My friend Zack called a few hours after he had picked Britney up from the airport. I missed the call, but when I called back he told me he had gotten engaged. I felt a powerful urge to run.

The temperature's dropped 20 degrees since Monday.

I watched Ratatouille and Stardust recently. They were both good. Ratatouille was especially good, Stardust was barely good. Though the Captain Shakespeare character was a pretty cool interpretation of Gaiman's original. Have any of you read the book/comic? I wonder how close the movie version was to the source material.

Ratatouille had some cool scenes for synesthesia enthusiasts.  (Between Fantasia and Waking Life, I can't decide which is a better simulation of synesthesia)

Also, Tropa de Elite. Awesome. It's this ultraviolent Brazilian film about gang wars.  Worth watching just for the first 15 minutes.

Oh!  Thanksgiving!  My brother stayed in Charlotte, so it was just my parents, myself, and my aunt Mary.  Not bad.  We spent the meal arguing about politics, but it wasn't too horrible.  Actually a pretty good discussion.  I watched TV for a bit before bed, and almost every commercial was telling me to wake up at 4am and shop at their store.  I don't understand it.  If a stranger on the street told you the same thing, you'd tell'em to go fuck themselves.

Thinking about synesthesia simulations prompts some interesting thoughts.  You'll occasionally notice that cultural thought for an entire decade is wrapped around certain psychological phenomenon.  I'm pretty sure it was hysteria in the 1910's/20's.  I wonder if synthesthesia's managed to infiltrate the cultural radar this decade.  It synchronizes pretty well with "cyberspace" type conceptualizations of the Internet.

I woke up this morning, and found myself wondering, "how many times did I compliment ladykinbote's posture last night?"

It really is somewhat amazing.  Also, a good way for me to remember her.  I learned the technique from President Truman, who used to have a flashcard made for each person he met - the flashcard would list name, age, spouse's name, children, profession, etc.  But, most importantly, the cards listed a key physical fact about each person.  Truman's considered a pretty damn good president, so I stole his technique.

In my head, People I Know are divided into:

Short Guy
Bad Haired Art Face
Model Girl
Falls On Things Girl
The Postured Dame
Atlanta Russian
New York Russian
Ooki-San
Clown Face
Whiskey Arab  (aka Ee-rah-niyan)
Wading Woman

I know a few more people than that.  It gets confusing when I meet a second "Short Guy".

So, in the same vein as my earlier sex question:  What do you think about flirting?  Specifically, what the hell is it?

(Specifics and examples are much appreciated)

PS:  I spent most of the day watching America's Next Top Model. Send help.

I've known Adam since I was two or so - we were "best friends" between then and fourteen, when his family moved to South Carolina.  Even after the move, we still visited each other over the Summer, and we're still pretty damn good friends even now.  He did the atheist thing as a kid (I'm still in the middle of the atheist thing), joking about stupid religious people, not going to church, etc.  That's still my most vivid memory of him, even though he's been studying philosophy and theology at the College of Charleston for the past two years, moving further and further from that unreflective kid.

I found his blog by accident yesterday, and was surprised to learn who the raging atheist became:

This past weekend T [Adam's fiancee] and I went up to the mountains of Georgia to a retreat named Vocare. It rocked. First of all, I came back with a really nice steel cross (something I've been looking for) and an Anglican rosary. Second, I had a truly affirming experience in terms of having what I think my vocation, my job from God so to speak, set out so clearly. Not by anyone else mind, just in my mind and in discussion with the two chaplains who ran our services.

I've never been sure what I think about religion.  I'm personally not a huge fan (this might be especially obvious if you've heard any of the jokes I tell beginning "Why did the ladies love Jesus?"), but I'm also not sure how harmful religion is to humanity as a whole.  Having stumbled upon the blog entry above, I'm still not sure how I feel about religion and other people.  I'm really just incredibly glad to see my friend so happy.

I'm doing that day of service thing, operating on about 4 hours of sleep. As always, I'm unsure how useful the work we're doing actually is. At least it's physical labor, which tends to quiet my little worries. Shit. Like 7 typos in that last sentence alone. Not "shit", the sentence before that.

Anyway, I'm getting incredibly bored. Not much of a complaint, especially compared to "my internal organs have been replaced by rats", but it's mine, and I love it.

Tentative summer schedule - work at some job. Save monies. Spend most of that money on a trip Europe-wise at the end of summer. I'm thinking France, maybe some hiking in the south, whatever the fuck other countries border southern France. Hopefully, the trip shouldn't cost me more than 1500, which might leave me enough to buy books and survive for a semester. Not sure what I do after that - I got a letter yesterday letting me know about a shareholder's meeting, and if I'm a shareholder, shouldn't I have more money? (That's right ladies - devilishly handsome, keen wit, and a budding entreprenuer. I'm a triple threat). I think all the money from my stocks is going be used up paying for Oglethorpe, and I'll still have to find a magic way of paying for senior year.

Oh. My love life is still a horrible shambles. Every once in a while, when I've sort of come to terms with my current situation, I talk with Alexa about love, and that fucks everything up again. It's kind of fun, like a rollercoaster ride. You can do the same thing with a wide variety of subjects - it's hilarious!

I went to that foam party last night. It was one of the most depressing things I've ever seen.

Not sure what to do. Drinking only erases some memories. I'll still remember the feeling.

I was too depressed to even try drunken pick-up lines, which are my favorite thing in the whole wide world.

I've got that desire to sing random songs. Not a specific one, just completely random - also, for any of you livejournal/facebook stalkers, you should listen to the Highschool Stalker, by Hello Saferide.

My grandma cought me at home around midday yesterday.  I was still groggy from sleeping in the sun (awesome!), so I couldn't do my usual duck and weave.  She wanted to talk about my copy of Anna Karenina (which she had been reading), and why I didn't take any notes on the whole Muzhik issue.

I told her that while the Muzhik thing was important, I didn't really think it is hugelly important for non 19th century Russians.  Not a great answer, but I was sleepy, and I said it fancily enough that she was forced to agree.  Then I ran upstairs.

I picked up contacts yesterday, saw something, wrote this:

I don't expect a lot out of advertising. I mean, the industry never really aspires to create works of real depth, so I don't judge a horrible poster or commercial critically, as I tend to do with art.

I see a picture hanging in a museum, and I analyze why the artist has used certain images, words, or colors. The artist intends for their work to create a lasting impression, and I treat it as such.

I see an advertisement on the side of a bus, and think, "gee, that model has nice breasts, I wonder if I should buy her perfume". Obviously, real criticism is the last thing on my mind. Depending on your sexual orientation, you probably feel the same way.

This morning, as I was picking up my year's supply of contact lenses, I noticed a framed advertisement behind the receptionist's desk. The ad read:

 

    "The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."

    - Marcel Proust

    Try Acuvue Bifocal contacts today!

 

I don't even like Proust, but this advertisement offended me. Seriously, what sort of cynical bastard takes a profound phrase, reads it, then decides to completely twist its meaning just to sell their contacts?

Marcel Proust was well known for his novel approach to writing. He often spent pages describing one object, exploring how the object related to his own past, and how his perceptions of the object triggered other completely unrelated memories. Prousts' writing is probably the best example of a life which was based not on depth of experience, but the ceaseless analysis of everyday life.

Compare Proust's idea of mental and emotional discovery with the physical discovery this ad tries to sell it's reader. Think about how cool Proust's thought is, how unlike the very simple thought it is used for in this advertisement. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could always look at life through that same unblinking mental lense?

I'm terribly frightened of growing old, and the fear grows every time I see my Grandparents.

They've become so decayed, so lifeless - I feel as if their words and actions are an offense against actual live thought, and I try to remain sympathetic for two people feeling their minds and bodies collapse around them; and I can be sympathetic when I haven't seen them for hours, but I can't hold that understanding in personal conversation.

This is the kind of thing that makes me want to live dangerously, take terrible risks, wander the world, save no money, make no plans, save my attachment for the immortal human race, instead of my single solitary mortal life.

My Grandma wants to discuss Anna Karenina with me. I want to run away from home.

-

Thinking about spending Wednesday night at Oglethorpe, writing, then running around bothering people.

Fuck. Every time I move my arm, my fucking elbow opens up. My fingers are mainly healed. So, things still wrong with me: the mental thing, I guess. I'm procrastinating too much, and this is not a good time to have that particular affliction. Also, I think I've got a bit of the old depression coming up. We'll find out in a week or two.

Good things: I've learned a lot of interesting new things lately. Mainly stuff about hoboing it up in Germany, but I've also been reading the newest edition of Night, and I spent some time looking at Basquiat (I forget how to spell his name) stuff. Still thinking about existentialism, and it doesn't help that I just finished playing Planescape, a computer game that's basically an existentialist novel.

Yeah, that game was cool. "What can change the nature of a man?"

Anyway, these are all normal things to be worried about, I suppose. Especially existentialism. I find the idea satisfying, and frightening in the good kind of way, like the feeling you get an hour before asking a girl out.

(Do girls ask guys out? I've never really been asked out, but I've been tricked into a few secluded spots. That accomplishes the basic goal of asking a person out, right? I mean, you drag a guy into a closet, and he probably knows you like him. Which, I think, is the basic point of a date)

Fuck. Back to paper. I vow to write at least one more page before challenging the girl reading this over my shoulder to a no-pants duel. On the quad. 3am. Be there. I need a second, in case I get tired.

My brother once commented that he was great at long term relationships, while I was great at one night stands. He may actually have said "built for", referring to our personalities.

I'm still not sure of how accurate his statement was - I don't expect anything close to surety about that or anything else until my death. However, my track record of "successful" relationships seems to be better as far as short term things are concerned, and it seems that this frightening trend may continue.

Part of it may be my basic philosophy. I'm pretty critical of "love" as anything more than an extremely temporary emotion, if it even exists at all. Therefore, long term relationships have always seemed somewhat deceptive to me. I imagine that you spend much of these relationships either deceiving your partner, or deceiving yourself. I don't have much experience in that area (my longest relationship was about a semester long), but I found the deception part to be true, especially after the first 2 months. I'm not a huge fan of self-deception, and I feel that long term relationships force one into a position of self-deception, hiding the truth from yourself in order to protect your partner's feelings. And, of course, if the partner is doing the same thing, you end up with a big cluster-fuck.

You can see why I might prefer much shorter relationships. Two people, looking for company, physical (and in some ways emotional) intimacy, and a warm space next to them while they sleep. Simple, right?

Anyway, my current problem involves the conflict between these two things, and the conflict of idea's represented by the two types of relationships. Either love exists, or love doesn't exist (in a meaningful way). The larger problem: if love doesn't exist, what purpose does life have? Does this idea relate only to love between two people?

So, my current solution: keep the problem on my mind's back burner, enjoy myself, keep an eye out for illuminating stuff/examples/people.

(And yes, I was worried about this before reading Kundera, Sartre, Hesse, Tolstoy, or Neitzche - they just reminded me of it)

Your thoughts?

The military makes much better pants than the civilian clothing industry. See, with civilian pants, you have many different manufacturers, each using a numbering system which is slightly different. Also, they have no economic incentive to produce pants for abnormally sized people. When I'm doing my bi-annual pants shopping, I have an incredibly hard time finding pants cut for a person who is both short and skinny. This means that I don't really have any pants which fit.

When I went to the army surpluss store, I managed to find a pair of pants which fit me well in about 10 minutes. The army has only a few different types of pants, each based on variations in pant length and width. In order to find good pants, I just searched for "short leg, small waist". If I was fat and short, I would buy "extra-short leg, extra-large waist". Easy, eh?

-

The door code for the new condo's by the High Museum is "7293".

-

Hobosexual = will sleep with you/be your best friend for a bed/couch.

Stop reading, and look at the leaves outside your window. Take your time. This is important. Notice the different types of leaves you see. The curve of the leaf's edge, the number and types of spikes.

Now, here's the secret: why are the leaves shaped like that? Why do these two trees have different leaves, different heights, and different barks?

Actually, the opposite of that statement is true.

If I could post images, I'd post this.

-

On a less serious note: remind me to take you along, next time I break into the Atlanta Botanical Gardens on a full moon night and spend long minutes watching my reflection through the moon's halo in the Japanese Garden's cherry metal marred waters'.

(is that grammatically correct?)

Professor Taylor keeps hinting that I should be writing poems instead of prose. This infuriates me.

If I wanted to be writing poems, I would be writing poems. Even though my writing style reminds you of poetry, it is actually prose. Surprise.

I see poetry as a style of writing used by assholes who need to justify a lack of content and clarity in their writing. Also, write with one hand, because I assume writing poetry is impossible if you're not also masturbating.

Why's there even a distinction between poetry and prose?

Definition of poetry, stolen from wikipedia: Poetry is traditionally a written art form in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content.

Definition of prose, stolen from wikipedia: Prose is writing distinguished from poetry by its greater variety of rhythm and its closer resemblance to the patterns of everyday speech. The word prose comes from the Latin prosa, meaning straightforward. This describes the type of writing that prose embodies, unadorned with obvious stylistic devices.

To my mind, it's impossible to divorce the aesthetic use of language from any attempt to deliver content to a reader.

Feels nice to be back in school.

Smiling people I kinda know, arguing with Brightman, and lots more stuff to read.

If you have books by these guys, I would like to borrow them:

Octavio Paz, Rene Char, Gombrowicz, Diderot

Any music by Leos Janacek would also be cool.

---

I saw a girl dressed all in black and smoking a black cigarrette this afternoon. The sky was overcast. The image pulled some mental strings, and I wrote this:

[figure] matches the sky in the same way that the dark innercircle of the eye matches the pale white around it.

The language needs polish, and I'll probably replace the girl with a child, also smoking, when I write something longer.

I'm thinking... a traveller in an Eastern European city, lost, sees a dark kid smoking, gets directions, maybe sees an accident or death later?  Noir tones, right?

2-3 pages.

"Religion is a betrayal of the human spirit."

-Ben

I dreamed that I was sitting with a woman of indeterminate age.  She had short hair, stark white and muddy purple.  Her face was a woman's face, I remember no details; neither of us had bodies, we were concepts like many things in my dreams.

She posed a question, "If science exists, what place does god have?"

This may not have been the question she asked.  As I try to remember, details sway, and I wonder if she in fact asked what place science has in a world of belief.  Even this question is merely a permutation of a possibly false remembrance; I feel now that the act of writing the question betrays and cheapens its basic nature.

It was a space, a dream, and I was being questioned about something which mattered.

I don't know how I answered, but there was a pause, and we watched each other and she had dark black hair now.  It flowed into the dream night around us and I woke myself asking

"Was I correct?"

Now, I finish writing, and realize the correct response which may have lengthened the dream or eclipsed the reality I woke to this morning.  Before this too fades; I should have asked

"Was I true?"

Transrealism!

I was reading The Art of the Novel, by Milan Kundera, and he mentioned this cool Dante quote:

"In any act, the primary intention of the one who acts is to reveal his own image"

Spiffy, eh?

That gave me a few ideas for Sky and Castle, which I've copied from the scrap paper I grabbed and scribbled on:

The dreamer dreams intentionally, castle is purposeful construct.

Elements outside dream are unintentional? Father?

A slight reworking of intro, maybe description of falling asleep, hands grasp...

Because the castle is intentional, it does not necessarily symbolize interaction between father and son.

Write more! Central keep! Furnishings? Well?

I Will Stab You In Your Eyes

Love Is Just Another Way of Saying I'm Really Drunk Right Now

An Argument For Stupidity

This Title Has No Book

Your Mom Sucks Off One-legged Sailors