principia nonspecifica
i don't know what i was thinking. well, no more, thinking is overrated. for the moment, anyway. there is no larger meaning than the words themselves.
a statement that is, in itself, meaningless.
8.22.2003
8.22.2003
8.22.2003
so so deaf
so music-starved at this point - nearly driven to utter distraction...
pda screen broke the other day [about a month ago]; there's no way to control the user interface. the mp3 module still works, but uploading new songs is a task for macguyver at this point... so i'm stuck with
two speed garage remixes [took about three listens of each to get old]
one kind of triphop-ish song [ listen once... bleah *skip* ]
one hardcore song [will never get boring; unfortunately, sometimes bashing things is not the proper mood]
two r&b songs [the thong song?! noooo! how'd that get there?]
two rap songs [qtip and bustah rhymes [and m.o.p.]... endless rotation]
and
one dnb tune. [more endless airplay]
i have an mp3 collection of at least a thousand songs that i can't access, because the 2.5" hard drive from my old, dead laptop is sitting in a plastic bag along with the 14" display [which just might find it's way to ebay in the distant future]...
oh yeah, and, i left university again, possibly for good this time.
...
anyway, i'm really pissed about these mp3s ;)
audio: [pda playlist, on endless repeat]
so music-starved at this point - nearly driven to utter distraction...
pda screen broke the other day [about a month ago]; there's no way to control the user interface. the mp3 module still works, but uploading new songs is a task for macguyver at this point... so i'm stuck with
and
i have an mp3 collection of at least a thousand songs that i can't access, because the 2.5" hard drive from my old, dead laptop is sitting in a plastic bag along with the 14" display [which just might find it's way to ebay in the distant future]...
oh yeah, and, i left university again, possibly for good this time.
...
anyway, i'm really pissed about these mp3s ;)
audio: [pda playlist, on endless repeat]
8/22/2003 09:13:00 PM
8.08.2003
8.08.2003
8.08.2003
worth?
self-worth.
"show me six ab exercises," the brawny personal trainer said. after i had gone through about four reps of each exercise, he nodded his approval at my technique and i stood up, dusting my clothes off. we walked a winding path around the gym floor between weight machines and racks of free weights, eventually arriving at the small cubbyhole that was his office.
he leans forward in his chair, traps merging into a thick, beefy neck, muscles taut as cords of rope beneath the skin. the fabric of his shirt conforms to his body, stretching tight to accomodate his change in position. elbows on his knees, he steeples his fingers and looks up at me from under his heavy brow. a psychological tactic - "the eighthundred pound gorilla speaks with eloquent menace" ;)
he apparently has a firm understanding of these tactics, having made me wait for nearly fifteen minutes in the lobby of the health club after we had agreed to a three oclock interview. these tricks are meaningless to me -- i know the game because i study it; manipulation is a fundamental aspect of human interaction. as distasteful as these games are, everyone plays them, and there are no exceptions. it is a "red queen" process - everyone must compete in order to survive, whether they like it or not. those who pretend to be above the game are just using their feigned innocence as a strategy. a saint would never betray you, but it is easy to forget that there are no saints, there are only humans. give a man a dream, and he will follow you, even to the point of his own death. religions have done this, romance does this, jingoism does this, consumerism does this... addictive ideas that promise a payoff in the hazy future ensnare the hopeful and enslave their ambitions.
i gaze calmly in his direction as he makes very serious-sounding noises about being a "no-bullshit kinda guy", and that as a trainer under him, i would have to show commitment and consistency, blah blah blah... he even struggles for the word ["consistency"] and thanks me as i finish his sentence, knowing full well what he is going to say.
smiling magnanimously, he extends his hand. i stand while showing him my own canines and pump his hand vigorously. we exchange pleasantries momentarily and the interview comes to an end.
----
at times i feel seized by this sense of worthlessness as i look around me at the bizarre opulence/decadence of the city. faux beauty queens click their high heels on the pavement as beggars moan to ransome money for their horrifying indigence. in the same breath, there is the stench of urine intermingled with the scent of perfume.
how am i worthless? not by virtue of internal attribution, but rather through external comparison. i do not internalize this sense of worthlessness because money and status do not create happiness; rather it is the frustration of material limitation while trapped inside the rainbow candy shell of a commercial metropolis.
this shell is a poor mask for the world that it hides: the abortive attempts at self-perfection through expensive clothing and fake tans, the moviestar looks that cannot hide the obvious insecurity and fear of rejection. fashionably scrawny women who are afraid to eat; outcast fat women who pretend to love themselves when really they wish that they could starve like the others.
the more externally perfect a person seems, the more compulsively horrified they are at seeing themselves in the mirror after washing off their makeup at the end of the day. men are the same way; what in life is not treated as a possession, including other people? to be able to make someone happy is to exercise a degree of control over their emotions. as emotion may be the true essence of motivation, this is one of the most satisfying forms of power, and it lies at the root of social manipulation. women appear weak in order to seduce men and attract sympathy, which can then be used to create friendships and prestige; men appear charismatic and powerful in order to subordinate those whose charades are less convincing.
are we not all liars and imitators?
i think about who i am, but am i not just choosing to believe the pleasant fiction that i want to believe? logical analysis can often lead to more than one plausible answer -- how many of the answers about myself have i chosen with the presumption that i am right and good? this is the inherent limitation of introspection. i cannot see myself objectively, because the very fact of self-reference implies subjectivity. i cannot prove the consistency of my own personality from within my own point of view, because the unconscious mind is not directly knowable through the cognitive faculties of conscious thought. the only reliable artifacts that point me to self-knowledge are the actions that i choose to undertake, and even those are subject to prejudicial interpretation. introspection is important for charting a course into an uncertain future, but it cannot serve as a means toward comprehensive self-definition. if a person is to admit that there is an unconscious aspect of mind, one must admit that it is impossible to fully know oneself by using the other ten percent of thought -- the conscious aspect.
how many new ideas have i seized upon seemingly out of the blue, with no previous deliberation or "thought"? there must have been someone thinking inside this brain of mine, and strangely enough, it was me... i just wasn't consciously aware of it. now imagine if this non-awareness could be responsible for emotional states and even behaviors... imagine if the conscious mind were forced to make up a story to explain itself. now, realize that "i" may not be in control as much as it would seem.
self-worth.
"show me six ab exercises," the brawny personal trainer said. after i had gone through about four reps of each exercise, he nodded his approval at my technique and i stood up, dusting my clothes off. we walked a winding path around the gym floor between weight machines and racks of free weights, eventually arriving at the small cubbyhole that was his office.
he leans forward in his chair, traps merging into a thick, beefy neck, muscles taut as cords of rope beneath the skin. the fabric of his shirt conforms to his body, stretching tight to accomodate his change in position. elbows on his knees, he steeples his fingers and looks up at me from under his heavy brow. a psychological tactic - "the eighthundred pound gorilla speaks with eloquent menace" ;)
he apparently has a firm understanding of these tactics, having made me wait for nearly fifteen minutes in the lobby of the health club after we had agreed to a three oclock interview. these tricks are meaningless to me -- i know the game because i study it; manipulation is a fundamental aspect of human interaction. as distasteful as these games are, everyone plays them, and there are no exceptions. it is a "red queen" process - everyone must compete in order to survive, whether they like it or not. those who pretend to be above the game are just using their feigned innocence as a strategy. a saint would never betray you, but it is easy to forget that there are no saints, there are only humans. give a man a dream, and he will follow you, even to the point of his own death. religions have done this, romance does this, jingoism does this, consumerism does this... addictive ideas that promise a payoff in the hazy future ensnare the hopeful and enslave their ambitions.
i gaze calmly in his direction as he makes very serious-sounding noises about being a "no-bullshit kinda guy", and that as a trainer under him, i would have to show commitment and consistency, blah blah blah... he even struggles for the word ["consistency"] and thanks me as i finish his sentence, knowing full well what he is going to say.
smiling magnanimously, he extends his hand. i stand while showing him my own canines and pump his hand vigorously. we exchange pleasantries momentarily and the interview comes to an end.
----
at times i feel seized by this sense of worthlessness as i look around me at the bizarre opulence/decadence of the city. faux beauty queens click their high heels on the pavement as beggars moan to ransome money for their horrifying indigence. in the same breath, there is the stench of urine intermingled with the scent of perfume.
how am i worthless? not by virtue of internal attribution, but rather through external comparison. i do not internalize this sense of worthlessness because money and status do not create happiness; rather it is the frustration of material limitation while trapped inside the rainbow candy shell of a commercial metropolis.
this shell is a poor mask for the world that it hides: the abortive attempts at self-perfection through expensive clothing and fake tans, the moviestar looks that cannot hide the obvious insecurity and fear of rejection. fashionably scrawny women who are afraid to eat; outcast fat women who pretend to love themselves when really they wish that they could starve like the others.
the more externally perfect a person seems, the more compulsively horrified they are at seeing themselves in the mirror after washing off their makeup at the end of the day. men are the same way; what in life is not treated as a possession, including other people? to be able to make someone happy is to exercise a degree of control over their emotions. as emotion may be the true essence of motivation, this is one of the most satisfying forms of power, and it lies at the root of social manipulation. women appear weak in order to seduce men and attract sympathy, which can then be used to create friendships and prestige; men appear charismatic and powerful in order to subordinate those whose charades are less convincing.
are we not all liars and imitators?
i think about who i am, but am i not just choosing to believe the pleasant fiction that i want to believe? logical analysis can often lead to more than one plausible answer -- how many of the answers about myself have i chosen with the presumption that i am right and good? this is the inherent limitation of introspection. i cannot see myself objectively, because the very fact of self-reference implies subjectivity. i cannot prove the consistency of my own personality from within my own point of view, because the unconscious mind is not directly knowable through the cognitive faculties of conscious thought. the only reliable artifacts that point me to self-knowledge are the actions that i choose to undertake, and even those are subject to prejudicial interpretation. introspection is important for charting a course into an uncertain future, but it cannot serve as a means toward comprehensive self-definition. if a person is to admit that there is an unconscious aspect of mind, one must admit that it is impossible to fully know oneself by using the other ten percent of thought -- the conscious aspect.
how many new ideas have i seized upon seemingly out of the blue, with no previous deliberation or "thought"? there must have been someone thinking inside this brain of mine, and strangely enough, it was me... i just wasn't consciously aware of it. now imagine if this non-awareness could be responsible for emotional states and even behaviors... imagine if the conscious mind were forced to make up a story to explain itself. now, realize that "i" may not be in control as much as it would seem.
8/08/2003 09:09:00 PM
8.06.2003
8.06.2003
8.06.2003
...and then there's the question of...
my gay lover?
sitting on her bed, her foto album open across both our laps as she leafs through the images of her past: boy george album signing... mm, sexy eyes, i laugh // aids march... // vacation // a lesbian friend who had a sweet little crush on her // assorted murmurs thereafter about other pix...
we sit a little closer, thighs touching gently. she continues to narrate her flipbook life as the fat housecat sits in the armchair opposite us, watching intently, almost protectively, as if she were the cat's kidsister. a pause in the conversation as i turn back to a picture of boy george holding a signed copy of his cd over his face, showing only those beguiling eyes and the bowler hat [?] covering his head.
questions of sexual orientation are mistaken for more banal inquiries; i notice the light blonde-brown of her long feathery locks, cascading beyond her shoulders as she carefully applies a glistening layer of gloss to her lips, delicious electric inches from my own...
...
audio: dj caffeine . fuck on cocaine
my gay lover?
sitting on her bed, her foto album open across both our laps as she leafs through the images of her past: boy george album signing... mm, sexy eyes, i laugh // aids march... // vacation // a lesbian friend who had a sweet little crush on her // assorted murmurs thereafter about other pix...
we sit a little closer, thighs touching gently. she continues to narrate her flipbook life as the fat housecat sits in the armchair opposite us, watching intently, almost protectively, as if she were the cat's kidsister. a pause in the conversation as i turn back to a picture of boy george holding a signed copy of his cd over his face, showing only those beguiling eyes and the bowler hat [?] covering his head.
questions of sexual orientation are mistaken for more banal inquiries; i notice the light blonde-brown of her long feathery locks, cascading beyond her shoulders as she carefully applies a glistening layer of gloss to her lips, delicious electric inches from my own...
...
audio: dj caffeine . fuck on cocaine
8/06/2003 03:55:00 AM
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