disconnected.

everyday thought: "and it all goes downhill from here..."

threshold crossed and door closed, steel jigsaw teeth penetrate along the receptive edges of the lock's tumbler mechanism. the key turns, bolt slamming into place along the reinforced doorframe.

time distortion.

in five footsteps, the door is reached, buzzer pressed. front door personnel recognize the presented human form in a circular mirror reflecting around the corner of the hallway through heavy security glass.

the buzzer screeches. access granted, the door opens.

everyday thought: "smile. they're paying you..."

experience is the best teacher? tests before lessons, tuition calculated at the cost of a lifetime. experience is a simulator without a manual, an off switch or an exit.

what happens when the student outwits the professor? experience itself is no longer a reliable indicator... loss of perspective. confusion, fear, alienation. of course, it is a blissful purgatory, one that is quickly burned away to expose the mettle of that which lies beneath.

confusion forms identities, either from an internal source or external ones. a forced decision to reject the structures imposed from outside, or accept them. to reject is to fashion an external appearance that bears little resemblance to the internal reality.

the problem of personal rebellion is internalized dissonance. changing the outward signs is not enough, as psychosomatic manifestations arise. irregular sleeping patterns, violent dreams... unspecified illness that culminates in an episode of blood vomiting that emergency room staff cannot explain. consciousness as embodied phenomenon: the story is written at the corners of the eyes, along the hairline, within the resting tonus of musculature, foretold by the functions of the digestive system.

even then the lesson is not completely learned.

splitting tension headaches sometimes followed by nosebleeds, a sense of isolation from the everyday world. a turning point... meditation and martial arts training for up to sixteen hours per week, two to three hours per day. the study of cognitive science, self-hypnosis, guided imagery. as well as ways of dealing with the external world as three years become four.

in time, varying degress of control: in rare moments, anticipation of the words and actions of others. it takes so much effort... unless it is buried in a double meaning, the world still recoils at the touch of this self-concept. and of course, who is listening anyway? they simply wait for their turn... every day that the automatic doors buzz open, the occupants inside know nearly nothing about the individual who is so warmly welcomed into their confidence, although, paradoxically, this is the safest course to travel. characterization at the level of cordiality and common courtesy it is to remain at the level of barely socialized survival.

time distortion.

six fifteen in the evening, into the quiet semidarkness of the city street. embraced by the muted sounds of automobile engines and tires rushing along the avenue, this non-reality of engineered perceptions seems to exert a gravitational pull unto itself. the continuum of feedback from the world is perceptibly wrong. it feels like a trap. a trap that can require an entire lifetime to understand, day after day, the boundaries of which may only become clear as the result of dissipated energy and time.

the tension headaches are coming back. funny though, now they only attend certain thoughts, dutifully receding as the subject changes. it is an amusing trick, to give oneself amnesia.

audio: ficta . eli

eyes open, three hundred and sixty options rotate into focus. a complex system of internal representation and negative feedback divides each fifth of a second into a single snapshot of possibility. a compass has no history, and has no use for memory, as it always points toward magnetic north. the human eye, as a direct interface to the brain, also directly interacts with the outside world, touching the visual spectrum and filtering millions of bits of information per second that must be sorted, reassembled, interpreted against past data, parsed and at long last, understood in the context of position, movement and eventual destination.

which way is up, which way is out

tapping along in a steady rhythm, he had become an accomplished creator of his own kinesthetic map radiating outward five feet at a time. his left hand released the hand rail as he regained equilibrium at the foot of the stairway. the room was a regular rectangle, strewn with everyday obstacles; a phone booth, a vending machine, a bench. although i looked beyond the tinted lenses and into his eyes, he could not see me from my vantage fifteen feet away at an oblique angle, perched on a chair in the corner. he tapped past me in a tentatively confident manner, extending his reality step by step in the darkness of his publically private world.

he seemed to turn ever so slightly. as he turned, his radius of awareness also adjusted to a minute degree. a bit more. he was no longer walking in a forward direction. still further, and he suddenly detected a columnar object in his path. maneuvering calmly around it, he continued along his new trajectory. his cadence increased, seeking more feedback from the environment in order to compensate for his unexpected new bearings. beginning now to walk along diagonals, hoping to gather more input and perhaps restore his previous direction, he soon found himself utterly lost. wandering past a man with his daughter who stared dumbly on, he tapped and turned, tapped and turned, finding only more obstacles and eventually moving as if completely boxed into a nine-foot by nine-foot area. if only he could have seen the fact that the obstacles were actually nothing more than supports for the structure of an otherwise open, sunlit room.

an apparently homeless man intervened in a few minutes' time, himself wandering in an equally unguided way toward an uncertain, yet seemly ill-fated destination. aided by sight, the homeless man possessed a sensory capacity, but lacked a deeper sense... as they began to interact, finding agreement on a common purpose, both men moved in a tentative unison toward the door.

audio: global underground | shangai . nick warren . sorry to be rude

INDIVIDUALISM IS TRENDY
A slice taken directly from the lives of two gloriously self-actualized, young American women.

---

Here, look at this, it's all the rage. Antique, or something.

(running her fingers over the letters, as if written in Braille) T-h-e... F-o-untain..-h-ead..? Is it anything like US Weekly?

They say that if you carry it in your bag for a week, you'll get smarter. Just don't look inside, I got the worst migraine for like, two days last week.

"Howard Roark laughed". Is he hot, like Kevin was? *Gasp* *Bursts into tears*

Not again. Here, throw that away. Let's go shopping!

(immediately ecstatic) I love you Paris!

(evil smile) I use... er... love you too, Britney.

Eyes are about ready to bleed from fatigue. Saru, pain is not an indication of success.

In transit, business casual. Even stride across carefully poured concrete skin, concealing the soil and earth beneath it with a crudely simplistic elegance.

Indications of class status in posture, elocution, style. Of course, these gestures are in a way, manufactured, contrived, as they always are: they level the playing field. To become adaptable. Gay, straight, poor, affluent, prole, top class, sensual, professional. All of these categories contain their own terminologies, mannerisms and power dynamics. And quite often, one identity structure contains undercurrents of the others.

Today:
"Close your ears, I'm about to talk trash about straight boys," Boy1 says. The girls laugh.
"Don't worry, you won't be talking about me anyway," I say quietly, almost under my breath.
Pause.
"Straight boys' skin is _always_ so dry. They don't give a shit about their skin... ugh."
"I always carry a small bottle of lotion in my bag," I reply. "So I guess that, by your logic, that means that I'm... not straight...?"
"Or you have reaally rough skin!" GirlNumberZero chimes in.
"Or my skin is silky smooth," I counter, looking directly into her eyes. Pause.
Suddenly everyone is quiet for a moment. "...Next!" I say with a smile, bringing energy back to the conversation. Boy1 opens a new topic as if on command.

Two Days Ago:
"I'm gonna put you in business," he says. He's my Sly Old Fox, the tightfisted millionaire client who I've been courting for the past two years. Finally, he has opened up -- wants to partner in a new venture. From Sly Old Fox to Angel Investor... why the switch? I realize that he has no access to his emotions. The key is his wife. She is his pulse, his connection to other people. He is a machin, a flesh-and-bones mechanical turk. The homunculus who pulls the levers on the inside of his reality is actually the woman who stands beside him through thick and thin.

Oftentimes, the key is not what is said. How does his state of mind shift as he interacts with those close to him? How does he tell his stories? When does he suddenly transition from logic to an emotional frame? What are the physical indicators of his emotional state?

Everyone has a thumbscrew. Pleasure and pain can be used in their proper turns. The only problem is knowing when not to use technique; to simply relax into the interaction and flirt with the possibilities that lie hidden beneath the words. Yes, it is a game, and everyone plays. To ignore the rules is to play badly. To master its principles, on the other hand, can become quite amusing, especially to recognize that each person has developed their own skillset -- and is trying to use it with every word that falls from his or her lips.

There are no victims and ultimately, no winners. What is the purpose of this game? I do not know. Happiness does not emerge from proficiency in this turning of the screws and massaging of intimate mental structures; yet, to play badly is to ensure misfortune. Perhaps it is best to be content with a "volitional morality" of sorts -- acknowledge the rules, and break them when necessary.

Halloween:
She wears high-heeled knee-height boots, a laced corset and carries a small whip. The bondage collar is smooth to the touch and warms quickly to the pulse of my jugular vein and carotid artery... Until tonight, I didn't realise that she likes to play. Tonight, though, things are a bit different.

Yesterday:
"Want to see how the other side lives?" I said, smirking with _you can't handle it_ in my eyes.
She leans close. "I want to see... how the other side fucks," she breathes. I lean back and look across the table. My other friend is becoming visibly upset... the game begins.

audio: karen overtone . your loving arms

mr. oh is back.

note to self: link him.

paralysis.

dreams from three years ago, the lifestyle from five years ago, present intentions for the future. all collide and come crashing inward in a single moment. eyes surveying the immediate environment, searching for an anchor by which to pull the present back into focus.

have i been moving forward all this time? have i been moving at all?

spending so much time (re)building the inner world. materials, expensive; so much time is gone. all of these parallel realities, begun at various times and in different places. starting and stopping, turning and running toward revisions of the best possible outcome. with each revision, it feels more to be a whittling away of extraneous pieces.

whittling away? best possible outcome?

the machinistic efficiency of these terms belies a frightful implication: this process has gone too far. all of the past decisions to turn away from one path and enter another seem to have stripped the present of its richness. so much drive, determination and forced awareness. all to arrive here? it seems an insignificant achievement. the electrical fire that once burned in plain sight has become tamped down underneath asbestos blankets of routine and daily detail. over time, the asbestos becomes brittle, fibers fragmenting into microscopic daggers that dig into sensitive tissues and multiply exponentially. the cure becomes the metastatic catalyst of yet another, more invidious toxin.

die outside, consumed by unchecked ambition, or be eaten away on the inside by unfulfilled desires as time marches in a grim lock-step, always toward some distant horizon that can, by definition, never be reached.

i can't keep turning into dead ends, only to reframe them as new opportunities; repainting a dimly light room to become a distant sunrise by clever neurolinguistic sleights of mouth. it is a talent that diminishes its own utility as it becomes more habitually ingrained.

image: hikki standing at the kitchen sink,
pretending to wash dishes,
singing in a beautiful voice.

audio: kyau vs. albert . unknown mix, 2005 . track 10

range murata
futurhythm
image 70

how is it that within one mind there can be such an opposition:

long term futility;
short term struggle beyond unconscious limitation.

unusual to hear two entirely unrelated people speak of the same phenomenon in different contexts over the course of a single day. negative hallucination, or the intentional act of not-seeing elements in the immediate environment. to an extent, most if not everyone does this at some point: the visual background fades away, allowing for deep focus on the person across the table; standing in uncomfortable silence next to strangers in a public place; drifting off into a daydream and the cooresponding diminution of visual awareness.

how often does such an automatic mechanism take control of everyday perception? as the raw data of visual/auditory experience becomes warped, it is molded into something entirely different. the semiconscious 'individual' is possessed of various autonomous states of mind, acting entirely outside of his or her own volitional control over the world.

it is amazing that people find their habits and lifestyles so difficult to change, and yet insist that they are exactly, and only, who they say they are. i am not transparent, even to myself. how much simpler it is to state a fact than demonstrate its truth, when lying just below the words is an oppositional motivation that must also be dealt with, sometimes beyond the reach of logic and reason.

every day it becomes clearer that buried within the actions of today are years of learning, some lessons intentionally learned, most not; some beneficial, others destructive; entire paths defined, only to be abandoned; some well worn, none complete.

audio: terrase . phase 3 . arabic mix

instead of grounding
a foundation
it is a scaffold raised
toward the sky.

eyes turn downward from the top,
down, down and down
and the rickety windblown
realization


there's no building there at all.

(J,)

I had a dream just before waking this morning. It is very long for an email and somewhat perverse, in a certain subtextual way. Perhaps you shouldn't read it.

You, myself and the Dapper Dee were trapped inside a building, all granite walls and well-aged furnishings. There were others milling about as well; background players, this time. Ji may have been there, and a certain woman, among others. They were not clearly visible.

As we wandered here and there, the building began to tremble. Stronger and more vigorously the vibrations came upon us as we slowly aroused ourselves to the fact that the building was indeed
coming apart with each tremulous wave.

Gathered together, scattered apart, dodging and running -- the building shook as if awakened from a long slumber and determined to become fiercely animate. A doomed intention, however, as marble cornice and granite edifice began to rain down on us in chunks the width of two men and weight of twenty five.

Oddly, though, I was not the hero, sweeping you off your feet and secreting you away to an underground escape corridor. To the contrary, it was Dee who, with inexplicable architectural knowledge, led us from room to room until the building revealed a fissure in its side. Prismatic gossamer threads of light filtering between the cracks of our erstwhile prison allowed us a final scramble toward the incandescent warmth of the sun, dust and falling debris threatening to envelop us at every step.

Did we survive? Having made our way to that fortuitous jagged opening in the crumbling structure, were we all able to breathe the pure atmosphere on the other side?

Awakened (somewhat) and wondering what it means, if anything...

(saru)

PS> Pardon my misuse of the word 'edifice'. It seemed to fit.

---

audio: zuell . olas de sal

sitting in the darkened room, small round table cluttered with a few beer bottles and tall drinking glasses. although she sits next to me, i am there by myself, sober as always amidst the spontaneous eruptions of artificially induced joy and laughter rippling around the table from time to time. every now and then an empty smile forms along the edges of my lips... it is a strange feeling to experience a sudden and absolute coldness toward someone else.

this is probably the underlying sense of the word "misogyny" mentioned a few posts ago. not a hatred. not exactly. the slight tinge of cruelty that creeps into my personality resonates as a reaction to something within myself.

perhaps it is linked somehow to the feeling upon waking some days. the feeling that death itself has perched at my windowsill and watches closely as i sleep. meditation allows the self to appear as an illusion, without border or substance. and yet, others seem too real; controlled by social forces, they seem possessed by games of power and fears of rejection. distaste for these games leads me to play them with a dispassionate eye toward destroying the personality of one who would use such tactics against me.

it wasn't her fault; this is the world of society. but for all the romantic sentiments that are bandied about with a careless nostalgia for an impossible future, i fear that there is no sympathy left within me, to say nothing at all of empathy.

so melodramatic... as time passes, i find myself caring less and less. death itself is not conceptually frightening. it is the prospect of survival, hammered and filed down to suit acceptable parameters. and who are the gatekeepers and enforcers of this carefully defined system? hint: the system is dyadic in nature; this system admits most naturally of dominant and submissive elements that often interact, exchange attributes and even allow reversal of roles, however temporary. all progeny of this system are born of such a dyad, although the dyad is often split by the moment of conception, with one monad grevious in its absence. all humans are products of this system.

that seems to my first (pseudo)object relations-based riddle. hm... of course, the answer is what this entry is really all about. and as always, this could all be a well-picked bunch of gibberish.

motion: john huston|arthur miller . the misfits

for some time now, i've wanted to learn about certain things -- shibari and breath play for example -- and yet, the exhibitionist debauchery of the past evening smacks of a certain desparate cliquishness.

(how's that for a statistically improbable phrase...)

perspective on the past. i remember from a different angle this time around...

volume is high, beats are deep, intensity on the dancefloor rising with each DJ set. i unexpectedly bump into a friend, not expecting to know anyone at the party. she gives me a hug; we exchange words and hand gestures. improvised signlanguage aids communication as waves of sound roll over us relentlessly, practically forcing our bodies to move in response. time begins to pass as though it were an extended moment; there is no longer past or future, care or concern. as the dj starts to emcee over a drum and bass song, though, i become intensely thirsty and realize that the bouncer confiscated my water at the door. navigating through the crowd, i eventually reach the small bar/chillout area and part ways with six (?) dollars for a bottle. sitting on a folding chair, i briefly examine the afterhours event flyers strewn about over the floor and on a small table nearby. my friend, who came with a few others, tells me that they are heading out to another party. by then she looks a bit more... energetic than normal humans are apt to become during a more or less average night, though. content that her friends are not shady types, however, we speak our last words. her ponytail and cute pink parachute pants are the last visual reminders as she melts away into the flow of human traffic.

a bit later, a crew arrives shortly after the rob gee set begins. these kids are the really real ones who show up at noon (12am) and stay until the djs pack it up for the night. about six or seven of them, it is clear who is who: the somewhat older guy who immediately gets into a kung fu-slash-popping battle with a younger kid, mercilessly destroying the kid's lesser style and skills; the disaffected girl who sits with a few others on a couch in front of me and to the right. she is clearly the one who everyone else in the crew adores, considering that she says little, wears at least three bracelets on each wrist and a visor with uber-kawaii neon blinking lights flashing at random intervals. the others hove around, trying desperately to look as bored as she does, then forgetting to look bored and generally evincing a kind of vaguely creepy ecstasy-enhanced enthusiasm for everything that happens to be nearby. this is the newer generation of raver who has been told how to dress, act and live... suddenly nervous, i check one of the flyers to be sure that it isn't sponsored by mountain dew or red bull.

there is one guy, however, who seems lost. no older than twenty, he wears the partykid uniform like a pro, but he just doesn't seem to get it. wandering aimlessly here and there, it's as if he wants something but can't find it. i almost want to shove him down the short stairwell and onto the dancefloor where the hardcore kids are gleefully shoving, stomping and throwing joyous elbows. the lost one floats about for a few minutes, looking oddly out of sync with the rest of the crowd. eventually he meanders to an empty seat next to me as i contemplate jumping into the pit myself. instead, i strike up an incredibly short conversation, consisting of mainly grunts and nods on his side. open-ended questions like "who's the headliner tonight?" are actually not answered by grunts and nods... so i realize that his empty vibe is boring and walk away to enjoy the rest of the night. somewhat cruel? maybe, but there is a girl in the center of the pit holding her own among the rowdy bunch of sweaty boys. my curiosity is inevitably piqued. time begins to collapse into the moment again and sound becomes movement, as the night continues and eventually becomes morning.

audio: ferry corsten . punk

he said "a punch is just a punch"...

it's been an adjustment, starting a style that focuses on using the opponent's movement rather than my own -- despite having trained in a tiny bit of judo as a kid, and even smaller amount of gracie jujitsu and hapkido. so the past month and a half were spent away from the dojo, internalizing the basics.

misogyny.

for some reason, or no reason, the word appears.

(saru, your grammar is terrible today.)

screening thoughts. searching, sifting. nope don't write about that. a couple of experiences? nope. the past couple of years studying, um, this and that. nope. annoyingly high standards that lead to the rejection of women who, in turn, pursue even more... nope.

well. it is strange, though, to see from both sides -- pursuer and pursued. when a man tries to flirt, all too often it's painfully obvious: from the look in his eye, his "eager puppy straining to seem laidback" posture, the overt friendliness. i wonder if most men even realize that their intentions are telegraphed without even having to open their mouths. he so badly wanted it to be more than just dinner.

a woman, on the other hand, will try so hard to seem demure, disinterested, as if she is so not stealing a glance. even on the street, with the old "staring into a department store window as you happen to cross my line of sight" trick. or the "use my peripheral vision to see if he is checking me out" look... these are obvious because the woman, if seated nearby, will shift position, smooth her clothes, sit up straight and arch her back a bit and so forth. the best of all, though, is playing a nonverbal game with a cute stranger whose physicality is more forthcoming than her mentality.

we face each other, separated by a narrow aisle and two rows of seats. about my age, smooth complexion with slightly upswept eyes and softly painted lips. the sun outside inflames the humid atmosphere, in steep contrast to the soothing cool of the noisy conditioned air bustling through the interior of the compartment. eyes trained on the words in front of me, each breath is deep, even and settled, aligning the vertebrae into a naturally relaxed posture. she watches quietly from the corner of her eye, while gazing beyond the window at the clouds high above; it is more a feeling than a fact. paying her no special mind, my attention wanders back to the page at hand.

as our destination draws near, she seems to have changed posture only slightly... now, as we enter the darkness of an underground tunnel and begin to decelerate, the book is closed flat across my lap, as eyes also close for a few moments to prepare for the day's appointment.

opening slowly, reorienting to the bright visual stimulation of the car's overhead lights. she seems to shift again, slightly. as i place the book back into the knapsack, i also aimlessly check the time on my cellphone, then straighten in my seat, a silent yawn discreetly covered by cupped fingers and palm of the left hand. threading fingers together, arms extended and pushing outward just enough to tense the muscles in the triceps, forearms and hands, cracking the knuckles; rolling the shoulders easily forward and back to loosen them up a bit.

she seems to fidget as if restrained. a few moments later my hand semi-unconsciously reaches up to scratch a mild itch on the tip of my nose... and she mirrors my action exactly. just as quickly she snatches her hand away, suddenly self-aware, almost as if  upset with herself for being so obvious.

an inward chuckle; the game is won. she couldn't resist the imitation.

it only works sometimes, when the woman isn't too self-absorbed, or seems surprised when she really sees me for the first time. and of course, half the fun of mind reading through body language is making up the story -- as the communication unfolds in real time. it is a game of subtext, played by individuals who are open to it, intentionally or not.

if only people didn't ruin such games by feeling the need to talk endlessly all the time. although talking can also lead to other, more overtly enjoyable things.

a silly game, it is. i feel a rather intense dislike of being imitated, but when a woman takes my gesture as her own, the amusement is its own reward. and then of course all that talking business, and whatever comes after. 

there was always an 'in' crowd. always a group that set everyone's social expectations in a particular direction. there still is, in a way. i was always pushed toward them, expected to be one of them. nowadays, i still feel that expectation. the difference now is that there is no push within myself to accept or reject. the whole game is just that, neither ominous nor superfluous. it's just there, every time two businessmen meet and shake hands. every time a man meets a woman. even when two people accidentally bump into each other on the street...

tick.

do people not notice that their worlds are defined by unspoken rules, parameters, and boundaries? i see them too clearly, as gears in an antique watch. rather than simply glancing down to check the time, i become mesmerized by the sound of the mechanical teeth interlocking and turning, grinding and sliding against one another in a cyclical procession that marks the moments.

tock.

as much as i try to awaken myself from this feeling, it seems to persist nonetheless. how does a mind reframe itself to become less conscious, less aware? "i trust myself implicitly," he says. and yet, to gain in life may mean accepting the possibility that an intersubjective trust of the self in the world may be of greater importance than an introspective trust within the self as a singular entity.

i am one of billions. saru, do you really think that "you" are that important? equally, do you really believe yourself to be so special or different that humans must be "studied"?

these questions have pat answers. no, and no, are the humble responses.

acculturation is what makes a group of people similar in their approach to the world. and i can't help but see that many of the accepted truths and common sense truisms are neither true nor sensible. so the question remains: how to release this fascination with deconstructing the social landscape in an endless struggle to fashion a map that allows for some degree of control?

i don't know. this fascination seems to be the only reason that i've come this far. and my peers seem to make so many mistakes. in spite of myself, though, so do i. my intention until now was that understanding would accumulate and become effortless... to an extent, this has begun to take shape.

it may be that impatience is the true enemy here, as is so often the case. i can't help but feel that i am running out of time.

egosurfing while redesigning the template.

searched for one of the peeps who are linked from this blog... found this:

Notify Blogger about objectionable content. What does this mean ...

saru gerard reyes · eliza ootsuka · carrie.ellis blog. opera | firefox. selfdestructiveness is not an admirable character trait. ... saru.blogspot.com/ - 11k - Cached - Similar pages

had to laugh. must have been flagged for writing "selfdestructive" or some similar bullshit... anyways, i was about to post something about suicidal intentions, but now i realize that the content police are watching. so i'll write about it anyway...

"be careful who you tell your dreams to!", enthused the super-perky, lean and unusually well-preserved older woman wearing strict executive attire. as she stood behind the teachers' desk in the front of the room, she laid claim to the kind of spectacular career that accompanies type-a personalities and as-seen-on-tv success gurus. not to say that she wasn't good; on the contrary, as she became more animated, the energy level of the entire classroom rose with the volume of her voice and cadence of her gestures. an impressive performance. it has become secondnature for me to look for an angle when someone speaks in front of a crowd, though -- emotions are a tool in the hands of a skillfull orator. as she continued, it became quite clear to see her deftly handle questions from the class, easily brushing aside the ones for which she lacked authoritative-sounding answers.

as she sang the praises of verbalizing dreams, she also mentioned that it is best not to talk to people who will ask for explanation of the imagined rosy future. naturally, i had to take issue with this point, playing devil's advocate by innocently proclaiming that "it can be important to have someone play devil's advocate. for example, if you're not entirely certain of what  you want --" she cut me off with a dismissive wave, stating definitively that "you'll just know" when someone  is being constructive in their criticims, and when they are not. she then went on to invoke the logical fallacy of "us versus them" by denigrating questioners as being jealous for their own failed dreams.

that's about where i stopped listening, and started to be entertained by the spectacle. her audience was now increasing captive, nodding their heads and cooing in awe as she unveiled her brilliant approach -- equal parts the wise storyteller, niche marketer and self-help sloganeer.

it basically boiled down to the standard approach of "write down your dreams and think/talk about them obsessively until you reach your goals". personally, it seems that such an approach works well only if there are absolutely no doubts about the path itself. as a person grows over time, however, when can this non-questioning mindset ever be the case? and how is this distinguishable from the blindness of a onetrack mind...

this may be my downfall, however. in being too wary of hubris and missed opportunity, it is far too easy to say "no" to a dream in fear that the odds are not favorable. the question always plagues me, "what if it doesn't work out?"

and every so often, a certain dark corner of my mind becomes apparent in which the half-closed lid where those dreams are stored comes a bit unhinged. siren calls of an artist's life, fraught with hardship, accompanied by momentary satisfaction. life seems perpetually unfulfilled otherwise, an existence that grows more hardened, a joyless groove driven into the dusty, infertile ground. the groove deepens and widens, deepens and widens until the sunlight of possibility becomes a pinpoint in the distance, overshadowed by the pernicious advance of comfortable repetition. it seems that without the struggle to create, we live for little more than bread, sex, toys to ease our toilsome minds and perhaps a soft pillow to cushion our heads.

life contradicts its own instinct by leading us all inevitably to our deaths; my awareness of this fact drives me to see its manifestations in every waking moment during which i am able to spare a thought. it is almost as if i live a life driven by the concept of death. it is not a haunted daydream, more a reminder that i refuse to live a life that is little more than survival until the last unpredictable moment.

it is a torment to live with dreams that die. these imagined realities must be questioned, for it is through them that i live.

makes perfect sense, of course. to meet someone and not be able to go farther than hello and goodbye. the ideal dysfunctional, nonexistent relationship.

also amusing to watch myself completely disregard the unbreakable rule. clients are strictly offlimits. a hard rule to keep sometimes.

the impulsive one goes looking for a fight with a guy twice his size. he doesn't care about succeeding as a professional; as long as it's different from yesterday, he wants to do it now.
he doesn't mind the idea of losing a quality gig for the sake of playing with some girl...

stop, saru.

selfdiscipline is useless if it inspires its opposite.

"you and he could be twins," he says, smiling and offering his hand.

he receives a reserved half-smile in return and we clasp hands briefly. although the deep breathing rhythm lends itself to a deeper, more resonant voice, my name has to be repeated at least three times before he takes a stab at his own rendition. saying it slowly, he apologizes for the mistake. after a few moments of introductory banalities, we turn away from each other as he takes his leave. returning to the heavybag swinging from the ceiling at the edge of the mat, this is a light workout of doubles and triples -- jab-jab, jab-hook-right, jab-elbow, hook-hook, and so on. crisp technique creates a crease in the bag where it is struck; the crease, of course, becomes smooth again only a moment later. a punch that glances off the bag, however, tends to skin the knuckles in a somewhat unpleasant, blood-blister way. the humid heat of the auxilliary training area enforces the need for frequent hydration breaks and pauses for shadowboxing.

after about fortyfive minutes of punching, the fists begin to sport a light crimson crosshatch pattern. accomodating them to prevent breaking the skin, punches become palm strikes, simulated clinching and kicks/knees/elbows. the feedback of the heavybag feels good, footwork is still solid and crisp. it's been a long time.

hour and a half. cooldown, stretch. shins are sore, knuckles are dotted with rouge. body is empty of tension, mind is calm. it's not the fighting that makes it worth doing, it's feeling of doing it that matters. the same way in jujitsu, using joint locks and throws: the application of leverage and the sensation of weightlessness just after being thrown. in the air, time it, feel the position of the body in midair, and the clean dissipation of force through the extremities while landing. slap the mat, roll with the momentum and stand again to engage the opponent. knife disarms, gun disarms, joint manipulation, body dynamics. there is so much to learn... for the first time, being a white belt is actually fun, mainly because it's hard and everything is new. combined with the knowledge that one year from now, things will be very different.

recent activity threatens to overshadow
a basic concept.

study this, study that. shine an apple and leave it on her desk... become absorbed into the academic structure.

sit next to the right person. allow him to see himself in the reflective darkness that pools and swirls in a steady gaze, both mirror and shadow, open yet opaque. allow him to infer amplified selfconfidence and project his values; don't interrupt, only disrupt in order to deepen his identification with the simulated reflection of himself. soon he offers answers to exam questions, without having been asked.

there is another. this one seems to have a bit more understanding of things. during a break, he and i walk to the market to buy a snack. his technique is well-practiced -- seeing the long checkout line, he tells me to watch him work. having come to class from his day job, he wears a tailored suit. broadshouldered and above average height, he comports himself with an air of casual authority. in addition to the checkout counters, there is also a customer service desk equipped with a cash register. accompanying the register is an attractive young girl, no older than twentytwo.

as we approach the counter, he tells me of a similar situation in the past. describing his technique in detail, the outcome is clear before the first words are spoken. polished black leather steps slide him deeper into character as his face brightens into a playful grin. the girl seems a bit repressed and harried, bored and unsuspecting.

items in hand, he looks her in the eye. the grin broadens into a winsome smile as he showers her with effusive, generic praise. at first she seems skeptical, half-aware of the game and yet intrigued nonetheless. infusing his plight with a humorous spin, he deepens his commentary to interweave harmless compliments with compliance tactics. he may not have realized the full extent of his natural skill -- consistency, social proof, the inherent authority of his appearance, keying in on her latent desire to be appreciated. moments later, she is smiling, giggling and ringing up his purchase on the cash register.

as we walk away, she seems a bit off-balance, still smiling and saying a cheerful goodbye.

there is a certain set of skills that can be applied anywhere, anytime. no surprise that schools don't teach it, and most people aren't fully aware that it even exists.

audio: rj valeo . jarus

empty for the moment...

information architecture, design, development, typography, layout.
grid, type, search algorithms, web standards.

books beginning to pile on, the most recently read title sitting on top. using the old crt monitor as a book shelf of sorts, the pile is becoming an vertical organic entity. a haughty, layered puzzle of bubble wrap, dust covers, loud colors and packing slips used as bookmarks. still shrinkwrapped, one of them takes a disdainful pose. you can't read fast enough, you'll never understand what's inside me, someone else already knows and you'll never catch up... the opposite of two years ago, when there was no money for more than one (or two) books at a time.

this is a good dilemma to have.

and then there's massage school, and that girl who works for one of my clients. the one with the tattoos and piercings and short, jetblack spiky hair. she is a brat. she is also older than me. more about that another time.

suddenly, not enough hours in the day. some say that time is money, but at the moment, time is much more than that. time is experience. the money will come later. (will it? yes it will. repeat five times daily.)


audio: dave clarke . what was her name (original)

love

A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.

infatuation

foolish and usually extravagant passion or love or admiration; an object of extravagant short-lived passion.

conversation. familiar processes applied to unfamiliar content. virtual clusters of concepts aligned with one another. eventually the clusters tighten around the core complex of experiences from birth to present, originating in an embodied reality of touch and sight. extending, intertwined around one another, certain ideas become more densely connected than others, forming distinct personality traits and eccentricities over time.

there is no such thing as a blank expression: to give nothing in terms of indicated feeling simply begs the viewer to interpret on his own. it is interesting to watch someone squirm just a bit if you give them an even gaze for more than a few seconds; not a stare, rather, nonjudgmental attentiveness. most people seem to go ahead and judge themselves.

musical tastes, preferred communication styles, clothing styles and so on are spun into representations of sacred objects and values. arbitrary... friendship based on shared interests is contrived, empty -- we both like chillout music, so i lend him a CD; suddenly, when i arrive the next day, he chats to me as if we'd known each other for years. my comfort level is unaffected, but suddenly i feel the urge to twist his kindness, as if part of me believes that he deserves pain and uncertainty. rapport is too easy, it feels like fear dimly sublimated into an artificial closeness.

is this my fear, then? the human animal is capable of reversal at the slightest displeasure; this is my baseline expectation in any encounter. a kind of detachment has become natural, almost as if a secondary dialogue whispers beneath the articulated intonations. deception is a complex game, innervating self-perception as well as interpersonal conversation. and yet it seems that there is something, a precursor to semantic expression, a means of perceiving thoughts as they form. truth value is not an intrinsic element of the thought, but rather a result of the intention that guides the thought into being.

am i becoming conscious of being conscious?

this doesn't make any sense. i suppose it shouldn't.

audio: theorem vs. sutekh . canis

"it's like dog training. some people just need to be shown the alpha male," he says. i can hear him adjust the heavy glasses on the bridge of his nose. he continues.

"some people just have to find out the hard way."

the reasoning of an unrepentant geek is always entertaining, particularly when rationalizing his interactions with other humans. there was only one catch here -- actually, there were two:

1. this geek is working as a subcontractor for me; and
2. the unenlightened creature in his analogy, the one who so sorely needed training, also happens to be my client.

"are you familiar with zen buddhism?", he asks, growing increasingly pleased with himself as i simply listened to his voice.

"of course," i said, sighing quietly into telephone receiver.

• gensha.

"there is a saying," he says. "'If you understand, things are as they are. If you do not understand, things are as they are.'" an unimpeachable chain of logic follows. he rather deftly links this sage quote to the somewhat unrelated facts of the situation, eventually admonishing the client for his ignorance of technical matters. at this point, it becomes clear that my interjection on anyone's behalf places me squarely in the middle of a meaningless battle. on one side, the busy client who just wants this problem fixed yesterday. on the other side, a self-described "enlightened consultant" who believes in fixing everything at once in a flash of selfless brilliance.

i recently suffered from a bout of narcissism myself, however. this lapse was fueled by caring opinions and considerate advice combined with a latent desire for momentary escape. "chin up!" the photographer exclaimed. "give me the look... more, more!" an intermingling of physical presence under the heat of the lights and feigned emotional intensity needed to get the right look -- "there has to be something showing behind the eyes," he growled, fixing me momentarily with his best mix of svengali and mesmer. he then disappeared behind the camera. "now, the look! chin up! more, more!"

surprisingly exhausted by the effort of looking like a better version of myself for the past three hours, i slunk away to an afternoon appointment. the only real desire at that point was to remember what my brain felt like. oddly enough, though, even at that moment, the geek mentality remained strangely unappealing. hiding behind superior airs, script kiddie jargon and vaguely sadistic "junkyard dog" metaphors when dealing with other people. these attributes were thanklessly excised a few years ago, not without considerable effort. a few days after the photoshoot, however, this phone call offers a stinging reminder of postadolescence in the voice of a much older man.

the client, whose misfortune it was to deal with my opensource obsessed acquaintance, was simply a busy man with little time for technoevangelism.

my eyes travel downward quickly, glancing at the time on taskbar of my pda as it recharges on the bed. the backlit display shows brightly as the powercord snakes downward behind the dresser and shares a tight embrace with the wall outlet situated approximately five inches above the floor. gently guiding him away from his self-protective harangue, the word "linux" is casually mentioned. the wise old geek clumsily readjusts his glasses and switches tracks immediately. he rebounds into a joyous, gasping tribute to the virtues of puppy linux and mepis. part of me engages him in gagging on about the sheer coolness of this and that. the detached ninety-percent, however, ponders where to find a technician who doesn't fear other humans.

following a series of delicate phone calls, the situation with the client is resolved by the next toll of the hour. unfortunately, in this case, the kind judge is also the remorseless executioner: my zen consultant will have to find other human dogs to tame. a buddhist hippie computer geek with residual bits of ego and scant traces of humor isn't just a spoilsport, he's dangerous. and not in an "alan watts/seeing the really real world" kind of way, either.

seems to be the case for most people, though, geek or otherwise.

audio: refused . coup d'etat

pete burns.

anyways, its been a strange week. taken headshots, about to cancel a hookup with an old friend. maybe i should post the headshots... maybe i should call him back.

or maybe not.

the weird thing about shifting yourself into a new frame is that all sorts of other elements rise to the surface... as the positive becomes clearer, so does its shadow.

if it were possible to live an idealized version of your future.
predicted outcome of results from present actions.

. . .

"you look familiar..."

the heavset, tall grip looked at me as if vaguely starstruck.

"... have i seen you on, like, a reality show or something?"

quizzical, i cocked my head to the side a bit and wondered if he was serious. having been stared at for a few moments longer, he seemed not to have any other motive besides an answer for that odd non-compliment. stepping from the train car to the platform, as the doors began to close i left him with the only rejoinder that seemed possible given the circumstances.

a short laugh. "i hope not."

. . .

back to the question:
if it were possible to live an idealized version of my future, would i?

interesting to think that all of this curiosity about acting, theater and film has been centered around a single role. there is always the ideal character that seems to play itself out in tidal washes of imagined memory, inundating the mundane backstage realities of the present. amusing, now, that over the past nine months, other people appear to catch a glimpse of that character. and now i understand something more of the psychology, physicality and intentionality of him -- his superobjectives are becoming clear. they are becoming mine.

this creature of my imagination seems to quietly burst forth every now and then, choosing the moments of least reflection on the self and its peculiar minutiae. as the ideal image becomes more detailed, strategies also evolve to realign the old complex of obsolete personality traits. the old complex becomes malleable rather than crystalline, flexible enough to allow for mistakes to be made in the process of moving forward.

and what of the mistakes? there are already ways of turning those to the advantage; at times it feels as if life until now has been nothing but mistakes. from a different angle, an unfavorable sequence of events can be turned using a trick of perception. lacking any supernatural motivation, the effort yields no necessary reward other than the amusement of having subverted an obstacle, allowing it to be recast as an advantage.

ten to two.

so much time spent. stranded between the impulse to push through at full speed and the fear of finding a brick wall at the other end. of course, the problem was actually something else.

alternatives are only available to the one who decides. yet, it is all to easy to become distracted by outside events. how can the internal branches of future possibility be explored to the point of reaching an optimal moment of departure into the outside world?

a crow decides to invade squirrels' nests in the trees, malevolent intentions all but spelled out in the echoes of its coarse, dry voice. tropical parakeets, slingshot visions of cacaphonous flourescence as they catapult through the sky, thousands of miles from their ancestors and home environs. a hawk appears one day, imposing its wingspan in a graceful hover, eyes trained on the horizon ahead and ground below, haunting the airspace outside the apartment window...

is there any way to attain absolution for a life spent in search of anything other than happiness? reading, thinking, listening, studying; one element never seemed to maintain coherence in the presence of the others. an invisible population, a third sector, a world where greed didn't make sense as the motive for all other virtues.

elusive, obvious, simple enough to be easily obscured and confused. stepping back from the human world altogether, i look at the potential that ideas have to surround, penetrate and suffocate the mind. at some point, the gaze becomes reflexive and my own toxic beliefs begin to emerge.

the complex interactions of ideas, fears, hidden anxieties and underlying mistaken "truths" begin to reveal themselves. you are what you think about most... the fascinating difference lies in questioning the epistemology itself, deconstructing and reconstructing the unintended consequences that become integral parts of a conditioned response. creative understanding must be built into the core of a belief system, otherwise it will function as justification rather than imagination... and of course, creativity is impossible without comprehension of the limitations inherent in the system itself.

did i just completely misuse the word "epistemology"? hm. anyway, poverty isn't what matters anymore. falsehood doesn't matter. self-destruction is a reactive impulse; it is only a set of symptoms. slowly unravelling, the faultlines converge at the level of feeling, expressed through sensation and movement. at some point, coalesence begins around the shadows of understanding that glide in and out of awareness.

it's taken a long time, but the feeling, that feeling, has begun. and i have no idea where it will take me, or whether i can withstand/survive/become the embodiment of its manifestation.

audio: nitin sawhney . eastern eyes (seiji remix)

after spending about a year in semiseclusion, unfolding a software project from within an otherwise empty head. training harderbettersmarter more than ever. all thats left is muscle, skin, bones and brains.

now, looking back; moving away from the rigid demarcations between day and night, forced intercessions separating work and play. time to become flexible again, forget all the new lessons learned; allow the hard/fun work to melt away and mold itself into a new shape, ghost images of old knowledge blending into the background.

reset and reframe. gravity becomes foundation rather than adversary.

almost two years have passed overall. facing outward, things have changed. clothes haven't changed, hairstyle is the same. what is the difference? something has shifted, realigned itself, and other people are reacting to it in subtle, noticeable ways. interesting what happens when desperation is replaced by a detached curiosity. eyes opening again after staring only forward for so long, mistaking peripheral blindness for inevitable darkness.

in a vague way, it seems that volition is a questioning touch, the non-tactile exploration of a single perceptual intersection amidst a sprawling web of infinite size and texture. inching along that web, more is revealed over time. the key is to interpret that touch, to understand it in a way that allows for as many realities as it is possible to percieve.

and, of course, avoiding the spiders along the way.


audio: telefon tel aviv . what's the use of feet if we haven't got legs

Image of the day: rotund female wearing a backpack with obviously unused
boxing gloves dangling from the clasp.

Thought of the day: I am not a masochist, therefore not an actor, model, office worker, or professional masochist in the dungeon down the street.

Question of the day: Sometimes I wish to be everything that I am not. What aren't you, or rather, what are you not?

Comment of the day: Milk is for cows, but soy is for people. Therefore, humans are vegetables.


Day Two: Yes, No.
Quite some time will pass.


audio: green velvet . la la land (dave clarke rmx)

first blog post this year...

okay.

blogger tells me that i haven't posted since sometime in november 05. can i think back that far? the back of my head is itching suddenly.

perceptions of the past congeal into warped dimensions; twisting reaches of empty space punctuated by blurred lows and anticlimactic highs. high: the memory of an emotional state -- excitement, fear, anger; reaction.

spartan daily routine, empty bank balance, dreams of an unlikely future.
conflict, "self-improvement", "customer satisfaction", marketing jargon.
lamp [linux|apache|mysql|php] programming, 16hours per week of punches, kicks, footwork and locks.

where are my friends?

the dreams edge farther away, needing conscious reinforcement on a daily basis. i repeat my ultimate achievement goals over and over, revising them all the time, thus defeating the purpose of it being "ultimate"... increasingly obvious that these goals are stopgap measures. what reality does the mental imagery strive to obscure, with such grim determination and coercive repetition?

why am i doing this to myself? of course there are reasons. but the answers have been driven by environmental pressures, rather than internal motivations. first principle needs to align with deepest belief. "escape" is not a positive belief, it is a deficit motive based on fear. what is the first step to conquering limitation? problem definition -- defining the worst possible outcome; accepting the possibility as fact; working to improve on that set of circumstances. the "nothing to lose" strategy.

-

the waves are high, the sky is dark, there is a daruma doll bobbing just above the waves. as it reaches the upright position, another wave comes. crashing, heavy and strong, the wave submerges the doll under a rushing confusion of cold suffocation. daruma's face smiles as always, but as he rises to the surface yet again, his carved features are briefly enveloped and illumined at an oblique angle by a thunderous flash of brilliant sheet lightning. the existential contentment that is his only true attitude seems distorted, if only for a moment.

-

no real recovery, yet, from that moment about three years ago. money runs out, patience runs out, time seems to disappear before my eyes. it seems as if i die with my dreams.

oh, the tragedy! the melodrama. laughing at my self seems to be the second most important objective of thought nowadays... a grim laughter, a defiance of circumstances. it will be interesting, though, to see if there is a way out of this cycle of dream-action-confusion-disenchantment.

one way or another, i suppose.

the sword above his head seems so sharp
as he dances in pretend ignorance
only inches below.

a haircut
or a beheading
lies ahead?

audio: miyavi . genki ni naare

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