A couple of observations from the past few days:

Feeling of paralysis -- mental inertia -- leading to the quiet scratchings at the back of the mind, that uneasy desire for release and distraction. Not exactly a sense of doubt, but more the inevitable moments of questioning motives and asking for justifications. The 'how->when->what' rather than simply the 'why'. And naturally, the "right answers" refuse to appear when called, which leads to more questions, and a spiralling confusion.

The past two years have taught at least one lesson, though. The right answer is not always as important as a question that leads to new possibilities. In that vein, a simple fact arrived from the background of studying and thinking: A grand scheme is often too vague to become a guiding principle. The purpose needs to be smaller, on the scale of daily life, to have a tangible effect.

This means that planning is the key to staying grounded and clear. Setting attainable goals on an everyday basis is an absolute must. Without goals, the days pass in an aimless malaise, a winding maze of reactionary fear and worry. To prevent that kind of busy neurosis, the antidote is to build a stepladder and climb upward, eventually stepping high enough to look down at the maze and create the simplest path to the exit.

I'm writing this down now because it is so easy (but in the end, painful) to forget.

-

The other observation is more esoteric. In the space of a few minutes last night, the time spent allowing mind and breathing to find each other again after an active day. Images, voices, memories and thoughts -- all glide past, some maintaining position for a few moments in front of my closed eyes, while others pass unnoticed into the murky recesses of soon-to-be dreams. As the seconds become minutes, I begin to feel a presence in the room to my right. It feels faint at first, but as the time passes it becomes stronger. Having read about the experience as a psychological phenomenon rather than a magical one, my mind switched to metaphor to ease the discomfort of the apparition. The metaphor is a simple one of creating a "shell" of personal space of about one foot in diameter radiating outward from the center of gravity. It has nothing to do with warding off spirits, but rather it is an exercise in redirecting attention and concentration toward a consciously generated mental image.

As the apparition -- non-physical, but almost palpable rushed across the room toward me, I focused more deeply on the outbreath and seiza/hokkaijoin (body and hand posture). The apparition moved within millimeters' distance away, and the right side of my face and body could feel its presence quite strongly.

As a reminder of the mental foundations of both apparition and my imagined protective "shell", the shell itself began to disappear, along with it the sense of self in opposition to the "ghost". In essence, the body became the shell as the self dissipated into the darkness. Once the self was absent, the apparition also disappeared, fading away as the opposition to its advances also proved its immaterial nature. Fifteen minutes later, the feeling of discomfort was gone as well, and I was ready for a refreshing night's rest.

Interesting that a few years ago my reaction would have been entirely different. And what does this 'malevolent ghost' feeling mean?

in itself, a ball holds no magical properties. no momentum, no acceleration, no speed.
only when thrown does the ball fulfill its potential. acted upon by forces outside of itself, using its spherical nature to interact with the environment.

the juggler manipulates gravity. the balls are only the medium.

-

i wonder when it really began.

the whole search for something greater than myself. it would probably not be too much trouble to look in the saru archives. there is a set of entries, most likely, that chronicles the gradual descent into humanistic madness -- the urge to save the world, become a saintly figure, transform suffering, etc.

beyond the pretentious gravitas of issues that really matter, the reality lies on the ground, in the soil itself. written and spoken words, surrounding and uplifting truth to heights of rhetorical performance, bear only a superficial relation to the thankless nature of the work itself. to save the world is to become the world -- how can one person hope to control events beyond him or herself?

fuck the world. i live for myself, my own survival.

. . .

okay, so that stance is useless.

only two percent human

next is to strive for balance rather than wholesale rejection (nihilism), which is essentially reversion to the other ninetyeight percent of my genetic heritage. i am human because of that other two percent; evolution from here depends on an intentional stance rather than a causal one.

saru means two things, actually. one meaning symbolizes the physical reality, the immediate reality of sensation. as the sharpened edge gouges deep into the sinewy toughness of externality, it unearths the flow of simple truth. it is a brutal perception, in that it must touch to see, and some things are destroyed if held too long. who determines the interval between exploration and autopsy? at what point does reality reach too fine a grain to be touched without at the same time being crushed, or irrevocably disfigured?

the other half of the symbol is the seduction of conscious simulation. real becomes the representation of the real. terrain is reduced to impoverished outline, leveling mountains of data in search of a comprehensive straight line path. truth becomes a set of axioms, a kind of natural philsophy in which extrapolation creates mathematical stability from a chaotic swirl of disordered interaction. what of the ten million bits per second of sensory data crashing against eyes, lips, skin? only forty bits are available to the conscious mind for manipulation in short-term memory. mentality is its own limitation.

inherent in that contradiction is the crutch of emotional stimulation -- filling in the blanks between selective comprehension and the unacceptable fact of incomplete understanding. emotion is the chain that links both halves together, often obscuring the boundaries between them.

i and we

the problem has always been that emergent quality that arises from the dynamic linking as it relates to the outside world, then is projected back into the existing set. this problem is called creativity, the ability of mind to recombine impressions into coherent "new" forms. expression of creativity becomes manifest as an alteration of the cultural landscape. how can the repressive, fear-driven environment of the present be escaped, without destroying the fuel for the creative mind itself? how can the escape be channeled into a means of becoming completely human -- all two percent -- while at the same time fully realizing the inevitable presence of the other ninetyeight?

i can't save him, but i can't let him die, because he is also me. but at the same time, we are worlds apart. within my world, he cannot fully exist -- but what i cannot know, i can feel. in terms of the outside world, feeling is a choice. on the inside, though, feeling is really all there is. so when i ask my friend "why do you get up in the morning, even if the day may not turn out the way you'd hoped"? there may be no answer, or just a post hoc rationalization keying in on the word "hope". and yet, tomorrow morning, the bed will be empty and the cycle starts again.

i have to break that cycle, because two percent is not enough. it must be taken hold of from the inside, and re-formed so that mind and body, mentality and perception, internal and external, become fundaments of a process, the dynamism of unified movement versus the deadly stillness of imagined truth.

audio: vex red. untitled

this summer:

lucia becomes io.

wanderlei becomes prometheus.

erin becomes pandora.

all fighters, all of them lost.

well, lucia didn't lose. but her careerlong dream is
quickly fading from her grasp as time passes...

contradiction, impulse and the drive toward an aborted conclusion. easy to see in other people, as some peoples' lives are ruled, even destroyed by such an occluded thought process. ideas that, in a cooler-headed version of myself, seem utterly anathema. logic becomes rhetoric, reason becomes a chorus of distractions.

d.i.y. ::

this has nothing to do with "punk". nowadays, punk lives at hot topic; windowshopping for culture is a 3-dimensional warm-up to reality television. real people are actors, the environment is a set piece and innocent background objects are transformed into impeccably placed product images that silently consume the insatiable consumer.

d.i.y. always meant do it anyway -- even if the money wasn't there, or if i "just don't have the time". time continues as we move through space, not as planned beforehand.

rarely do events unfold in sync with a human schedule... the defusion of uncertainty lies within the unborn forms of the future itself. with no plan "B", and full acceptance of failure, i decide to move anyway. more often than not, reality (or rather, other people) tend(s) to bend with me. at least sometimes. other times, mindset produces alternatives and ways to evade all but the most impassable obstacles. in those cases, failure simply comes and passes, having already been accepted from the outset.

d.i.y. is persistence, memory of the old phrase "fear is information". not to be ignored or obeyed, but rather, observed and noted -- given equal weight as a simple form of feedback. fear doesn't mean stop, it means pause and look carefully. fear can also be reframed into positive energy, and fed forward to create an enhanced form of the original purpose.

how insidious a feeling of panic can be. it leads not to careful analysis, but an intense desire for escape. over the summer months, there began a claustrophobic narrowing, the sensation of having nowhere to be, much less having anywhere to go. oppressive external whispers became internalized false impressions, barely familiar voices giving advice as to where my life's direction should turn. chance meetings began to occur, followed by more intimations and confiding nudges. seductive images began to undermine the previously clear vision of what mattered most, as the promise of a quick dollar and a way out formed an intense lure toward the darkest edges. it all seemed possible, it could all be so easy.

friends would just nod and smile, encouraging the escape that they so envied, as if i would become the embodiment of a daring and exciting dream. of course, they wouldn't follow such a dream, because ultimately it is hollow and paper-thin, even at its strongest moments.

whispers, nods, smiles, impressions, directions. have i ever shown the truth of myself to them? if so, why wasn't a single voice willing to say "stop"?

the lesson is a simple one.

difficult to learn, easy to forget.

audio: remakes vol 1 . decay session (paul mac stimulus dub)

acute. non-stress. self-hypnotic in a pattern of steps, very nearly reassuring. underneath the left-right repetition of brokensoled shoes on pavement, there is something else. a sense of confinement, packed vacuum-tight. infinite space surrounds the condensed bubble of mentality, a physical reality that is at the same time untouchable.

intense focus blurs into concentric dilution as the street moves past, stop sign quickly approaching. humidity envelopes skin in a damp aura of sticky heat, while pressure builds silently on the inside... the intangible non-entity, the one that talks as opposed to the one who feels -- is aware, congealing into a direct suggestion, a word: relax. where was the tension before it came to rest inside of my mind, and what motivates its return? the nonsensical question why threatens to descend and cause the impending thunderstorm to crash from deep inside the clouds above.

first droplets of rain fall, heavy, large, splattering on shoulders and staining the front of my shirt as i continue to walk. contemplation, an intermittent hum of song melody becoming lyrics that unconsciously spill from my lips; the pressure seems to steady up and hold off. but it remains, reminding, rebounding, conception taking cue from perception as the rain becomes more steady. a delicate massage, new rhythm, an alternative sensation to the gravity feedback of footsteps. the broken rhythm of the late summer shower even has its own scent: nature versus asphalt, isolated memories of a soiled, oil-slicked earth interrupting the clouded stench of a damp city street.

rain isn't enough: interaction of man and environment, the polished machines of the rich so rudely imposed upon by beggars' defiant pleas for survival; as i pass a homeless man i fail to see his cardboard mendicant shrine and plastic donation container. stumbling, regaining balance, only a momentary act so instinctive that most other pedestrians can't be bothered to notice. the homeless man, however, emerges from his invisible reality, standing, mumbling curses and shuffling forward to recompose his cardboard-plastic monument. he disappears again, his near-infantile weakness forcibly reduced to emptiness by the fears of those who struggle and hurry to get away, only inches from his grasp.

the rainfall begins to subside, but people curiously do not lower their umbrellas. shoulders hunched, they simply carry on as if the rain were still falling unabated. dodging the pointed exoskeletal tips protruding from beneath waterproof skin, it becomes clear that the crowd relies not on the physical reality, but rather on surreptitious gaze and consensual decision. as i look up into the nebulous condensed masses of steamy vapor roiling in the sky above, an errant raindrop finds a vindictive satisfaction in glancing off the lense of my left eye. i blink the stinging sensation away and continue to look upward.

projection into the minds of others: the city, not as physical existence, but rather as sensationalistic illusion. projected from a flimsy desire to look up, the gleaming spires of skyscapers float high above the hovering ceiling of clouds. isn't it absurd that man's tribute to himself cannot be seen from a human perspective, but rather exists as an implied threat to all those below, in the form of the homeless man who can barely afford to survive, much less to live?

i don't understand. my clients are affluent, and yet when i speak to them, we have a language that allows for something like communication, but entirely without personality or affect. the suffocating bemusement of the 'businessman' impostor envelopes ruthless motives in the pretension of care, implying a bastardized version of friendship when truly this is a question of money and nothing more.

this friendship can be outsourced and offshored, gotten on the cheap. the only mediating variable is the application of existing technology and the "virtualization" of the expertise that i provide. temporary asymmetry of information is the rift within which i am working, and this rift feels as if it is inexorably grinding to a close.

amazing how a shift in perspective can wreak havoc on a dream. equally fascinating that the same disruptive shift can produce and reveal an entirely new constellation of hidden intentions. perhaps this is what hasn't felt right from the beginning. of course "this" is still largely an unconscious feeling, even now. over time, the results of this perceptive shift become clear, and my personality evolves as the moments pass.

from here i have contemplated the satisfying destruction of my client base -- who were rich, and for the most part, incredibly keen on keeping every possible penny in their pockets -- and starting over. a complication is that the end of this journey is meaningless. "earning" a fortune :: looking down at a frightened populace delighted by their customized cell phones, herded into compliance by laughably simplistic "anti-terrorism" measures :: dour-faced enforcers dragging tightleashed drugaddicted police dogs to search train cars :: the idiotic passersby attracted to the symbols of 'security', unable to resist the urge to chat with heavily armored soldiers whose subliminal message is the sanctioned murder of any and all who resist.

my footsteps rest at the street corner and my mind is at ease. the tension headache dissipates into the sky, clouds playing their inimitable games in swirling contrasts of light and dark as i count my breaths to pass the time. the light turns red, walk sign turns white, and i cross the street, listening to nothing. touching the world with each cell in my body, the massive empty flow of the minds rumbling around me as they indulge their own distractions from what lies behind the shimmering goliath of social proof and hive-minded complacency.

audio: renaissance presents therapy sessions . disc01 . tracks 1+2

to imagine a world, and then create it.

audio: kas product . never come back

back to zero.

time to reflect, now that the client management software has been written. clients are calling more often, but the account balance stays barely above the red.

always, the first ideal has been to create. recently, the line of reasoning was probably something like the following:

computer skills -> tech consulting -> create a business -> let the business run itself as a system

the challenge was to create a business. about a year and a half ago, a client refused to refer me to her colleagues unless i had a website -- a professional presence of some kind. so i did what i always do: went completely to the opposite extreme. the past 1 1/2 years are the timespan of that building process.

so now, there is a framework in place, complete with a homebrewed, ostensibly extensible, web based project- and client- management app.

having done all this preparation, i look back at the original goal: to create something. does the first principle hold up from this point forward? now that the company is settling into solid foundings, what now?

there must be some way to arrive at a recognizable outcome for the everyday efforts. walking in the city, names etched into the cornerstones of buildings: the dying wishes of the rich to be remembered for something other than their riches... seems a waste, to spend a lifetime scrambling for 'profit'. when the coffin closes or the urn is sealed, will there be anything left at all? and who really reads those dead rich peoples' names as they pass by on their daily travels? i can't remember a single one. they all blur together as a statement of "the rich and forgettable". it must be true that in time, all is forgotten, but i wonder if the true meaning of one's work is best reflected in the effect that it has on the people who see or touch it. and if the achievements of a lifetime are better measured by their reverberations beyond the grave, than by the amount of earnings stockpiled for the next generation to squabble over and squander.

a technician doesn't create. he restores a system to zero, to an optimal, fully functioning state. he then disappears and leaves no trace. beyond this, although a craftsman may create a functional artifact for little more than a paycheck, he still can point to that artifact as the outcome of his effort. further still, an artist creates, with the hope of capturing something of the human condition as an echo captures a clear voice traveling across the innate emptiness of time and space.

what is an artist without a lasting contribution to his field?

how does he choose, when the future is always uncertain?

audio: oxia . reflexion (deetron remix)

at this point, i have no idea where things are headed.

something does feel right, though. physically. four years ago, i can remember. prescriptions and other concoctions. this body was not fully possessed by its owner, in a sense. the outcome of semicontrolled chemistry, sleep deprivation, a soup of negative emotions and their attendant electrochemical manifestations.

to cut the memories short before they return, a summary would be simple: stress and confusion, too much of both; time and money, too little of either.

unwinding into the present, the mind slowly unknotting itself, starting to stretch and explore. as this happens, all those wish-question-curiosities that remained as trace elements in the back of my mind are increasingly asserting themselves... the sphere of ideas, the internal reality from which the world can be considered, is becoming stronger.

the question now, though, is how to bring the internal

out

in a way that maintains congruity with the self-construction that has already taken place. it was who am i, now it becomes how shall i...

seems almost laughable, then, that something as openly villified by most people would provide a source of strength. the word, even, is difficult to speak without evoking some melodramatic flair, a gasped utterance of the insufferably obvious. perhaps i should whisper it, then: suicide.

in a society that provides so little for its people, we work to eat. the alternative, as persons in an aristocratically networked order, is that we cease to exist. we fall off the map as disconnected nodes. what if we were to live, i mean really live -- not just survive -- or die? not just the symbolic death of the homeless and ignored, but real, apparent, permanent death. what would happen if survival was not enough.

to live this way or die this way, for lack of a comfortingly empty mythology on which to rest at the end of the day. i wonder if this body can hold up to the test. but physically, i am strong, every day pushing myself to become stronger. the unbalanced equation lies deeper, as i suppose it must.

so many variables.

audio: infusion . better world (josh wink mix)

over the past couple of years, there has been a semi-regular rotation.

eddie izzard's favorite animals... the squirrels take up residence in a crook of the tree that grows nearest the window. the season passes, and soon enough they are gone. as old gatherings of foliage and nest material fall away from disuse over time, a new arrival wiggles her nose and rubs her paws together in anticipation. and so it begins again.

a welcome interruption from the daily non-routine of staring blankly at the computer screen. the furry grey acrobat jumps, dives and comes to a frenetic screeching halt, all with a branch in her mouth that nearly equals her length, tail included.

over the past few months, it seems that dreams and realities are becoming strangely intertwined. a couple of books have arrived regarding the realities of the acting world. a client (two, actually, one a former model herself) has recommended taking headshots. and a new friend who owns a fashion consulting business mentioned acting as a possibility.

the toughest part of all this is not the creativity (i hate writing code unless it does something cooool), but rather the channel for that creativity. modelling is not terribly creative, but i am a closet style-whore... ;) meaning that my style is as simple as possible, but people still feel the need to comment from time to time.

acting, though, is more interesting. the psychology of it. getting into a character. realizing that the audience can actually have a real response to a person who is, at the heart of it, pretending to be someone else. the strangeness of "living truthfully under imaginary circumstances"...

the other parts of acting -- the narcissistic "joy of performance", illusion of fame, etc. -- are not so interesting, considering that most people are sheep: hence, they applaud loudly when they see other people applauding.

it's just a hard thing to wrap a brain around... but then, not really. the pull toward money and the struggle that is already present (a.k.a growing the business) is very strong. tiny strides forward seem so important. it is very easy to forget that there is so much more to life than this.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/girlwithagun/

http://geekgirl.motime.com/

maybe worth linking. later.

===============

this whole "blogging" concept seems a bit out of favour, nowadays.

odd, though, how the most new and dazzling ideas come during workouts. so much so that there is now a new piece of equipment that acts as official accompaniment to sweat and energy: the small artists' pad and a ballpoint pen.

most likely the reason for all these thoughts is the opposite of what makes computer programming so maddingly addictive at times: conscious logic. the workout that can be called 'mixed martial arts' in some ways embodies what is happening in mind at the time. in the progression from

warmup to technique- and strength-training, cooldown and stretch,

conscious mind is fully occupied with maintaining technique as i push to move faster and hit harder. limitations are boring so there is always an urge to get stronger as time passes. as the drills become more varied and time becomes more compressed in the 'moment', unconscious mind finds ever-widening windows of opportunity through which to whisper ideas and new interpretations.

the reflection in the mirror is beset by an irreducible contradiction: certainty in one area (business) and urgent curiosity in all others (they all say that youth is fleeting). curiosity is both strength and weakness at this point, split into two impetuous children finding balance on the delicate, shifting seesaw whose fulcrum is time itself.

on one side, business. on the other, creativity. how can creativity be indulged without the foundation of secured funding to feed it? the business is growing, slowly, but at the end of the path, amidst an imagined backdrop of wealth and achievement, the question of true attainment is a menacing garish brightness that threatens to unravel the dream itself. money is not what a human mind was designed to create; not this mind anyway. the question is where the path lies upon which footsteps will eventually reach

a world where creativity can create wealth
as a side effect.

does this world exist without descending into the depths of product placement and media junket hell?

the actor-artist fears commercial success; transformation into marketing object/studio image, "icon".
the model-mannequin fears commodization of youth in the dejected narcissism of the older, future self; thousands of reprinted, retouched, manipulated mirror illusions.

the face becomes owned by someone else. and what becomes of mind and body?

. . .

these fears are a waste of time.
consequences will have to wait.

old age will come regardless, as well as what comes after.
action must come first.

Why do they agree to the bargain society has made for them? The answer to that question, I think, suggests Ishiguro's message: The real world raises many of its citizens as spare parts; they are used as migratory workers, minimum-wage retail slaves, even suicide bombers. "The Island" doesn't go there, but then did you expect it would?

1950: At age 14, he aspires to become a journalist and is a reporter for the youth newspaper, which is under the influence of the government. After a relative is imprisoned without trial, the newspaper stops publishing Andris's articles. The experience turns him off journalism. "I was crushed as only a slighted adolescent can be," he later writes. "I did not want a profession in which a totally subjective evaluation, easily colored by political considerations, could decide the merits of my work." He turns from journalism to science.

time to get up.

i wonder.

are my friends still alive?

it's been a long time away. a freshwater clam lies patiently on the seabed, waves creating a gentle rocking sensation. inside the mouth of the clam sits a grain of sand. the feeling of the sand is irritating to the sensitive membranes of the clam; aggravating, even. its shell turns a bright furious pink over a period of twentyfour years. regardless of its color, the clam sits patiently.

i wonder if they are still my friends.

on the twentyfourth day of the twentyfourth year, the clam wiggles. exhausted, it stops. then it wiggles again. eventually, the clam wriggles itself free from its sandy moorings and tips over. the clam has no eyes, just a shell for a mouth, and that annoying piece of sand inside that seems to get bigger and harder over time. wiggles, tips over. wiggles, tips over. suddenly the clam can move! but it takes so much energy.

being alone has its upsides, but i learn faster in conversation with smart people.

in the twentyfifth year, the clam realizes that has been rolling nonstop for a very long time. it doesn't know that one year has passed, because clams have no eyes to see the sun rise and fall. the clam can feel water pressure massaging its shell and caressing its lips; nearly at the shore, just a bit farther! high tide helps the clam roll along, and soon the clam feels warm, wet, hot, the edge of its shell tingling with excitement. in a moment of irrational clam exhuberance, it rolls completely out of the water. the clam is dripping, wet, warm from the sun and the strange new sensations. but so tired again, sleepy.

i wonder when i will be able to see them again. sometimes i wonder if all this is worth doing.

now out of the water, the clam yawns a big yawn, and out pops a priceless black pearl
that was once an annoying piece of sand.

steam descends and blankets the earth by cover of night. it hovers, lighter than air, forming clouds. flying high, invisible, the creature breathes, heat scorching the air as it exhales. clawed feet elegantly consummated in articulate talons, this lithe being glides along, presaging the course of events in a sharp gust of wind, pushing the alignment of slumbering minds toward their proper states as the sun creeps over the horizon. the sun, with its illuminating effects, must be properly obscured for this magic to take form.

as it was today, gray, cloudy and quiet. the wind pushed fresh foliage from a state of contentment toward a frenzied confusion, then just as quickly disappearing to leave the branches alone in a tousled intermission.

a day off. a day to be the other self, the creative one. it's a crisis, every month, at least once: a battle between the intuitively minded artist and the pragmatically self-assured technician. as time passes and more responsibilities accrue over time, business seems to be a series of compromises. how can a dream be pushed before it breaks, or turns into something that the dreamer will barely recognize in retrospect?

this is not about the cost of success; it is a question of what can be sacrificed for the sake of appearances and material gain. a quick return to the past reveals fears of rejection, and uncertainty about the usefulness of an artistic career. there was a distinct moment in time, when the decision was made. now the time has come to re-evaluate: artist or technician.

the path diverges at this point.

audio: geoff white . wubub

spending so much on their lifestyles when i was very young.
perhaps before i was born.

an old shoebox. the faded $125 dollar price tag, worn away in spots.

our house sat hunched in the "inexpensive" part of an expensive neighborhood. pops was a middle manager at a bank, an immigrant who had come here and faced a continual struggle to live the so-called american dream. the only things i saw from him on a regular basis were a neglected body, a repressed mind and signs of constant stress.

for a while, i feared him; there was always an undercurrent of his traditional upbringing in his eyes anytime that one of the kids had done something wrong. he wanted to give someone a good beating, but settled for unspoken intimidation and threats of kicking us out on the street. i remember thinking about leaving a few times, but there was nowhere to go.

by the time i was a teenager, money seemed to be getting tight; no more vacations, no more expensive shoes for mom, the house had started to fall apart. the cupboard was more empty than full. tension seemed to spread from pops to mom; her face was often pinched, her manner distant and preoccupied. i started to withdraw, realizing that my brother was becoming increasingly violent, to the point of being a mild sociopath. as it became obvious that my mother would use manipulative tactics on anyone or thing that she couldn't crush by dint of authority, i withdrew from her as well.

my teachers at school were surprised that i often knew things about their subjects that were neither in the syllabus nor the textbook. classes became lessons in the torture of imploded daydreams. in creative assignments, rather than write about myself i would concoct stories that conveyed feeling without personal detail. of course, this was seen as disobedience, and i sat in detention much more often than anyone knew.

eventually, pops lost his job. the middle class illusion was gone along with the house, the lawn, the family savings, and my grandmother's sanity.

my friends changed, my attitude changed. i started to like to fight. there was a certain pleasure in frustrating my teachers, but in the end the battles would be lost. otherwise they would have lost face, lost authority. sometimes i was wrong, but didn't care.

destructive, but not self-destructive. attempts to destroy myself only resulted in my becoming something else. hence, a recurring thought has become "anything i can get myself into, i can get myself out of." there is still no apparent future, but my ability to use foresight to manage the unexpected has improved, by necessity.

i have a friend who's father is a diplomat. although he crows on about his travels, trials and achievements, everything he has gained comes, directly or indirectly, from his family's support and/or connections. he likes to say "we are so lucky..."
in a way, it may be that i have charmed him, as i have done with many others. i reflect to them the most interesting parts of themselves. eventually they come to identify me with those parts, never knowing that they are actually gazing at a polished reflection of their idealized self-images.

in writing "middle-class" privelege, this is what i mean. something that others referred to in the past, but that i could never taste, feel or touch... i never knew my father: saw him sometimes, heard his angry, frustrated voice every now and then, touched him rarely, was never allowed into his world.

it doesn't matter now. my parents and older brother are perfect role models: they demonstrate exactly what not to do

unless wants to lose everything,
or have nothing in the first place.

the middle class no longer exists for me.
there is only real success or nothing at all.

audio: buscemi . seaside

After our incredibly businesslike conversation earlier this evening,
here's the part that was left out when you had to go:

My policy thus far is to build from scratch. Clients come from
business connections. No leveraging of personal advantages allowed.

I know it seems that I may be shooting myself in the foot.

In five years, however, looking back at the success of this company,
it will be satisfying to say "this came from experience: real effort, not
some middle-class advantage or position in society." And of course,
in case of failure? The accounting begins and ends with
my own strengths and weaknesses.

The remnants of my childhood idealism have boiled down to that,
I guess. Plus, there is the issue of doing business with friends -- I can
tell you the stories next time we see each other... Needless to say,
the properties of water and oil come to mind.

So that's the deal on the deal. If you need a hand, I will be glad to help.

To me, at this point, business is a cold thing. I would rather not
subject a friendship to the arbitrary emptiness of money and expedience.

Know what I mean?

Let me go do something else before I write out some kind of 'personal manifesto'...

dipolar or bipolar?

busier on the inside. more projects in the works; more ideas to manage, even collaborations with a few people. from the outside? only a few differences are apparent -- disappearance into the world, then return and disappearance behind closed doors.

seems that, as there is more to be done, resistance to one creates attraction to another.

+ push: the blue sky and spring sunlight beg a retreat from computers and networks. result: more work toward mastery of computing, in order to earn the money to find freedom from the dungeon of physical inactivity.
- pull: itching to go down the street and walk into a jujitsu class. which in turn engenders the recall of old memories; reviews of hapkido locks and gracie chokes now occupy a few minutes of every workout.

+ push: dodgy behavior from clients leads to study of psychology, influence and persuasion.
- pull: the discontented sex object learns to speak and seduce ;)

+ push: a desire for creative expression results in hours spent transforming concepts to code, writing a client/project management system for the business.
- pull: a recent article about smart devices and small worlds results in a mention on the front page of wired magazine's web site. i write more, draw more, and have decided to pursue acting again...

+ push: changing sexual curiosities.
- pull: starting to ponder the definitions of bisexuality versus androgeny.

almost as if the struggle for simplicity leads to complexity, the push for one aspect causing a reciprocal need for its opposite. an interesting note about the push-pull effect: this thought structure is actually based on intentional choices, both conscious and unconscious -- resistance (and sometimes failure) in one area, often contributes to successful understanding in another.

audio: pole . pole 3 . track05

so unfulfilling.

after spending the past two weeks in an excruciating search for the wasurenai kara pv, finally i have it. there was a torrent available on the publicMM tracker about six months ago - all of his pv's, a few cm's and tv appearances. of course, in the switch between m$ and fedora, hard drive space was tight and the gackuto had to go.

all that happened as a precursor to the recent blog absence over the past few months... for the moment, the faux-blue-eyed japanese rockstar was gone. not forgotten.

his look is about as natural as -- anything about the kano sisters, for example. but just like the kano sisters, it doesn't matter. both [all three, to be exact] have a sexy-synthetic look, but the mysterious gackt is actually an adequate vocalist. and according to jihaku, he is both: a) somewhat gorgeous and b) not firmly in possession of a stable mind.

there are particular elements of media that serve as anchors for psychological states. the re-experience of those media triggers memories -- the video/audio/text frames the moment, allowing a kind of re-entry into sensations and thoughts of the past. at the moment of wasurenai kara, my mind was changing, gathering momentum toward the lifestyle adjustments that must seem unthinkable to those who knew me before: i wake up earlier now; the sense of humor strikes at different moments; sarcasm and sullen anger is now increasingly counterbalanced by a disinterested shrug (and maybe a wisecrack).

having written that, i train harder on a consistent basis than ever before, and the intensity feels normal where before it would have been a strain. in a way, i feel less need for violence, but a greater acceptance of its inevitability.

what does that mean? i don't know...

and the catalyst for this repurposed mental state? i can't quite pinpoint it, and not all of this change feels better than what came before. feeling more like myself is not necessarily better than the years that came before. this "naturalness" is in a sense contrived; in a reductive sense, it is little more than the replacement of one set of habits with another.

it seems, though, that this sense of self is more adaptable than its predecessor; less prone to stress, more likely to act on a well-considered impulse than to brood and worry.

death comes to mind with more strength and frequency. part of me doesn't want these changes, and wants instead to destroy itself. not a subtle feeling at all, but at the same time, neither characterized by panic nor fear. just a reminder that life needs to have more positives than negatives, otherwise the outcome is quite clear.

my hand has been forced; i make these changes out of necessity. and that is the only real fear left: what if the endpoint of this transformation leads away from the crucial detour that i have been looking for all this time?

if only death were temporary, and reincarnation a certainty... if only i could kid myself into shrugging off the questions; if only for the myopic peace of mind that a closed, "single" mind brings.

audio: ltj bukem . point of view

over time, creative repetition gains new meaning.

this side of the earth's face slowly rotates away from the pale daylight, bringing an empty shroud of darkness earlier every day. the moon rises later, shining brightly on my skin as i reach out toward an absence of sensation.

after seven hours, my eyes open to a day of long shadows, fast workouts, hazy deadlines, alternation between speed-up and slow-down, diurnal wanderings interspersed with fuzzy violent dreams.

it seems that quiet, nagging thoughts eventually coalesce toward a critical point -- an expected but unpredictable form of expression. the resulting change in direction takes place only when necessary, as it feels impossible to continue otherwise.

days become longer now, the sun warmer and breath easier, the shadows untangle from my mind, releasing my thoughts.

at a glance, things have changed on the inside: a new sleep schedule, new computing environment, a calmer, more flexible mindset, and a transformation from rebellion to positive expression. the rebellious instinct now enables creative expression rather than paralyzing inhibition.

after all of this studying-thinking-dreaming, the stage is set for actually becoming.

as if a new year is beginning.

audio: lusine . rushhour

*loud yawn in the background*

maru: time to wake up, saru... the sun is coming back!
saru: but my prehensile tail... it's gone!?

maru: yes! we used to eat humans, but now they are our friends!
saru: but... how will i scratch that spot between my shoulderblades?!

maru: here, let me do that for you!
. . .
saru: mm, maru, you have... breasts? so perky and round!

maru: oo, saru, looks like -- your tail isn't really gone after all!
saru: well yes -- it does seem as though things are looking up, aren't they!

maru: *mowr*
saru: *rowr*

====
note: maru is a fictional character.

U.S. Endless Fruitless Iraq Weapons Hunt

one moment please.