into the very core of my being where it binds tightly. And there I ... am ... and, flail as I may and wish as I may to extirpate this vile growth, I am powerless. And, so, it is here that I must be still, awaiting for the violence to end, until the noose is lifted so that I may breathe once again.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! 
The world forgetting, by the world forgot. 
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! 
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

TCB

All throughout that interminable commute I was plotting the words I would use in what was supposed to be a cathartic post about these feelings of meaninglessness and impotence that have been creeping up on me for the past bit. I was going to draw similarities of how I am right now and the person I was five years ago: how I go to sleep and wake up in the same bed, how I walk down the same streets everyday, actually, I'm still volunteering with some of the same people at the same soup kitchen as five years ago.

But, something happened on the walk back that, though in itself wouldn't necessarily have meaning, did bring on a momentary sense of comfort.

I was listening to Starálfur by Sigur Rós, which starts with the lyrics "blue night over me". Of course, I was singing with it because it's one of the few ways I know how to relieve my stress effectively, but that's unimportant. So midway through the song, I hear the familiar calls of the beloved Canadian Goose. I look up and, sure enough, there's a flock flying right over me in the classic V formation. And, in the backdrop, was the dark blue shade of the clear evening sky with a gracious guest appearance of our moon.

In itself, it doesn't mean much. Geese flying over me doesn't push me to drastically alter my previous way of thinking. But I guess it does help to put into perspective. The world is bigger. And, even though I might not feel like I am where I want to be right now, there's an entire beautiful world of possibilities out there and, one day, hopefully, I'll be able to explore that beauty.

But, for now, I guess I'll continue (fortunately, less begrudgingly now) to take care of business (as I do everyday).

The problem with first world problems

Preamble: I guess I got a little mad at the end there, but it's a good type of righteous anger .. right?

So, I saw the original photo of the "Afghan Girl" juxtaposed with a photo of her taken in 2002, 17 years after the original iconic image (link here). The original photo was taken at a Pakistani refugee camp, during the Soviet occupation of  Afghanistan. In 2002, a team from National Geographic caught up with her in a remote region of Afghanistan. She had said that didn't know the photo of her taken back in 1985 had become such a well-known phenomenon (I personally don't know much about it but I presume it meant much more to those living during the Cold War-era). Importantly, when asked if there was anything she wanted, she said she just wanted her kids to have a chance at getting an education.

So, here's this woman who had experienced the death of her parents due to war and had been displaced to live in another country, and what she wants is for her children to have the chance to be educated.

Juxtapose this with my life ... one that was been marked with extreme comfort and provision, completely insulated from all the conflict that seems to afflict so many parts of the world, never have I truly worried about resources, about where my next meal would come from, about the possibility that my life, due to external forces, could be drastically altered in the next day.

No, I've had, and literally still have, everything provided for me, including education. So what is it that this is my 7th year in university? So what if I'm a little more busy now than I'm used to? Does that somehow give me the right to act like the total asshole I've been the past couple of days?

Fuck no.

And when the "dust settles" (obviously metaphorical because I don't live in a goddamn warzone where people actually suffer and die and see others suffer and die on a regular basis), I'll still be completely insulated from the world. I'll still have all my meals and a nice warm bed to retire to. So that raises the question... what the fuck do I have to worry about?

So, regarding me, that sorely negative me in the past few days, fuck that stupid insignificant prick and his bullshit sense of entitlement. You're too busy? Too busy getting educated and much-needed experience from other activities? That's like going grocery shopping and getting upset that you bought too much and can't fit everything in the car (yes, it's a reference). It's not a big fucking deal. Get over this minutia, see that the world is so much bigger, and move the fuck on.

Stimulants (or melodramatic musings regarding mundane matters)

It's no revelation that alcohol can temporarily change the way people act. Specifically, the depressant is thought to exacerbate underlying behaviours via the dulling of certain social inhibitions. And from anecdotal evidence, I would agree: after a drink or two, I speak more freely, I'm generally more comfortable with my surroundings, my typical social reservations seem to .. go away for a bit.

Interestingly, an opposite effect seems to happen when I drink caffeine (a stimulant). Consistently, a few hours after I drink a decent amount of caffeine, my mind races for a bit and I find that I am hit by a wave of anxiety. This is then followed by a bout of self-loathing, an episode which I'd obviously prefer to be absent.

It worries me. I mean, it wouldn't if these were just primary effects of caffeine. What worries is me that these effects are secondary to caffeine wherein my stimulated psyche propels me through a pocket of negativity normally shrouded by my mental defences. That perhaps, under the placid surface of which I am conscious, there are secret woes, deeply seeded in dark recesses. I worry that there are hidden demons lying in wait, biding their time until my normal barriers are temporarily weakened so that they may burst out into the light to pillage and plunder mercilessly all that I have carefully ordered over the years.

But.. I might just be being melodramatic, as I am oft to do. Merely making a mountain out of a molehill in an otherwise plain and mundane life.

Boring

Fatigue, the day has worn down his well practiced exterior. Although he knows where he is heading, he meanders, his gait is inconsistent. His gaze wanders from object to object, taking up his surroundings, though, truth be told, he has already traversed through these very streets for what seems like a lifetime to him. Occasionally, his eyes will settle upon another soul but he is ever ready to dart away his glance in the unfortunate scenario that he is discovered.

"I am tired," his internal monologue says, "I should rest," though in the back of his mind he wished that he could somehow transcend beyond that particular physical limitation. With a sigh, he relents, "I am only human".

He enters the subway terminal and goes to the man behind the glass window. "Could I have ten tokens please?" he says with a voice that is in complete contrast to the speaker in his mind, which is more brutish and direct, impatient with the platitudes so often conducted by his external counterpart.

The exchange transpires unremarkably. "Have a good evening!" wishes the polite, well-meaning attendant to which he gives the only appropriate response, "Thanks, you too!" with the ever obligate smile that he employs far too often.

He descends further onto the subway platform and boards the train so that he may return home and find reprieve from his fatal companion.

Jupiter & Venus

Jupiter and Venus have been paired together in the sky for the past while. Their light seems to be able to pierce through the early evening sky, a time when the normal stellar background is still muted by the Rayleigh Scattering. Well, anyway, I do gaze at them periodically as I walk home at nights and when my mind starts to wander, I find myself recalling one particular memory from well over a decade.

I'm in gym class and we're all taking turns to go up to the chalk board to write down something we want to do when we're older. For whatever reason, I decided to go up and write down "Go to Jupiter" and I distinctly remember part of the class cheering me on for writing that. Even the teacher smilingly gave me a nod of approval.

Why did I write that? Did I really want to go to Jupiter at the time? To be honest, I can't remember. Even though I did watch a lot of sci-fi back then, I'm pretty sure I had a solid grasp on the implausibilities of traveling to other planets. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, it was most probably metaphorical for not limiting myself, following my dreams, or whatever else that's along those lines.

So here I am, it's been at least 10 years, and I'm currently getting my second degree. Am I en route to Jupiter? As of right now, probably not, if only because I don't know what my Jupiter is. Is that ok? I don't know. But, I'll try to remain true to myself and to be willing to pack my bags and go if and when I do find it.

Meh

-_-

Her words

So I recently asked my friend (though not in a particularly serious manner) why she was so happy. At first I was a little surprised that she would choose to respond seriously, but ultimately I'm glad that she did.

She said, "Oh yes, after all, what's the point in being miserable all the time? I know life isn't always easy. Sometimes you're put in difficult circumstances that you didn't choose. But being happy or unhappy is a choice you make, and I've chosen to make the best of things that I can."

At first I thought she was just trying to be corny but it was quite the opposite! I guess it's a good reminder of the importance of my attitude and how I choose to perceive things.

Thanks, Shahvee, for the words of inspiration.

The Lion, The Paper, and the Inside Reverse Fold

So, six years ago, my aunts got me an origami book and a bunch of origami paper. I think they intended for it to help me develop my patience or something like that. Well, regardless of their intent, I did fold a number of things, with the average quality of the final product varying somewhere between mediocre and pretty bad (though truth be told there were a few that really stood out).

After a year or so, I stopped doing it. Today, however, I decided to try my luck at folding something after a half-decade hiatus. Ultimately, I decided on folding a lion, a strong and confident animal.

It took twenty minutes to finish the first page (out of three and a half) and truth be told, I was starting to get a little frustrated. My folds were not that precise and subsequently the corners of the intermediate product were looking more than a little shoddy. After beholding the glory that was the product of the first page, my heart sank as I realized that all I had made through those 20 minutes of toil was a crane base.

After languishing for a minute or two, I continued, resolved to finish this lion thing. And, for another forty-odd minutes, I folded. Near the end, as I agonized over instructions for the legs (don't even get me started on the stupid mane), I realized that this was not going to end well. But, I finished and so present to you, the final product:

Ugh, definitely not one of my finer works. It actually looks more like a cross between a rhinoceros and a dragon than any lion. I remember now why I stopped doing origami...

Alive

Remember that song "Semi-Charmed Life" by Third Eye Blind, big hit in the 90s (link to jog your memory). What people may not be aware of is that this song is actually about the lead singer's meth addiction. One lyric really stands out to me whenever I listen to this song: "we tripped on the urge to feel alive".

I mean, admittedly, I don't live "out there" much. I go to school, I study, I volunteer here and there, and generally stay in my room. The most exciting part of my routine is listening to new music. Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly fine with that. But that lyric really does speak to a part of me.

What does it really mean to "feel alive"?  Is there something "out there" in this world that would fill those supposedly empty spaces? How do I even begin to explore something like that? Well whatever it is, I think at the very least we can agree that it probably doesn't involve crystal meth. That's a starting point, I guess.

Exhausted

It's been a long week and I'm exhausted. I'm at the library, trying to study for another meaningless assessment but all I want to do is browse around for music. And forget about multi-tasking, I can really only do one thing at once.

Hope those CDs I ordered like 2 weeks ago came today.

Dysfunction

Maybe there are things that are better kept off of the public domain of the internet. I think what used to be this post would be a good example of that. That's why I kept personal entries anyway. That stuff should definitely never see the light of day.

Left Channel, y u no keep working?!

Today marks the fourth time in the past two months that I've encountered a faulty left channel in my audio device. First the one on my Porta-pro headphones gave out, next the replacement headphones just had a defective left channel right out of the box (luckily I was able to return it very easily), then my laptop's audio jack stopped outputting to the left (ok this one was totally my fault), and now my general-not-meant-to-be-used-anyway earphones gave way. Why is it always the left channel?! It's not like I listen harder on that side or something.. Whatever, guess I'm going to go see what's on sale after school today. My wallet will understand >_>.

Arrivals and departures

What was this blog ever for? I mean surely at one point I used this as a form of expression. But why did I initially make this blog? If the first few posts are any indication, I think it had to do with sharing random stuff I found on the Internet (mostly pictures and flash animations). I think the original title of this blog was "the sky is falling", which was a reference to the fable Chicken Licken where the titular character had began spreading the absurd fear of the sky falling after an acorn fell on its head.

Oh, absurdity, now I remember: this was originally meant to be an anti-blog. I guess my anti-institutional sentiment had thought it would be a good satire to open a blog filled with nonsense instead of serious posts. Ironic that it later become a place where I'd express my occasional outrage.

Well anyway, there's a lot less of that nowadays, outrage that is. I'd imagine it's due to a mix between accepting some of the struggles as inevitable and also not taking things too seriously. Oh, and I might've found/figured out a few things along the way.

So now here we are, it's been 6 years since 2005 Aaron started this blog. Does 2011 Aaron have any use for this? Maybe, I still do like expressing myself after all. Meh, whatever. I've no idea. Just keep visiting once in a while, I'll add content once in a while ^_^.

Levamentum Menti

Hello everyone, if you haven't heard already, I've started a new blog where I'll be able to link to interesting music that I come across. I didn't want to use this blog for that since posts here are generally more personal. I noticed that many of the posts I made on Google Plus were musical recommendations, so, after some deliberation, a separate blog seemed more appropriate (this way I can post more frequently and not feel as though I'm spamming my network).

You can find the new blog at http://levamentum-menti.blogspot.com. From the description found there:

Levamentum menti means "comfort for the mind" in Latin. The title stems from how music has been as a source of refuge for me. This blog will be a place where I can post links (generally Youtube embeds) to interesting music. Overall, the genres will revolve around post-rock, shoegaze, and electronica.

Career day at a high school

A high school had a theme day where the students would come dressed up as some career path each person wanted to pursue. Bob walked into the class dishevelled in shorts, sandals, and a plain white T with an obvious ketchup stain on it. As the students sat down, the teacher, clearly noticing the lack of effort by him, spoke up at the front of class and asked, “And what exactly are you, Bob?”

He replied, “I was a mid-level manager at a Fortune 500 company. But unfortunately I was laid off in the recession. Truth be told, I wasn’t really getting anywhere there anyway. Dare I say, getting laid off was more of an opportunity to grow than anything else. So I looked around for work here and there. This wasn’t the end of the world. Far from it, I was going to rise from the ashes and become a better person for it.”

A sudden darkness fell over his face, “But days turned to weeks and weeks into months and I still couldn’t find a job. It seemed no matter how hard I tried, there was never anything I could really close up on. And the time just passed unrelentingly, just like those head-hunters whom I knew could see straight through my fake smile into the depths of my broken spirit. I was desperate and desperate was not a character trait they were looking for. But I kept looking because, well, what else could I do?”

Regaining composure, he continued, “I knew I could last for a while but a while wasn’t supposed to last this long. My unemployment insurance ended a while ago and my savings had evaporated. Soon the bills started piling up and there was nothing I could do. Then one day, they came and took it. They took my car, my house, and my family. Oh my God, Stacy, she took the kids to live with her mother.”

Bob could no longer hold back and burst into tears, his voice was cracking from his tears and was tinged with despair, “Oh my God, my flesh and blood, I haven’t seen them in months. Why did this happen to me? I was a good man, wasn’t I? I went to church and volunteered on the weekends. I was going to send my kids to good schools and they were going to surpass me like I surpassed my own father. Mrs. Harris, I was a man but I am a man no longer.”

With that, Bob rested his head onto his desk. He was both overcome by his shame and was wallowing in the great pit of misery that his life had become, remembering that pleasant life he had left so long ago. A great silence filled the room. It was all an act but even teenagers could appreciate the anguish of a man who had been pushed to the edge, not through his own doing per se.

But Bob looked up and it was as if the entire class was resting on his next words.

“That or I make pizzas.”

Don't do this

Casually waiting. Suddenly, she emerges from the stacks. Truly, I did not expect life to have existed within those sterile aisles. What fantasy. Yet how true is her form as the slivers of sunlight surround her. Our eyes meet but she quickly averts her gaze and she tries to continue in her stride with a feigned innocence. But her intentions are as clear as day to everyone in the room. She marks her objective and it is as if the entire room begins to watch her in an almost ominous anticipation of the next inevitable step. Her demeanour suddenly shifts and that previous facade is dropped as quickly as it had been put on. She moves swiftly with a burning passion in her eyes as she nears her target. All the while, the multitudes of onlookers begin to well up with all manner of emotion and I reluctantly assume the rather unpleasant duty to approach her. I try to move with greater haste than her to make up for her headstart. She notices me and knows her gambit has failed. Perhaps she too had known of the gross implausibility of what she was trying. And so, we finally meet and begin our strange dance.

"Excuse me, Miss. The line-up for the computer starts over there."

Beyond our comfortable castles

Tonight I watched “Call & Response”, a documentary talking about modern day slavery. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t particularly shocked about any of it. I mean after years of being open to exploring social issues like this, you can only have so many instances of profound disturbance at the depravity we glorious humans are capable of. But it was a chilling reminder of the pain (though I’d imagine this word would scarcely begin to encapsulate what they go through) that this causes the people involved. I emphasize people because through all the statistics that we are bombarded with on a regular basis, I don’t want forget that these numbers are indeed people and that these people are suffering.

Someone in the documentary used the term “paralysis of despair”. That feeling of helplessness in the face of that which is not right in the world. It must be a common feeling though. For what exactly can one person do in the midst of all these atrocities being committed worldwide?

Anyway, I was walking home and the idea of dinner came up. But I wasn’t hungry. How could I be hungry after watching something like that? How could I just stuff my face with whatever knowing that such horrors lurk outside my nice insulated shell. But I know that I will eventually eat dinner tonight (probably after typing this, actually). I know that I will continue with my studies, continue with those things that I enjoy oh so much, continue with the multitude of petty activities that make up the days of my life. And not only me but I would also imagine the vast majority of wealthy society would be likely to continue with this status quo.

To be honest, I don’t know what to make of all of this. Suffering seems to be in great abundance on this pale blue dot. Yet, I ask again, what conquest can a single individual hope to achieve against a behemoth such as this? The beatitudes say that “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled”. May that righteousness fill this world and so that we may be saved from ourselves.

Three songs of old

I have a fair bit of music and I've listened to a fair bit of this quite rigorously over the years. For the vast majority of songs, I tend to like them at the beginning and then become largely apathetic to them later on. But, over the years, three songs have yet to lose their appeal. I suppose they do have a special place somewhere within me. In no particular order, they are (with youtube links) Breathe by Moist, Porcelain by Moby, and I Love You Always Forever by Donna Lewis. It's hard to pinpoint exactly why I still appreciate these songs. They're all kinda old (1996-2000), so maybe it has something to do with me hearing them at the right age. Musically, they're all pretty laid back and I suppose that is something I do enjoy in music. But who knows, maybe it's flat-out luck in that I haven't associated any negative memories with them, which for better or for worse happens more often than I would prefer.

The voracious curiosity of a child

A barren planet, vast but empty. The surface littered with massive ocean-sized cavities. Over time, these holes began to be filled by raining waters containing a host of materials. These waters began to affect the barren planet and imparted to it a new atmosphere. And so, within this new atmosphere and those particular waters, developed that which was not imparted from the exterior: entities of connected materials, both larger and more complex than their constituents. And from here, an explosion of life: all manner of permutations and combinations of the building blocks. The world seemed as a frontier of limitless potential.

But, of course, many of these strange new lifeforms were unviable and so did many disappear as quickly as they had come into being. But certain ones of a certain stamp were able to resist the test of time and so they began to flourish and dominate over all of the world, both over the lands and within the waters. After a while, along with the rains which had continued to fill the ever-growing chasms since the beginning, these new ones began to slowly alter the very world from whence they originated. They changed the world to suit its needs and, indeed, the world was satisfied to have an order, however arbitrary, to be brought upon it, for this was something that had never been done before.

Alas, such change did not go unnoticed. With the shifting conditions and the ever-torrential rains, newer permutations and combinations now found themselves possible. Soon, new conquerors came from beyond the horizon and usurped the world’s throne from the older generation, which now had become mere shadows of their former glory. And so a seemingly inexorable cycle had begun: one of development, alteration, and inevitable collapse.

All the while, the world watched itself be changed by its inhabitants. Truthfully, it accepted its transient nature. In the back of its consciousness, however, it knew that someday in, perhaps, the not-so-distant future it would stop the rains from coming and, thus, stop the world from changing. But for now, the world rested upon itself contentedly and waited for that pending moment.

Not much going on

Not much going on. Just kinda.. doing the school thing, as usual. Honestly, the program has been less than stellar. I ended up typing a rant about the program which ended up being around a thousand words. Those thoughts've been floating around for a while but I guess I just never took the time to put it down on paper. The shock, the mourning, the anger, I think they've all mostly subsided. There is now only an unenthusiastic acceptance. How anticlimactic, as usual.

On another note, I've found some really cool music in the past month (thank you redditunes). I mostly listen to their indie and electronica sections. Anyway, here are a few good ones.

• Ghosts N Stuff by Deadmau5 (electronica; not the version with the rapper)
• Roman History by Pet Lions (indie)
• The World Is Our _____ by This Will Destroy You (post-rock; I tried playing this on the electric and the melodies are surprisingly simple; the song must be really well arranged or something)
• White Winter Hymnal by Fleet Foxes (folk)
• Murray by Pete Yorn (some sort of rock; wasn't on youtube)
• Bleeding Heart Show by The New Pornographers (indie)
• I Remember by Deadmau5 and Kaskade (electronica; check out the extended version if you like this)