3/30/2009

25 Things

1. I like to walk around my apartment in complete darkness.

2. Every time I see myself in a mirror I make a habit of saying, "hi there!" - which always makes me laugh.

3. I can't fall asleep without some form of a cover.

4. I'm the only person I know who doesn't own a cell phone.

5. My favorite thing to write with is a standard wooden #2 pencil.

6. When I was younger - when I found someone I was attracted to, I would always join their first name with my last name to see if they sounded good together.

7. In one of my biology classes in High School, my instructor passed around a taste test for everyone in the class to sample. We were discussing genetics and the test was to illustrate the presence of dominant and recessive genes. My instructor explained that there should be at least one or two people in the class who wouldn't be able to taste the sample - they would be the ones with the recessive gene. After putting the sample in my mouth, I didn't taste a thing. When the instructor asked the people in the class with the recessive gene to raise their hands, I kept both of mine on my desk, tightly clasped.

8. I still own my R.O.P.E. shirt which I got in elementary school - which I wear to sleep every other night.

9. My favorite color is yellow, and I have no idea why.

10. I simultaneously hate being alone and in the presence of most people.

11. My favorite childhood pastimes involved the original Nintendo - playing Tetris with my mother and Baseball with my father.

12. I once cried in class because I didn't get student of the month.

13. I remember the first and only love letter I wrote. I spent an entire day on it - of course considering I was only ten years old, that was a long time to ponder anything. I worried about it so much, I even asked my mother for advice. I wrote in the letter to this girl that I would change for her. My mother told me to take that part out - and I said I would, but I didn't. The next day in school I was too nervous to hand deliver the letter, so I asked my best friend at the time to do it for me. He said he would do it, so I gave him the letter. We decided the best time to give it to her was just before recess. So when the time came, I left my friend and went to hide on the side of the building while the rest of the kids had fun. I met up with him afterwards and he said he delivered it. But I never heard back from her. She never even looked at me. I spent the rest of that school year feeling like I didn't exist in the eyes of my peers. Like I didn't matter. Thinking about it now, I'm wondering if my friend actually lied about delivering the letter.

14. I've never been really sick.

15. I sometimes lose track of what someone is saying while figuring out why they're saying it.

16. If I ever feel the need or want to raise a child, I will most likely adopt. The film Martian Child gave me the idea.

17. Some of my most intimate conversations have been with people I have never met.

18. I used to hate wearing jeans. Almost every day it seemed I would fight with my mother as she forced them on me. Stiff and uncomfortable against my skin, my whole day would be absolutely miserable.

19. I never understood the saying, "I could care less". I always say, I couldn't care less.

20. I almost crashed my car once because of an epiphany that popped into my head.

21. Some of the best feelings in my life have occurred during night-time summer jogs across town.

22. I take my time to appreciate almost anything I encounter. Say I only need milk and eggs from the grocery store, I'll walk down every single isle just for the sake of doing so.

23. I was born in North Carolina on the 23th of January, and my parents named me Jordan, Michael(middle name) without any knowledge at all of the famous Michael Jordan who went to college in NC, whose jersey number is 23.

24. I taught myself how to juggle in one day.

25. Every day I try to do something slightly different than the previous day. Instead of brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I'll brush them on my couch. Instead of eating dinner on my kitchen table, I'll eat at my desk. Instead of trying to write these entries sober, I'll try doing them drunk. Meanwhile, all day I'll throw around 'what ifs' in my head... what if I was blind.....what if I was an orphan....what if, what if, what if, what if, what if tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of my life, and I have found reason to live on.

3/27/2009

My Haven

{ I remember the first time I stepped foot in a library. It was during a school day in my third year of grammar school. I'm not exactly sure of the reason for the trip, but I know it was a field trip; all of my classmates were there. I think perhaps it was required for all third year students, just to get us acquainted with the concept of a library. I wonder if they still do it; I'm assuming it was a town tradition. Whatever the reason, I am very thankful. I might not of otherwise discovered such a beautiful and serene place. I had never seen so many books in one area before. While the rest of the students clumped together in their separate niches that would continue to grow and evolve all throughout grammar school and beyond, I broke away from the stares of my peers and ventured off along the walls, scanning the titles of the books I could see. After circling the entire room, I discovered a staircase that led upstairs to yet another huge room lined with books. I grabbed a text off the shelf about icebergs, sat down in corner of the room and began reading.

Ever since then, like a magnet-like attractiveness I would find my way back. Every day after school. Every day after work. All day long for fifty years I would long for the silence, the peacefulness of this sanctuary. I could have read a book out of the library, and I have once or twice, but it's never the same. I could go anywhere in the world, but there's no place I'd rather be. Every time I walk through the doors, it's like walking through a sieve; all of the chaos and the noise is stripped from my skin. Finally, I am completely at ease. I did have a library card and I would check books out, but I would only read them where they belonged. Every day I would exchange brief salutations with the librarians as I made my way up to the second floor, across the isle, and behind a bookcase to a cushioned chair in the left-hand corner of the room.

This was my home. And the books were my family. It would always give me something the outside world could never hope to give me. Did I know this for certain? No. But I didn't want to waste my life looking. I did my fair share of traveling; but no matter where I went, it was all essentially the same. Slight differences in temperature, dialect, language, governments, belief-systems, culture - interesting for a brief time I suppose, but then the mundane and repetitiveness sets in and you're left with a million words trying to describe one idea. I would find myself desperately asking around town for the whereabouts of the local library. In the end, that was the only reason I traveled at all. I'm glad I did though because I found my favorite library in the world. I would move there shortly after.

I had a few friends growing up and I suppose a few close acquaintances during my professional career, but there wasn't anyone I was particularly attached to. They would often tell me to go out and meet people, to try my hand at a social life. I tried, I really did. This may sound strange, but no matter who I was in the presence of, I always felt like I was being suffocated. All of these eyes on me, judging me, expecting something from me, wanting something. Maybe I'm just inherently and irrevocably selfish, but I always hated the idea of giving something up and not knowing for sure if it would be returned in full. I have often been disappointed in the passed and ever since I've kept myself at a safe distance.

I do get lonely, which I think is a big reason I like the library so much - you are never alone. You are constantly in the presence of like-minded people; you exist together, doing what you love, expecting nothing but peace and quiet from each other - that alone is enough for me. I'm a simple man. I don't need much. The thousands of stories I've read act as an all-encompassing placebo to my needs. My dreams and aspirations are satisfied completely - until one day.

It was a day like any other, it just happened to be Spring on a Saturday afternoon and the sun was shining slightly through the window to my left, filtering through the bookcases and cutting across my lap. I was finishing the last chapter of my book when I noticed one of the librarians, an older woman by the name of Elena making her way down the isle towards me. I had never really noticed before, but she was incredibly beautiful. She had a book in her left hand and with her right, she curled her bangs almost nervously around her ear as she looked at the floor in front of her as she walked. A few feet in front of me, she looked up and our eyes met. Neither of us said anything for at least ten seconds, or so it seemed. She took her hand down from her hair and placed it on the book which she held down in front of her.

"I'm sorry to disturb you like this, but I was wondering if you would be interested in this book. I don't mean to intrude on your privacy, but I have noticed over the months the kinds of novels you've been reading and I'm quite delighted to say that many of them are among my favorites. I really think you would enjoy this one." I've never heard her speak with such an anxious and enthusiastic tone before. I couldn't help but blush, something I haven't done in a long time. The sun was slightly in her eyes, so she probably couldn't tell. I stood up almost immediately and gently grasped the book from her outstretched hands.

"Thank you, I was looking for something to read next", was all I could come up with. Our eyes remained locked for the next several moments, until she broke the silence with a slight shake of her head. "Well, I better get back to work. When you're ready, I'd be happy to check you out." She left me with a smile and walked back to her desk. I stood there for a few minutes not realizing how much time had passed, almost unconsciously basking in the sunlight holding the book tight against my chest. I sat down and finished the last few pages of the other book and quickly made my way over to the check out desk. Elena was busy helping someone use the library index, and not wanting to bother her, I checked out with one of the other employees.

I rushed home and started on the book straight away. Stopping only to eat and use the bathroom, I would finish it later that night. After thinking about it for a bit, it was the first book I've read from start to finish outside of the library. Something took a hold of me. I no longer had that strong sense of uneasiness that plagued me for so many years. The chaos and ugliness may have still been there, but it no longer passed through my field of vision. I had one thing on my mind, and that was the fact that I couldn't wait to share my thoughts with another person.} - a short story

- Inspired by the film: Love Comes Lately

3/21/2009

Change

{ I could see it coming. I didn't want to believe it, but my subconscious could no longer maintain the illusion. After ten years, you really know someone. The way she smiled. The way she kissed me. None of it was the same anymore. She wasn't cheating on me; she's not that kind of person. Day to day though I could feel her slipping away. She no longer felt for me the way I still felt for her. It's not her fault though, nor is it mine. Emotion is purely reactive and is not something we can control despite our inherent free will.

A few months after we started dating, while neither of us believed in the idea of marriage, we came to a consensus that we would stick together no matter what. We often discussed the idea that somewhere in the world there would always exist someone else who we found more attractive than one another. Removing ourselves from that never ending and fruitless search, we maintained a fiction that we were each others soul-mates. We would support each other, love each other, grow old together, and change together. We even talked about adopting a child once.

And then it all came to a halt. I knew it the morning she left for work. Not wanting to accidentally wake me up, she would normally leave the bedroom door slightly ajar; that day I woke up and the door was tightly shut. We discussed the situation logically over dinner that evening, and she moved out the following day. And I was alone, repeating to myself one of the last things she said to me, "I still love you, but I've changed". I had no choice but to change as well. } - A short fiction

3/18/2009

Performance-Based Relationships

A few months ago I happen to catch a segment of a Dr. Phil show on game addictions. Being an avid gamer myself in the past, despite my contempt for the host, I took an interest in what they were saying. He's not really a doctor, so I'm going to be calling him Phil from now on. Anyway, at the moment I started watching, they were talking to a man in his late twenties, early thirties about an online game he played and the friendships he formed. Phil asked him what sort of character he played and the man replied with, "an elemental shaman". Phil laughed at him as if he were a child and proceeded to ask him why he enjoyed playing the game so much. He went on to say that it was a hobby like any other. He enjoyed the experience of playing in an alternate world and the mechanics of the game-play, along with the interactions with hundreds of others and the friends he acquired. Phil then asked him, "You actually have friends in the game you play?". He said yes and that they interact almost everyday, even sometimes outside of the game, and that he actually met a few of them in real life. Phil and his side-kick expert for the day took over from there. They argued that the friends he acquired in the game-world weren't real friends because their friendship is performance-based. They were only friends with him because they wanted something. This is where I started feeling for the guy. Phil then started spewing out pseudo-facts about how detrimental game addictions are and that they were offering to provide him 'professional' service to help him get rid of his vice.

In his situation, he planned his entire life around the game and while he still maintained a job, he slightly neglected his family and his girlfriend. I will agree that game addictions can be detrimental to a person's overall well-being, but it is no different than any other addiction or hobby for that matter; you can learn to control and balance it. My biggest problem with Phil is his assertion that the man's online friends weren't real. I'm going to take a wild guess here and assume that the all-knowing "Dr." Phil has never played a video game in his life, much less a massive-multiplayer online role-playing game(MMORPG).

I have no problem admitting that I played the ever popular World of Warcraft for about a year straight. I was pretty heavily into it. (If you'd rather skip the geek-talk, feel free to skip this entire paragraph) I leveled four of my characters to level 70: a gnome mage, night-elf hunter, human warlock, and a draenei paladin. During the Burning Crusade, my mage was my main(character). I don't care what anyone says, I'd pwn a warlock any day on the damage meters - especially after the tier 5 bonus with the arcane spec - although I admit I was horrible at pvp. Anyway, I joined up with a mature guild named FortyTwo on the realm Whisperwind. It was a raiding guild and we were able to progress half-way into tier 6 content before Wrath of the Lich King was released. For those of you who are trying to follow this paragraph, 'raiding' is an event in which 25 people get together at once and try to overcome an obstacle known as a dungeon that requires alot of communication and coordination on everyone's part. The encounters I am most proud of are when we were able to defeat Lady Vashj and Prince Kael'thas, along with our ability to achieve the Zul'aman timed event which awarded a Bear Mount which less than 10% of the total people who play the game are able to get. I don't mean to brag by any means, but rather outline the difficultly that went into the achievement.

Here's my bear!


Vashj by FortyTwo of Whisperwind

That's me up front doing a little dance for the camera.

Prince Kael'Thas by FortyTwo of Whisperwind

I'm on the far left. Aren't I a little cutie?

Watch this video to get an idea of the complexity of such an encounter. Also, imagine twenty-five people talking to each other through microphones while all this is going on. As a gamer, this is my attempt to defend our intelligence and to break down any stereotypes that these types of games make people's brains go to mush.


People play these games for different reasons. I played it for the challenge. The satisfaction I got from achieving something with twenty-four others after hours of practice was immeasurable. After playing the game for so long, the more I realized how similar it was to real-life. It had it's own economy, competition, controversy, and groups of people who got together to achieve a similar goal. The people I played with had lives of their own. They have jobs, families, and significant others. It's interesting to notice thought that most of the people in my guild played with their significant others, which is perhaps the reason why the game didn't get in the way of their real life. I admire these people because of their ability to balance the game with the real world. Often after the 'raid', people would just talk.... about the economy, about life, about relationships. If that's not a friend, then what is? I have since stopped playing the game, but I'm still in contact with a few of the people I played with. Above all, for me, it was a distraction. When something acts as a distraction, it becomes dangerous. It was just something I was doing while trying to find my true passion. After I found it, I was able to let the game go. I did enjoy the experience though and there might be a day I'll return, but when and if I do, it will not be my first priority like it once was.

Phil's argument was that online friends aren't real because they are performance-based. I can see where he is coming from with this argument, but I don't agree. Much of the game takes quite a bit of skill, and often when groups are forming, the best players are picked first. My guild's raids for example....only twenty-five people can go, while there are more than that who want to go. Depending on the maturity of the people you group with, it is possible for someone who pretends to be your friend in attempt to get you to help them out with something. This is where the false friendship comes into play. I would say that the average adult can probably see through this front, which is part of the reason I disagree with Phil. Contrary to popular belief, most of people's play time is spent socializing; it's in these times that most of the real friendships are formed.

I'm also going to argue that all friendships, and even most relationships in general are performance-based. According to Phil, true friends are the product of unrequited friendship. With this mode of thinking, a friendship with a rock could exist. Before I go any further I want to give my own definition of friendship. Friendship to me, is a bond that exists between two parties which requires reciprocation on both ends. When searching for a friend or a lover, you look for someone you can connect with. In order for this connection to be made, participation is required from each person. Phil says that online friends aren't real because they only want something from you. How is this different in real life? I'd argue that all friendships and most relationships exist because of a constant exchange of goods and services. The main difference between a friend and an acquaintance is the frequency and importance of these goods and services that are exchanged. The ability to exchange these things whether it be advice, a sentiment, or a shoulder to cry on is in essence a performance. The better performance, the better the friend is.

Textograph time! The Xs are the exchange of goods and services. You can imagine what the Os are.

Acquaintance -------------------------------Friend---------Lover
x x x x x x x x x xx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxoxoxooXOXOXO

It is my opinion that unrequited love exists largely among immediate family, more often from parent to child. We all have some level of unrequited compassion within us, but friendship does not require it. While it is possible to have unrequited love or compassion for someone else, this does not necessarily require any form of relationship. While unrequited, compassion is just another good or service that may or may not spark a relationship. It is a theory of mine though that compassion grows with connection. While it may not start the relationship, it will keep it going.

And as Forest Gump said after his audience had absolutely no idea what he was talking about previously, "that's all I have to say about that".

P.S. - Go Alliance!

3/16/2009

Chance

{ Through the fog of his breath, he spins his key chain clockwise like he always does to find the correct key to open his apartment door. There are two similar keys for different locks located right next to each other and after a two years, he never knew which one was which. Every night coming home, he would blindly choose one of them and try his luck. He could have easily separated them or put an identification marker on one, but he was comfortable with the idea that he would never know for sure which one to choose and that he would forever need to take a chance. Being as bitterly cold as it was tonight, he regretted slightly this silly commitment, but he figured the comfort he would feel as he entered his home would be that much more worth it.

Kicking his shoes off next to the door and sliding his jacket off and onto the back of the a chair in his kitchen, his body slowly adjusted to the change in temperature while his face emitted the slightest smirk. He proceeded to squeeze his wallet out of his front-right pocket and unclip the carabiner that allowed his keys to hang freely in his left-side pocket and plopped both on the top of his microwave. He made his way over to the stereo in the living room to put some on music to listen to while he cooked dinner. Wincing the Night Away by The Shins was already in the disc tray from the previous night and he was in a similar mood, so all he had to do was press play. In a very low tone, 'New Slang' began filling the apartment with sound, and feeling.

After scanning all the cabinets and rummaging through the fridge, he finally decided on his favorite dish, caramelized onions served over slices of slightly fried tofu and asparagus. Plucking the ingredients out of different levels of the fridge one by one and balancing everything in his arms, he heard a thump in the adjacent room and stood up straight with a start, sending an onion through the air and into the living room. A second later his roommate came trotting out of the other room, looked down at the onion for a second, and walked straight to the couch in the living room and curled up on the corner cushion. "Thanks for picking that onion up, I appreciate it. I thought you were out...what have you been up to all day?" - no response. "You know, sometimes I feel like I'm talking to the wall."

He turned the lower-left burner on high and let it heat up while he cut the onions into strips. "I hope these don't make you cry. I'm not sure why, but I think I've become so used to the fumes, they don't bother me anymore. I could hold my eye-lids wide open, jump into a pool of peeled onions and not a single tear would fall. I think maybe the tears are converted at a constant rate and transferred to my salivary glands and released that way". His roommate looked over at him for a second perhaps to show the was listening and shortly after turned back to his previous direction and placed his head in his arms. "I really wish the reverse was possible, I'm a little tired of constantly washing all of these sheets and pillow cases due to your night-time drooling problem."

He drizzled a pan with some olive oil, threw the onions in, and placed it over the burner. He fetched a spatula from the utensils drawer and used it to move the onions around as they browned. "So what's wrong, you haven't said a thing since I got home. You know, you can talk to me. I know I might not always have the right thing to say, but at least you can get some things off your chest." - no response "I tell you what, I'm going to guess what you're thinking, and by not responding, I'll assume that I'm right and continue".

The onions continued to caramelize and the sweet odor filled the air. "Wow, that smells amazing.... don't you think? I'm crying so hard, you can't even see it." ...."Ok, here goes. Feel free to jump in at any time. You're wondering how I come home happy every day. You think that you're the only one in the world who is constantly worrying about how you appear to other people, and that maybe..... just maybe you could have done something different to better represent yourself. You think that you're so bad at communicating, no one understands you, that there's no hope for improvement, and that you're better off just not trying at all."

Moving the onions over the a corner of a pan, he made room for the slices of asparagus and tofu. "I can tell you for a fact that you are not alone. It is constantly on my mind. You cannot let this bother you though. You have to come to terms with the communication gap that will always exist between people. What you mustn't be concerned with is how people perceive you, but instead your ability...... and yes everyone has this ability to improve your own image and the way you display yourself. Imagine fishing for example..... because I know you love fish. The hook is what makes you, you.... and the bait is your will to communicate. Improve the bait, and someone will bite. Sharpen the hook, and the odds you will connect skyrocket.

Using the spatula, he flips both the tofu and asparagus to let their reverse sides brown a bit. "What you also must realize is that chance is a huge part of life, it's something you can't help. Patience and persistence will be your greatest tools. And while you're waiting for someone to bite, you can find comfort in the waves and constant ripples in the water in which you are wading, for you are connected nonetheless." He fetches a plate from the left most cabinet and places it on the counter. After turning the burner off, he uses the spatula to scrape the contents of the pan onto his plate and places the empty pan in the sink. He pours himself a glass of red wine and brings his food into the living room and places it on the coffee table.

"I hope you ate already, I feel really bad eating in front of you like this.....even though I know you hate vegetables. I'm glad we had this talk, I feel a lot better." He used his right hand to eat and his left to rub his best friend's neck. "You understand me don't you boy?" He continued to enjoy his dinner with the soft tones of The Shins and the calming purrs of his cat. } - A short fiction

3/13/2009

Ink

{ Crossing his legs on the corner of a bench in his favorite park about a block from his apartment, he propped his notebook up against his knee and proceeded to jot down his feelings for the day. Looking up only a few times to make sense of his thoughts by gazing into mesh of colors that made up the tie-dyed horizon, he maintained a steady conversion of memories to ink until the surface of the paper reflected exactly what existed in his mind. With each new sentence, a new smirk emerged on his face as he the relationship he had with himself continued to evolve.

Meanwhile the earth continued to revolve, revealing less and less of the sunlight that allowed this boy to make the most important connections of his life. With the wind picking up slightly along with a drop in temperature as the sun left the sky, he scribbled his last words for the day. He slipped the pen in his right-hand pocket and after closing his notebook, he placed it at the very edge of bench to his left. Being in a relatively good mood without having to be anywhere else, he figured he'd enjoy the peacefulness of the area until the moon came out. He knew it wasn't yet in the first quarter, so he wouldn't have to wait long. He pivoted his body clockwise, lifted his feet up onto the bench, laid back, and folded his arms on his chest as he gazed East into the sky where the moon would soon become visible.

As it became dark enough, the lights throughout the park started to flicker on, one by one. There was a light at every bench, separated by about forty yards along the sidewalk which cut through the center of the park. It was a different place at night. Simultaneously quaint and mysterious, he felt as if the park encompassed the personality of something or someone he longed for. If he just waited there long enough, he would be able to communicate with the night, bridging the gap from the previous day in which he discovered himself. He closed his eyes for a brief moment in an honest attempt.

A shriek of wind stirred at the very end of the walkway and he sat up with a start. A chill shot up his spine when it happened again. He stared down the sidewalk to the last light he could see. Each burst of wind became increasingly louder, sounding more similar to screams as their intensity grew. All of a sudden, as if contained within a funnel from where the sound emitted from, a gust of wind spiraled his way, knocking his notebook to the ground. The pages flipped and eventually landed on the entry he had just finished writing. While pondering this for a second, he heard a light bulb burst in the distance. After a second, another one broke. Like a row of firecrackers, the lights exploded in quick succession toward him, adding a new layer of darkness to the night.

It all happened so fast he didn't have time to react. Like a deer in the headlights, he had no choice but to stand there and watch fate unfolded in front of him. He glanced down at his notebook and read the last seven words of his entry, "my imagination will never cease to exist". And just like that, there was silence. He looked up and witnessed a vast tidal wave of darkness that stretched to the edge of the park down to the last line of his journal entry. He took his pen out of his right pocket, unscrewed the top, and held it out in front of him. The ink condensed and made its way back to where it belonged, revealing the sidewalk and the lights that illuminated it.

Opening his eyes, he didn't see the moon to the East where he was facing, but to the West. It was smiling at him, and he was smiling back. } - A short story by Jordan

3/11/2009

Birds Eye View

As discovered from Timothy "Speed" Levitch in one of my favorites films Waking Life, Thomas Mann admitted that he would rather participate in life than write 100 stories. As a writer this must have meant that while he was writing his stories, he would have preferred to be somewhere else. To me, this could have been for two possible reasons. One, a physical problem: he was in a situation where he couldn't actually participate. Maybe he was stuck in the hospital or his wife was away. Two, a mental problem: perhaps even though he said he would rather participate, his personality prevents him from doing so. Either he prefers to just watch as the world goes by from a birds eye view, or he sees things that are unfolding in front of him that he would rather now be involved in. I consider the latter to be a possibility because some folks wish that they were ignorant so that they could be happy. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss.

In a sense, what Mann is saying is that he would rather live a fully content day-to-day life instead of writing at all. Being a Wistful Author, he writes about things that bother him. If nothing bothered him, he might abstain from writing altogether. You start thinking about people's ratios of participation and observation. What Mann is describing is 100% participation. While this is not possible due to human's ability to think and find faults, it would probably be everyone's preference; it would be equivalent to pure bliss. Imagine a love-long orgasm, a permanent lovers embrace, or a constant state of the 'holy moment' acted out in the film.

Timothy goes on to say that 'an assumption develops' that you cannot live and understand life simultaneously. In my opinion some folks spend an excess amount of time trying to understand this absurd life. Well-known authors such as Friedrich Nietzsche and possibly David Wallace ended their own lives because they thought too much, to the point of madness. I'm making a huge assumption here, but bare with me while I attempt to make a point. Being very intelligent and logical, their happiness came from understanding. In their tireless quest to understand, the life in which they knew became meaningless to the point of not worth living. In a depressing sort of way, their suicides proved this assumption right.

Adding his own belief, Timothy says that 'life understood is life lived'. I don't agree entirely. One of the biggest reasons is that I don't believe it is possible for humans to fully understand life. But at the same time like Nietzsche, I cannot stop trying to figure it out; it's in my nature and is what I get most of my fulfillment from. I would tweak the quote a bit by saying that even though it may be impossible to understand life completely, the quality of life depends entirely on the undertaking. Depending wholly on the person and their need to understand, failing in that attempt will prove to be an empty life. With the realization though that you can never hope to understand life to any final degree, you can learn to balance your evolving comprehension with the rest of your human instincts. With this in mind, you can avoid the fate of some of the greatest thinkers in history.

3/10/2009

Holding Hands: A Short Fiction

{ "Have fun tonight sweetie, make some friends!", his mother said as he stepped out of the car. With a bland smirk he glanced at her and said, "I'll try, mom". He gently closed the door and made his way over the side entrance of the church. The other kids were doing the same, but they were running. When he got to the door, he looked back and waved as his mother drove away. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and entered the last place he'd prefer to be on a beautiful Sunday evening.

Through the first door way with his hands in his pockets, he strolled over to the meeting room where everyone was. Amongst the chatter, he squeezed through the crowd and sat down on one of the benches. After about five minutes, one of the grown ups in charge walked to the center of the room and starting calling out names by age, and sorted the children into groups of ten or so with an appointed instructor. Hearing his name, he quickly popped off the bench and shuffled over to his group. Two boys in front of him where whispering to each other. A moment later one of them sneaked up behind a girl in front of the group, knelt down and peaked up her skirt. Not wanting to be caught, he moved fast and got back to his friend as soon as he could. Having slightly too much momentum, he could not stop himself soon enough before bumping into the boy who caught him in the act. "Hey man, sorry about that. What's your name? I'm Mark". Red in the face, he gulped hard and replied hesitantly."My name is Alex, nice to meet you".

All the groups were sorted by now, so each instructor lead each of them into the nearest hallway, further into the building to their designated classrooms. Holding his right hand out, he felt the studded paneling as he walked and noticed the many photographs equally spaced out on the wall. Each one was of an elderly man dressed up in white Alex assumed were past Priests and Bishops of the church. Less than half of them were smiling.

Walking in the back of the group, he had the last choice of a seat when they entered the room. Luckily there was a seat open to the right of Mark. The room was very small, white, and confining with a circular table in the middle. There was one window, but the blinds were closed. Up on the walls there were pictures of nature with passages from the bible written on them as well as a calender of various church-related events.

After taking attendance and introducing herself, the instructor stood up and said, "Let us begin with a prayer". She held out her arms and instructed everyone to hold hands. Alex took hers in right hand and Mark's in his left. "Since this is our first day, it's OK if you don't know the words; but I expect all of you learn them for next week". Alex knew the words, but pretended he didn't. The prayer started and everyone stared down at the table as they spoke in a monotone. Alex did the same but he kept glancing up around the room in a counter-clockwise motion to see if anyone else remained silent. To his surprise, everyone was speaking. He turned his head slightly to the left at Mark and his eyes slowly traveled from his eyes, shoulder, arm, and finally to his side where their hands were clasped together.

He felt completely at ease. All his nervousness and tension leading up to this point had suddenly disappeared. He was in another world. The walls of the room floated away revealing the beautiful autumn sky. The table was no longer there and all was serene. There were trees around them and grass at their feet. Hands together, the two of them floated there together as if nothing else mattered in the world. His vision not budging from the connection they made, he expressed a melancholic smile and his tear ducts began to swell.

"Let go of my hand fag!". The whole class burst out in laughter. Coming to, Alex quickly released his grip from Mark's hand. Eyes wide, breathing fast, he sat down with a thump, moved his chair over the right a little, stared down at the white table and let out a weak, "I'm sorry". The instructor looked at Alex oddly for a few seconds, and then as if nothing had happened, continued the class. Alex spent the next forty minutes pretending he didn't exist.

On the way home, he tried his best to look as cheerful as possible. Alex loved his mother very much and he knew she had high hopes for him. "How was your first day honey?" "Oh, it was OK" "Did you meet any new friends?" "Yeah, a few" "You know, I still remember my first day. I was very shy like you are; I was a nervous wreck. It might sound silly, but as soon as we all held hands for our first prayer, I felt like I fit in. After that, I was fine. Do they still do that?" "Yes, they do."

Alone in is bed later that night, he was finally able to let go. Soaking his pillow with a steady and silent flow of tears, he was able to drift away to a place where he felt most comfortable. } - A short story by the Blog creator

3/09/2009

Walking Cliches

Have you ever imagined yourself as nothing more than a blip on a radar screen, drifting to-and-fro among millions of others? Perhaps as a flower in a field of daisies as they sway back and forth together as the wind blows, or a random color in a box of crayons? Are we content with the idea that we are just like everyone else? I'm guessing the general answer would probably be no. What it seems like is that most folks make every effort possible to be different. Makes you wonder why.

Many of us are raised with the idea that we are special and unique, and that there's one thing we can do better than anyone else. To me, this simply is not true. But I would imagine that it is this teaching that promotes growth in many people and leads them to successful careers. It urges us to find this one thing that is special about us, to find a direction, and to feel like an individual. While this may not be the only factor that contributes to how we live ours lives, it certainly has a large effect.

I think that most people hate the idea of being slaves to their genes. Our bodies are just a robotic shell, whose actions are dictated by our DNA and the endless instructions carried out by the brain. From a scientific standpoint, humans are 99.9% alike. That last 0.1% refers to an ever so slight difference in a section of double helix, which contributes to our slight difference of appearance and personality. In a sense, this difference is what makes us unique from each other. Even though this difference isn't really very significant, our strong urge to be different actually contributes to many benefits including variety, which generally give more options, and as a result makes the human race more prosperous.

As well as our strong desire to feel like a separate and unique entity, our competitive society also forces us to live and act beyond our normal persona. While I'd like to think that this superficial obligation only exists in a business environment, I think maybe it also has quite a large role in our personal lives. In order to be noticed, you must take special measures; whether it be for a potential job or a mate. It may even be that by doing this, we've conditioned our brains to act this way automatically without actually being aware of it. I've always felt comfortable with the idea though that we are constantly aware of acting outside of who we are.

For the longest time, I tried very hard to not fall into the category of any cliche. Along with my personal need to feel different, I always took anything that was considered 'normal' with a grain of salt. While it may be a bit depressing at first, I've realized that I am just like everyone else; and the more I try to be different, the more I am cheating myself. I am slowly learning to embrace my subtle differences, and while doing this may disallow me to obtain some of things I long for, nothing is worth being fake.

3/08/2009

The Art of Fiction

{ Swinging his arms with the natural movement of his body; putting one foot in front of that other as if each step would add another day to his life, he continued his steady jog down the sidewalk on main street towards the bridge that leads into the city. With his eyes transfixed on the lights of the sun as they bounced off he moon and streamed their way through the earth's atmosphere to illuminate his path, he trudged on through the night's cool air.

Navigating himself across the street before the bridge and through the enclosed entrance, he continued on to the separated walk area on the left side. Having a slight incline, he strained a bit to keep up his pace, but tried his best to ignore the pain as he approached the plateau. Having no real destination, he used the moon as his compass and continued to make his way across this man-made structure with a spherical glow in his sights.

He chose the left side so that he could see the oncoming traffic. While there was a divider, it was only waste-high and he felt more secure knowing what was coming. Deep in his thoughts though, who knows if anything could have caused him to break out of his trance. Shuffling through the chaotic memories, one in particular he concentrated on for five, six, seven steps, and like a light beam had burned right through the back of eye and continued to pass through his brain and out of the back of his head and down to the earth, anchoring him to the ground, everything became still.

A moment later, what seemed like an eternity to him, the beam shattered and his head reverberated, producing a mind-numbing ring. He mistook it for a horn, and not seeing anything in front him he whipped his head around his shoulder. Such a sudden movement threw him off balance and as he tried to turn straight ahead, he tripped over his own feet causing his body to be thrown right into the divider. Being exceptionally agile, while his feet were all tangled, he was able to catch himself somewhat without actually topping over into the road. Slouching over the cement wedge staring at the ground, he heard the distinct sound of a car horn. Looking to where the sound was coming from, his left, two miniature moons were coming his way, and fast. Pushing off as hard as he could, he launched himself backward onto the sidewalk, landing first on his ass and having no choice but to stabilize himself with his elbows.

Not wanting to think about the pain, he lay down and looked up at what comforted him the most, the night sky. Two tears streaming down the sides of his face, the moon was now oblong and he found this strangely comforting. Embracing himself and closing his eyes, he continue to lay there as a part of the bridge. As cars traversed the bridge, it would shake, and with his hands on his chest, he would match the rumbles to the beats of his heart.

After a while, he glanced to the right to see that there was a small opening to allow water to pass through at the bottom of the divider to his right. He watched several cars pass, although all he could see were the tires and bottom portion of the frame. From his sideways perspective, three cars traveled North and four cars traveled South. Looking down the sidewalk itself, he saw an army of ants marching North, with huge amounts of dirt on their back. Just the fact that he witnessed more cars traveling in the opposite direction of the ants made him smile. He would finish his run while clinging on to this very thought. } - A short story

3/06/2009

Fluid Emotion

Imagine a big bowl of liquid happiness. You can't simply use your hand and scoop it out as you please, but instead you must use two fingers and pinch together as much as you can before it evaporates. Slowly I'm coming to the realization that happiness and fulfillment are extremely temporary and fleeting. You don't simply find it; you must constantly work to hold onto it. You often see in the movies someone who becomes happy and blurts out something along the lines of, "I'm so happy, I could die right now". This might lead you to believe that once you achieve it, you won't ever lose it. This might be why I have trouble with Buddhism and the "enlightenment" process. Like most of my posts, I have done no research prior to writing them. I am under the assumption that once you become enlightened, you are indefinitely fulfilled. It all seems like a final destination, and of course I have huge issues with anything that's considered to be final.

A friend was once described to me as never being happy. This didn't strike me as being odd, because, well, who is every really happy? I suppose maybe this person has higher standards than most people, and so it is that much harder for them to find whatever it is they want. The point I want to get across though is that happiness isn't constant and only occurs in short bursts. So in a sense, we are all essentially wistful by nature. While it is possible to come to a point in your life where happiness occurs more often, it's virtually impossible for it to be constant.

When thinking about the millions of connections that are made in the brain every second, it's hard to believe all of them would contain thoughts of happiness. Longing for example is something most experience every single day. It's quite unavoidable and is just one instance that detracts from our happiness. We all yearn for something, and have incessant needs that do not dissipate over time. We all changed psychologically over time as well and those needs change.

Much like plucking a fly out of the air with a pair of tweezers, we have to learn how to obtain what we want and maintain a strict effort to make it last. I might sound like I'm contradicting my earlier post about free will and determinism if I say it's completely up to us and our efforts to obtain happiness, so I will say this: Human are whimsical beings. We may never understand what exactly makes us happy, but we have a general idea. While our happiness may be entirely deterministic, if you throw enough darts, sooner or later, you'll hit the center. Eventually, while you may never get the exact muscle memory to do it every time, you can learn to hit it much more often. We make whimsical changes to our lives out of pure curiosity and we learn to harness these changes so that have a higher chances of hitting the bulls-eye. Avoiding any conflictions with my strong devotion to determinism, all of these are indirect changes. Not entirely a shot in the dark, much like quantum mechanics, but an educated guess.

3/01/2009

The Wistful Author

I'm not sure if it's just the authors I have been reading, but beneath all of the stories there seems to be an underlying tone of melancholy integrated into each sentence. I went to a museum of art yesterday with my father and stepmother and we took a small tour in which they explained how they used an x-ray to authenticate each painting. By scanning through each layer, you can see how the painting was produced, step by step. By doing this you can better imagine what the artist was thinking while they worked. The first layer of one painting contained a sketch of a woman's face, and the complete product was that of a flower garden.

If only this were possible with literature. I remember watching an interview on television of an author of a book about her family. The interviewer brought up that while reading her book, even though it wasn't written from a third person perspective, he felt as if she was doing just that. Mind you this was several years ago, so I'm not exactly sure what they said. But when he questioned her about how he felt that her writing seemed to be somewhat detached, she didn't wholly refute it. He then asked her if she felt that most authors were introverts and actually prefer to observe and write about their surroundings instead of actually being involved. A few details aside, I believe she agreed with his assertion. From her tone of voice and body language, she was a little hesitant in admitting it, but you could tell that's how she felt.

I certainly can't assign this home-made stereotype to every author who ever existed, but perhaps a big chunk of them. Of course the one that pops into my head first is Jane Austin. I've never read any biographies of her, but I did see the movie Becoming Jane; from what I've heard, it's pretty accurate. Her real-life romance did not endure, but she vowed that women in her novels would not share the same fate. These authors yearn for something incredible, something of great value to them, and after coming to the realization that these things are very rarely obtained in real-life, they've devoted themselves to creating this special something in their own writing. This is why they write. This is why I write.

Relating to the comics in my last post, for some folks it just isn't enough to experience something. By writing their thoughts down, they are either making more sense of past events (non-fiction), or morphing experiences into an alternate reality (fiction) which tells a story that encompasses a more complete and fulfilling experience; or it could be a mixture of the two. Either way, it seems to me that these authors aren't content until they get the contents of their mind on paper. So I wonder if we were all to become content with our lives as is, would there be any more literature? I suppose science-related work would be exempt here. I believe they say that most art (including novels) stem from extreme emotion generated from some sort of tragedy. Imagine if you could somehow examine every single penny in every single fountain in the world and trace it back to the wish of the person who made it. "World Peace", would be in the majority. Imagine if that were to come true.

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