Illude

remember'd.

2011-11-29T04:20:00.001-05:00

Password forgotten for over a year, suddenly remembered, utterly by chance.Hello, old friend. I thought I'd moved on...The next question is how/if/when to move new posts, elsewhere, back to this blog, somewhere hereabouts...Note to self: ignore the "ponderethereal" link. Carrie is gone, replaced by some new young thing, not nearly as interesting either, it seems. Must remember to remove references to it.

2010-12-01T02:52:00.002-05:00

if another person asks me if they've seen me on t.v., or if i'm related to so-and-so famous person, i just might trade everything in my real life for the lavish lifestyle of a starving actor.

there was a period during which, if we'd just met (or ran into each other after a long interval), the other person would tend to ask "are you a (fitness) trainer?" or "are you the physical therapist?"

that period seems to have given way to "are you on a reality show?" or "are you that guy from xyz primetime drama?"

sometimes life gives hints. starting to wonder if it's not best to ignore them completely and go about doing whatever you would have in any case.

thinking about how well the "ignore life's somewhat obvious hints" strategy has worked so far, the answer seems considerably less obvious...

2010-11-30T05:48:00.005-05:00

"get the money out of the way now, so that you can get to what really matters."

note to self: do what really matters. if it is valuable to others, they might pay for it.

regardless, "getting money out of the way" is another way of making it easy to get lost running down detours... why wait for the midlife crisis? sitting in an expensive car, next to an expensive spouse, in front of an expensive house, the only thing missing is time. and by then, it's gone, spent in pursuit of "what-comes-before-happiness".

amazing to see so many people racing toward retirement, as if that's when their lives begin... as if the future were somehow real, or predictable, anywhere other than in their own minds.

2010-11-26T23:07:00.006-05:00

a most amusing aspect of fiction parallels that of interface design: the more completely the writer generates a fictional world (the interface) as it encounters/envelops the reader's sense of reality, the less likely the reader (user) recognizes that the familiar world has been transformed. the transformation is seamless, natural and goes largely unnoticed. reality becomes story -- that is when fiction can attain impact as a transformative journey taken by both character(s) and reader.

notes on the unenviable ingredients of superstars (and their orbiters)

2010-11-26T03:42:00.015-05:00

concept: living for the moment x egotism x talent = stardom

miss any of those parts, and stardom will probably remain elusive.

a person who lives for the moment tends to focus on what matters most, not deferring pleasure or those things that are most personally meaningful.

a successful egoist in the world is the opposite of what most people think. the "jerk" is very highly aware of the opinions of others -- in regard to him or herself. this makes the jerk a good communicator of what he or she wants... which is quite often the opposite of what a "nice" person would communicate. self-sacrifice runs counter to the successful jerk's purpose, which is self-advancement. no king crowns himself (or keeps his head for long) unless he can keep a group of people happy. the group can be the members of his court, or the subjects in his kingdom. the jerk knows how to use his or her network as a springboard and stable platform for keeping power central to him or herself.

talent, and oftentimes, early success, are crucial to attain stardom. every now and then a person outworks everyone in their field. the problem there is that a talented newcomer who works hard will win when competing against an ordinary try-hard. the only reliable way for an ordinary person to attain breakaway success is to start out doing something different from everyone else. the challenge there is that the herd may not follow, even if the idea is good. success as an iconoclast is as much a matter of timing and luck as it is on the value of the idea itself. so most successful people use talent as a shortcut in order to enter an existing field and overtake the competition.

a person without one or more of these traits may not find high levels of success.

someone who constantly defers to the needs of others will often find him or herself trapped in the cycle of a "nice" person. that cycle is characterized by a person who is liked for being "selfless" or always donating their time and energy to someone else's needs and desires. the real downside is that if the person ever stops giving their time and energy away, they are often viewed as "selfish" by their former friends. the feared outcome of self-assertion is to be deserted by everyone who currently gives love and approval in exchange for submissive behavior. it's a literally self-defeating mentality, because life is short. more money can be made; time never returns. humans tend to overestimate their own worth and understimate the value of others. most people are not naturally prone to fits of spontaneous gratitude. these factors combine to create a picture unfavorable for success in the case of the "Nice" person. the word 'nice' here is used in a specific way, since in personal experience, most people who self-describe using that word seem to fall into the cycle described here. they maintain just enough ego to mount a self-righteous defense against any who point out their less-than-useful patterns of behavior. self-justification and social reinforcement (described below) are highly effective ways to keep from changing in practically any area of life, particularly in relation to self-perception.

lack of egotism can also be the opposite of what it seems. a person who lacks egotism can often care less about what others think than the egoist would. it's a strange paradox that self-acceptance can lead to positive change, or it can lead a person to stay where they are, comfortable and therefore not terribly motivated to adapt to the outside world. a massive ego provides fuel to always need, seek and demand approval from others -- if only to stay on top and dictate one's own terms. lack of ego removes the catalytic need for dominance of others that creates the drive toward ever-greater heights of self-glorification.

talent is a difficult and elusive attribute. it may not show for years; it may exist in a different discipline than the one that a person would assume based on "personality type". many people stereotype both themselves and others, thereby obscuring and suppressing any contradictory or unexpected traits. those traits, by their unexpected, unpredictable and thereby unique nature, may lead to success. the less traveled road is by nature wide open for those few who travel it. a person who stays within a typical comfort zone will quite likely miss out on his or her potential for the discovery of individual talent through creative randomness. undiscovered talent quite happily stays hidden until a change of perspective makes it apparent.

---

it seems that society thrives on (or preys on) the fundamental human (and animal) fear of death -- intrapersonal, interpersonal, and within the larger field of existence. a person wants to feel good and in control; he/she wants the love and approval of others; as we all wake up after sleeping each night, so we come to expect this ad infinitum. the concept of non-existence is ungraspable for a mind that knows only its own illusion of continual personhood.

strange, then, to realize that so many "philosophies" peddled by the popular culture actually exist to maintain the status quo. "live in the moment", "become more conscious" (of your 'self'), "attain your special greatness in ten easy steps"...

what if survival itself were not actually virtuous? knowing that all things do end, perhaps the formula above leads to zero on both sides, regardless of the numbers entered.

what then?

audio: se7en . digital bounce

missed

2010-11-14T14:45:00.004-05:00

gerard reyes (insidemyhead), will santos (randominity), teresa (girlsareweird), ernie (littleyellowdifferent), cami chan (igotlasereyes), dan (mister danio's neighborhood), rabi (wockerjabby), carrie ellis, jaycine, jason oh, josh (josh's swank condo), eliza ootsuka (aimless bitchin in the soul kitchen), ms. kitten roar.

i remember... and appreciate...

seconds first

2010-11-14T14:26:00.006-05:00

In the midst of a year-plus whirling in creative worlds of an entirely imaginary sort, the trade is in disconnection from external memories of past selves. Slowly the recollections return from their resting places, sand through the sieve of conscious awareness, sometimes rude, never polite, always real, often raw...

...the cues can be so subtle as to graze over them and miss the bright flash of color or sound of a word -- not even the form that the letters make -- that resonates into a blossoming inward toward that deeper region of how it was, then.

An entire year of the child condensed into ten seconds, impressions decompressing into a maze of dimensions through which all feelings soak, and hold, and penetrate. The child is felt, seen, heard, transformed in reverse to find whatever the reversion portends for the one who is brought back.

In the present time, eyes turn outward again, seeing empty walls and wondering where the child is, now. Knowing that having been is not so different from being. The stream simply flows down an unknown path, and is never the same twice.

The Meaning of Happiness.

2010-10-20T01:15:00.008-04:00

Suddenly I understand the meaning of the saying, "father dies, son dies, grandson dies" in response to the question "what is true happiness?"

What happens when the pages turn, out of order?

Back to Step 2

2010-10-08T03:50:00.006-04:00

Flying over the timeline recreates the past as though there were some hidden plan to reach the present.

Although that to some extent is true, there also seem to be a few parts still missing.

As always, though, the path is dark from the present onward. There is nothing set in stone until the indeterminate point in the future where the unbroken path simply ceases to be.

Fascinating how alternate futures can be laid ahead as though illuminated by an infallible certainty that feels more true than reality itself... of course, the strength of dreams is confounded by the intrinsic weakness of a perfect ideal: the future is always an illusion based on incomplete information and substantiated by the ghostly grasp of free will. Free will is also highly determined by past experience and its accumulation of perceptual preferences in conceptualizing the present.

Back to step 2. Step three was obsolete before it could be fully realized... perhaps the foresight of failure is better than the full-blooded experience of it. Maybe it's a sign of a mind that has finally begun to simulate accurately... the odd part is that even the most whimsically prototyped plans -- no more tangible than draftsman's ink sketched on pages crumpled and quickly discarded -- contain the sting of a sculptor's interrupted wish to mould perfect forms from imperfect materials. The years of struggle to reach Step 1 quickly fall away when confronted by the possibilities, difficulties and uncertainties that await... if only prediction could be felt as strongly, without, as the sensations that flow from the hallucinations of night, within, unabashed and unseen by any but the dreamer.

2010-08-19T22:35:00.002-04:00

Singing while playing guitar allows the fingers to move more freely.

As sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, so is gossip the lowest form of social control.

an aspect of charm.

2010-07-12T22:47:00.003-04:00

I've noticed a common trait among charismatic people recently.

There is a certain capacity to make a promise.

The promise itself can be quite vague or inconsequential. The way that the promise is given, though, is as a gift, thereby allowing the giver to create a sense of initiating and fulfilling the obligation in the same moment -- without necessarily having done anything at all.

A strange talent, if it could be called that.

Accepting Competition

2010-07-08T04:45:00.006-04:00

Recently, there seems to be an impasse; a sense of almost "negative wanting"... in the sense that one aspect exists along a linear progression of daily momentum. Another aspect, however, seems to have entirely different intentions.

Not exactly a contest of wills inside one person, the sense is more of the same intention being experimentally guided by two hands that seem largely unaware of one another, yet always at odds regarding how to proceed.

One part wants to become regimented; early to bed, early to rise, keeping a strict regimen of journaling, calendaring and milestone-setting. The other part wants to sleep whenever, awake whenever (as long as the sleep is adequate), keep an intentionally long leash on new ideas in order to allow for exploration and the full consideration of all possible paths.

To militaristically tame, romantically indulge, or become a "modern person" by going nearly mad trying to do both at the same time... this is the fork in the road. I have very few role models for options one or three. The second, however, tends to result in rich, deep yet short lives. It also may be the case that longevity is overrated. Not a decision to make on a whim.

Or perhaps that is the only way to decide... after all, the conscious mind is expert at thinking, and fundamentally inadequate when it comes to the doing. Yet, there are still other methods. Self-motivation as measured by competition against others is one of them.

The issue surrounding competition is simple: knowing when to stop. Knowing when to stop entails planning to the end. The real question, then, is: how can the entire path be presumed known from the outset? If external pressure (competition, in this case) is required to keep the fire burning strong and bright, at what point is the goal itself overtaken by the desire to succeed beyond all competitors?

The ego is fire in a world of petrified forests, dried woods, and brittle grasses; the match is lit by intention. How many have ignited mindless, destructive wildfires by the simple, naive desire to stay warm, safe and alive?

self-obsession

2010-07-02T04:24:00.004-04:00

Somewhere in or near the shower today, the memory of a person seemed to stand out and offer something more. The thought quickly became a simple theory of self-obsession.

Basically: a person prone to over-thinking finds him/herself in a difficult situation. "I have to figure this out," the person says. This begins the cycle. Thinking becomes rumination, and over time, the process of rumination begins to take on a certitude of its own. The thoughts become increasingly complex, growing into belief systems, an ideology. Meanwhile, the outside world and time spent actively doing begins to diminish as thinking takes center stage.

And if other people are providing less and less feedback, who is doing all the talking? The self -- the person who is "figuring" everything out. Over time, that person's self-perception continues to amplify its own importance while, paradoxically, the rest of the world cares less and less. The self-obsessed person becomes God-like in his or her own mirror-image, while simultaneously becoming more and more isolated from the feedback that would alert the person to the injurious nature of over-thinking and a self-centered mentality.

Strange how having to deal with certain parts of other people can bring awareness to aspects of the self that otherwise would have remained hidden. Learning can come from the most unexpected places.

Waking Dreams

2010-07-01T03:59:00.012-04:00

Fish.

Wriggling, scales shimmering just below the waves. Sustenance, life.

High above the reflective liquid surface, slightly ruffled by the early summer sky's occasional bluster, wings rode the updrafts and sidestepped heavier gusts, easily gliding along the airstream high in the sky. Looking down below, the iridescent side-to-side motion of slender fins belonging to schools of sleek-bodied creatures beckoned irresistibly.

An errant gust distracted the hungry winged pilot from the impending feast, a hard stinging slap across a feathered cheek. Then another, as the sky became clouded almost as suddenly as the wind began to rise, humidity creating an unnatural stillness and sauna-like trapping of heat. The sudden atmospheric imbalance turned each successive gust into a rude shove, the waves below becoming choppy and beginning to heave as the body of water became an agonized rise and fall, pushing itself up to increasingly precarious, white-crested heights only to crash back upon itself, folding wave upon towering wave.

Flying higher to escape the waves only led to increased exposure to the unpredictable flows of air, once placid-winds stirred into a howling frenzy, blinding, pushing, pulling. The sky became a salty, stinging mixture of mist thrown up from the sea and rain pouring down from lightning-laced clouds. Drowning at high altitude, there was no escape from the elemental forces tearing at the eyes and clawing past feathers to skin and hollowed bones.

Lost in the darkness and suffocated by the chaos surrounding all, there came a moment of stillness. All struggle ceased; there was no more fighting to be done. Within the random barrage of tortuous particles and insatiable furies, a rhythmic sensation of soundless calm washed over and within. At the end of all things, at the moment when there was no more life to be wrung out from the wretched creature caught in the jaws of inexplicable circumstance, falling from the sky became an unexpected relief, a descent into long-awaited sleep...

... and just as soon as it came, the winds themselves died down, lightning succumbing to sun's light thinly veiled behind bright clouds, and seas returning to their playful lapping and bounding toward the shore. Still falling, the battered flier fell exhausted toward the once-more placid shimmering surfaces, seemingly diving for fish as they hovered unawares once a few miters below...

---

If this life is little more than a series of dreams interrupted by sleep, how then, to catch glimpse of the real? I wonder how silly that question is, really.

2010-06-16T17:57:00.001-04:00

"Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong."

Neil Gaiman

circumstances, given. impetus, drives.

2010-05-28T23:55:00.014-04:00

"five minutes left for any orders that don't include alcohol!"

unexpectedly devoid of the ordinary last-minute bustle and rustle, late afternoon atmosphere clearly lacked the qualities that would otherwise breathe life into the open, empty space. dust left unstirred by absent footsteps found solidarity in quiet corners. early summer sun's heat reflected and filtered through amber-tinted, politely bullet-resistant windows.

a strong push turns the tall, narrow doors, hinges creaking announcement of the visitor's arrival, multiple latches clicking their disapproval in stainless steel reinforced locks. the door reluctantly churns open.

pausing at a waist-height counter cluttered with scraped-away remnants of various posted notices and other adhesive debris, overused pens stand at an angle, leaning out to invite the writer to mistake their form for function while hiding their long dried-out tips in shallow holders. forethought rewarded, momentary scribbling using a pen retrieved from a deep hip pocket is briefly interrupted by the rasping last call for service.

the sarcastic tone of a voice entering middle-age after a youth spent in loud pubs and clubs communicates a direct opposition to the presentation afforded by the once-crisply starched uniform. beckoning to the flat electronic measuring scale, parcels are weighed and amounts entered. "yes please". "no, thank you".

the intentionally excessive politeness becomes the slightest kind of game, soon replaced by the offer of a faux-haughty gesture. extra options? gosh no, darling, no need to ask. our time is running out here. almost time for drinks... no more taking orders, time to start giving them, to start the evening off right, you see...

she arches an eyebrow and cracks a smile, interpreting the impromptu sign language and offering her own verbalized substitute. from strangers to co-conspirators in less than three minutes.

as the transaction draws to a close, more excessive "thank-you"'s and "enjoy your holiday"'s has her smiling covertly; a look of recognition and perhaps hidden gratitude. the tall narrow doors creak on their hinges, allowing early summer sun to momentarily stream in, along with a fresh breeze to stir a moment of animation into the otherwise still, slightly musty arena.

---

so many people seem trapped in their roles. and yet, we all seem to understand how to break them, if only we can be led to the right moment. it doesn't happen consciously; the smile creeps up on it's own. reality becomes ours when the decision is made to see it as the consensual illusion that can enable play rather than seriousness. of course, that is the danger of realizing that we are all actors. the power of illusion often is the same impetus that drives the creation of social control. what happens, then, if the impetus toward action is placed within the character, rather than driven by the given circumstances?

Achieve Anew, or Restart Again. Or Not.

2010-05-23T00:01:00.002-04:00

Achievement.

Not a single event. Actually, a cycle.

To have a goal is the first step. Next, reach it by taking smaller steps along the way, working backwards from the ultimate moment of success, reaching back in time to the present. The bold entrance to a process comprised of simple actions... planned all the way to the end.

The strange part about achievement, though, is that it rarely actually is the end. Most of the time, it's only a stepping-stone to something else.

Which begs the question: is there such a thing as achievement, really? Or only, escalation of complexity?

And of course, the subtext of the question is another question: what's the point?

The movement of the sun defines the days, and yet, the day is only one... if humans perceived time as an unbroken series of moments, I wonder what impact that realization would have on the living of life itself. A nagging thought, recently.

2010-04-13T17:20:00.003-04:00

"[this country] touts itself as the land of the free, but the number one freedom that you and I have is the freedom to enter into a subservient role in the workplace. Once you exercise this freedom you've lost all control over what you do, what is produced, and how it is produced. And in the end, the product doesn't belong to you. The only way you can avoid bosses and jobs is if you don't care about making a living. Which leads to the second freedom: the freedom to starve. ”
— Tom Morello

2009-12-27T00:45:00.001-05:00

I saw something fascinating the other day: enveloped by the canopy of autumn-hued leaves and richly scented earth in the midst of dusky near-darkness, the atmosphere of man-made naturalistic environs placed their warm, heavy hands upon my waiting shoulders. From the first touch of crisp, comforting air, leaves began to shadow the forms below them, then drain of vivid color, then curl, then, finally shed by the trees that created them, wind their way through the air to a random gentle resting place below.

I watched as they fell, one by one, around my feet; nestled on shoulders, slipping through fingertips as amorphous thought-forms do over time. All the leaves fell, one by one, then inevitably disappeared, leaving in their place the slow ascent of the moon taking cover above full, dense clouds.

Pressure changes in the air unlocked tiny pores in the stratosphere and brought forth a sigh from the barren branches bowed above me as their long arms stretched out to catch the drops and draw them down, down all the way to the root and place of peaceful nourishment... from pitter to patter to accelerating freefall, the rain began to span the sky all the way to the horizon, racing down to touch and saturate every dry, uncovered inch.

I felt something fascinating, the other day.

when pain is the best option

2009-12-13T15:45:00.006-05:00

It struck me that one of the reasons for my wariness around certain people is the opposite of what it seemed to be.

Instead of being afraid of others, I've been too careful, perhaps, about hurting them... six years of bruised knuckles, psychological damage and steady training to become stronger, it would be interesting to know the impossible: did all of this actually mean anything?

Some of my pain belongs to someone else. All of it now belongs to me. And now I'll be glad to give it back, to those from whom I've borrowed more than my share.

Sometimes having no expectations is too mild an expectation. To expect the worst is paranoia, yet giving altruistically is to martyr one person for the exploitative causes of others.

I know how to fight. Now I'm learning when, and why.

How could it possibly have taken so long? perhaps I did know this once, and somehow, simply forgot.

audio: edit . crying over pros for no reason . twenty minutes

Since August...

2009-12-01T03:22:00.006-05:00

One of my favorite blog people wrote recently, completely as a surprise...

...personally, it was always rare to interact directly with other bloggers, even back six or seven years ago before weblogging was cool and the Web suddenly started to need version numbers (clue: it still doesn't).

So now it's been a few months since the last post, and suddenly an email message arrives from someone who couldn't possibly be a spam artist... because in that strange Internet way, we share memories. The name is immediately recognizable. Somehow it triggers a cascade of thoughts and feelings reaching back even to the seemingly unrelated real-life background circumstances surrounding our time together, connected as we were (and are) over miles of waves, wires and digital switches.

In a few days, the completion of a project that has taken over nine months to gestate will, perhaps, create more time for musing over what has happened over the past two years. Until then -- and, due to the inevitable time overrun in creating new bits of hopefully useful technology -- this, and any other lucidly non-programmatic moments will have to suffice.

This seemed to be a fitting way to respond to that entirely unexpected and completely welcome touch from a person who I've probably shared more with over time than many people who I know offline.

A song reaches me too, here, even in this place, where change is happening quietly, day by day.

2009-08-15T03:37:00.003-04:00

Something that I had lost sight of recently, sometime over the past two years of (re)indoctrination into the "higher education" system. Buried in the hidden folds of an implied social order, the crisp smoothness of an immersive experience cleanly, softly layering its truth on top of my own; strange to only realize it now.

There is a difference between wanting to do something, and wanting to be something.

2009-07-07T04:24:00.002-04:00

Five digits splayed outward. Index-middle-ring-pinky counted without differentiation, equally persuasive and urgently stretching toward destinations unknown. The intractable question suddenly becomes not what but which.

How many lives array themselves in formation from the palm of one hand, straight-line paths that upon further scrutiny are interrupted by bumps, callouses, intersecting wrinkles and faint outlines of quietly pulsating dark red blood vessels... life flows within each path, each ray pointing in a different direction, all from the same origin. one way leads to a longer travel than the others; another way has a wider latitude along its organic unpaved surface. superficial similarities give way to a more fundamental insolvable incongruity: the impossibility of traveling more than one path at one time.

perhaps, though, a touch of all can give the smallest push toward that one path that creates a fulfilling life. and it may even be a question of perspective: rather than moving outward, inward could be the key to relieving the need for desire-driven journeys into apparent expanse, and ultimately, the very same nothing that consumes it all.

2009-06-08T02:15:00.006-04:00

Suddenly there is a button that reads "Monetize" above the "Title:" input box on this blog post page.

The Web seems to be imploding. Even IMDB is overrun with pop-ups. It would be fascinating to see how people would "monetize" if there were no get-rich-from-advertising "eyeshare" schemes in the world...

... but then, some walk around dripping logos from lapel top to tip toes and somehow are regarded as fashionable. A matter of taste, though, and not really up for debate; more toward amused observation of human billboards on parade. "Debate", right, on the blog with no Trackbacks, Pings, Comments, magical buttons that invite Twits and Blobs and Digging or whatever.

The metaphor is perfect: World Wide Web as a conversation between connected nodes, neural webs dancing in the electron-brightened darkness of insulated connectivity. The reality seems to be twisting around itself in a tightening ball of circular references back to its own potential glory -- now we have microblogging, as if blogging took too long and IM was too boringly one-on-one.

The Web is now a medium for celebrity inflation, with everyone amassing "followers" and no one with anything to say to any of them. The circularity is perfect, as well, then, most likely because with all this talk, only the truly rare bird has any time left for listening. As if the Web needed version numbers, 2.0 is the blossoming of common thoughtless hubris seeking advanced intelligent technology. The newly chrome-laden broadband commercial break is an endless broadcast, infinitely varied in expression and accompanying intricately marketed demographic manipulation.

Is this not actually Television 2.0?

2009-05-04T23:42:00.004-04:00

totally on impulse, writing this entry.

the irony is that i'm smashing up a local wordpress install to create an online community-type new business idea.

and yet, still drawn back to The Blogger for personal business. personal business of the anonymous Internet kind.

what in the hell was there ever to blog about? ah yes, the existential ambivalence. now that postmodernistic black humour is now old news, it seems oddly quaint and therefore natural to write about the incongruities involved in everyday life... not to be confused with nihilism (so '90s grunge) or pessimism (so '90s goth). the future belongs to a very personal kind of boom and bust, as the global becomes truly local in an oddly twisty sort of way.

the joke for today is that a young person sometimes feels as though "this" is the last shot. programmatically, then:

$this->last_shot($the_kitchen_sink)
{
/* if i were to instantiate this object from outside of the class itself, how would i name it? would the class members be public, protected, or private? am i suddenly channelling the matrix with all of this pseudo-code about stacked realites and re-booting myself? who is the constructor? who is the destructor? could i start over rather than live out the recurring dreams of death, and if so, how to write the system over from scratch? */
}

maybe this new business is more than just another idea. perhaps the spitball-in-the-oyster's-mouth within all this is that in the process of figuring out where to stop, it is all too easy to step over the edge, yardstick in hand.

2009-03-05T03:11:00.005-05:00

standing at the interior opening of a two-hundred meter passageway, the vision of freedom available as a feast for the eyes only. a glance cast behind reveals deformed cast shadows caught in eternal distorted perspective. the sounds of arrested mutation, stunted growth leaving the monstrous forms writhing in between full-fleshed aliveness and the repose of mercifully accelerating decay.

two options. fight a constant grinding battle against the gravitational inevitability of rusted chains encircling ankles and wrists, or stay in place and be slowly twisted into the permanent deformation that has entombed the self-perceptions of so many others. their dreams, experiments in the use of pure psychological force, invariably ended in failure: unable to generate an impetus strong enough to upend the inconspicuous fallibilities of everyday perception, even the most valiant efforts succumbed to an accumulation of small errors repeated over time.

grim resolve. wounds, loss. pain and suffering. the tunnel could be a lifetime long, described in units whose standards of measurement are entirely arbitrary.

shadows roiling along the frigid uneven ground, reaching endless toward a collapsed paradise, mouth a silent warning for the already-weary prisoner: do not take our path. among them, many are tainted by corrosive elements that defy the pure intensity of dreams.

how can the prisoner, preparing to trudge forward as so many others have done, avoid their fate? to ignore them as failed and therefore useless would surely lead to becoming one of them, at best a variant on their disastrous theme. to listen too closely to their cries, however, would quickly create an indoctrinative echo that would as much ingrain the past as enable the present. to struggle heedleesly within the field of malformed options and unseen obstacles would allow the pitfalls of emotional attachment to become the energetic accelerators of self-destruction.

what then, truly separates this prisoner from the congealed mass of predecessors, those others who also sought escape but instead found the torturous nothingness of empty striving? how to release their impossible attachments, attachments so strong that they themselves became the attachment rather than attaining possession of the thing that they so terribly craved?

perhaps all dreams that prognosticate new worlds and bright futures end in garish nightmares of unfulfillment. what, then, is the opposite of a dream? what lies between the two opposites? and what of the path between the two extremes? can such a thing exist?

audio: saafi brothers . supernatural part II

who or how

2009-02-23T01:58:00.003-05:00

yesterday, there was a lot to write about. covering all of the questions and ideas from the past two years. and now, my head is an empty drum, reverberating with those lost thoughts as i cast about aimlessly for a way to amplify them.

an added syllable immerges with a mantra from the past, heedlessly transforming the next few years of my life and beyond: school is not over. the insertion of "not" has repercussions that cannot be overstated, considering that at one point in time, the idea of embracing formalized education seemed completely alien. now it seems to be the only idea that makes any sense.

well, not the only idea.

"it's not what you know, it's who you know."

this once seemed to be true. now, though, the axiom lacks context and is thereby left floating among other idealistic naivisms disguised as unassailable truisms. context, then: who you know depends upon what you know. depending on what you know, the worlds of knowledge that are opened to you are populated by networks of individuals; a few key individuals illuminate the navigable paths within those worlds. a person's trajectory toward success or ruin is determined by a combination of preparation and luck.

it's not what you know, it's how you know who you know.

the connection is what matters. if the signal is strong but the connection is weak, communication becomes difficult or even impossible. on the other hand, if the connection is strong, even the faintest echo can have an immeasurable effect.

expectations, assumptions, social life:jots

2009-01-08T04:37:00.001-05:00

expectation is a form of assumption. assumption is death.

all activities involving others are a form of social life, just as an individual is fundamentally the same person regardless of the situation in which he may find himself. if the person's work life requires a set of personality attributes that are at variance with the values that he or she upholds in non-work life, there is inevitably going to be a conflict at some point. more likely, a crisis.

more later, maybe.

so over

2008-12-12T03:41:00.004-05:00

officially. school is over. in properly melodramatic fashion.

it may be a blessing in disguise that things turned out this way. a recurring theme from the past 48 hours: fewer mistakes over time, each one more costly than the last.

most amusing is that two years later, the end looks increasingly similar to the beginning. more knowledge and experience this time, in a contemplated return to the future of times' past.

the dreamy rebellious kid who continually overestimated his own intelligence, aspiring to write 3-d videogame software using the BASIC programming language. who strangely enough, didn't need a profit motive to get out of bed in the morning. the one who found a perverse kind of pleasure in manipulating objects with his mind rather than his hands.

only now it's the shiny new rich client architecture that powers all the hot websites now. so much has happened in two years; awakening tomorrow will inevitably be a release from some kind of self-imposed prison...

...now the key is to make this release into something far less icarus and much more horus. rather than wings that melt near the sun, how to embody the power of wind and sky? overestimation costs.

a reference to greek and egyptian god-myths comes quickly, spontaneously... useful to note also that the melodrama mentioned above came about in part by following a dream. a nightmare, actually. this fearful dream bore direct (or directly analogical) significance. it was an unacceptable, unspoken answer that congested both waking thoughts as well as half-drawn figures of possibility and unintended consequence. when a dream predicts a future of suffering, the present needs to change.

today, then, differs almost completely from sevenhundredthirty days ago: conscious logic not longer pretends to answer questions on its own anymore. logic interprets and rationalizes the decisions that have already taken place, and sometimes exerts a mild influence on an already narrowed set of options. logic counts the blades of grass whereas there is an increasing awareness that there is an entire planet underneath.

now, moment by moment, the shift has begun. and all of those predetermined rules and lockstep outcomes of the past no longer exist. truly, they never did. have i jumped from the cliff toward the sun -- only to realize that my wings are not securely attached? or will tonight's dreams serve as reminder that mythology finds meaning in the mind of the reader, not the searing all-too-real illusions of in an imagined objective reality?

saru seems to be waving his tail on the page again...

audio: leftfield . cut for life [vinyl junkie]

you're crazy.

2008-11-28T00:57:00.004-05:00

this always seemed to describe one half of what it means to be human.

the crazy people, and the not-crazy people.

two somewhat important -- less important, more time-consuming people in recent memory have been "crazy". in varying ways, they were able to blend in with the not-crazy archetype, drawing themselves as plausible characters integrated into the social landscape.

it takes time to find out what meter a person actually uses to separate, combine and attempt to harmonize their sometimes contradictory parts.

recently, though, the wall between the crazy and the not-crazy seems to be crumbling. personally, reality has never been a static entity.

intrapersonally, levels of consciousness change; the feeling of what happens is a momentary experience, always unravelling in unexpected ways depending on the underlying textures of what came before and it crashes headlong into what could be, would be, can be and will be.

interpersonally, the bounded chaos of shared language hides the irreducible complexity of our thoughts. conversation is often a guessing game of what comes next versus an array of common responses remembered from past experience.

between self and world, it seems that all of the illusions of texture, arrays of shared guesswork patched together into semi-reliable human-as-object orientations, complexity reduced to commonality, all of it is a reflection of the eyes that see it.

the wall is actually semi-permeable. it is a membrane that allows certain compositions of thoughts, perceptions and intentions to pass through while restricting others. not-crazy depends as much on crazy as the second does the first. what of those who sit on the wall itself, who exist on the borderline, and actually comprise it?

not to use the word borderline in the stereotypical psychological sense, either, considering that psychological norms are inherently typed -- typed meaning that they place emphasis on certain attributes while allowing others to fade into obscurity. who decides what elements of a person are worth counting toward the sum of their experience?

it is refreshingly difficult to grasp the possible number of variables that comprise any single individual. not all of them -- perhaps not even most of them -- can be counted, much less fully described. as their multifaceted constellations present in nonstandard ways, according to whom can a person be categorized? if we are all instances of the same object -- the person object -- how can behaviours be isolated and given truth values? are they not simply differences, after all?

of course, these questions apply to non-pathological behaviors. liberating, in a way. maybe.

motion: peter naess . mozart and the whale

"everytime i fall in love....

2008-11-15T03:32:00.002-05:00

...i write a story."

for some reason (or not), the words were sent in an email.

it was near the end of our moment, anyway. as friends.
so the strange impulse took hold and it became a game.

age seems to change some parts, while other parts take their
time. love is one of those other parts?

in a way, love has the same pull as the idea of having children.
either the idea is strongly attractive, or strongly

something else.

it would be an amusing moment to see how many people marry
because they are tired, or have children because they are
bored on some existential level. or how many fall in love
because they've been told that being unattached simply won't do.

what if these assumptions were completely inside out... who would
decide for themselves what outside in looks like, to reverse
the cultural pressure and open the possibility
of other paths through life.

what would those paths be named. or would they need names
at all.

these can be statements or questions, depending on how
they are read.

the magnifying glass

2008-07-30T00:43:00.010-04:00

it was starting to feel a bit strange, being in school again.

even moreso that for the most part, it was a positive experience.

starting out part-time was too easy -- so suddenly half-way through the program, a headlong plunge into the fever pitch of full-time student madness drew upon all available resources; in the process, molehills were made of questions that had once loomed large enough to hide the sun.

and now those questions return, somewhat smaller and more focused. what they lose in enormity is redoubled by their pointed relevance, compounded by the fact that time for decision-making runs shorter by the day.

one undeniable side-effect of being released from an intensive curriculum: the return of creativity and time to explore it (for the time being). suddenly memories resurface, images arise from unlived futures and ideas become full-color visual simulations.

the problem, then, is not the return to creativity, but rather, a nagging feeling that more "education" is necessary to complete the program. it seems increasingly clear that to reach any level of skill, learning must be a lifelong, self-motivated process. institutionalized pedagogy does not hold a viable answer to the desire for knowledge. in this sense, then, education means:

time compression,

navigation of the vertical command structure called "higher education" (or something like it),

delay of the creative impulse that is the oft-forgot engine behind all of this.

hm... the brain... sulci and gyri, hills and valleys inside the cranium... all of the folds create increased surface area, allowing for more brain per square inch. is there a way to fold the perception of time in on itself as well, allowing for more experienced time within a given interval of clock time?

of course, the answer is yes. but hypnotic techniques require structure, precisely vague language, and ample practice to become habitual... learning can be quick; hallucination is not necessarily what it seems. perhaps more about that later.

audio: groove armada feat. stush & red rat . get down (calvin harris remix)

2008-07-29T02:38:00.004-04:00

purpose, again.

the question is elusive, the answer even more so.

one educational process seems to have ended, only to culminate in a sense of incompleteness. what next?

-

walking down the street, cracks in the asphalt seem to be deeper than before; the familiar path is strewn with fragmented shadows and uneven surfaces. the heat of the day shimmers from the concrete in a tumbling sea of mirage-images gathering and dispersing at each footstep. an ankle turns suddenly on the cracked ground, causing momentary loss of balance. the resulting adjustment restores equilibrium only for a moment, as the waves of heat begin to penetrate into the earth rather than travel along its surface, soaking the cracked asphalt with vibratory tones of separation and dissonance. the deepening rifts become impassable abscesses, the traveler's gait interrupted and disrupted. navigation becomes a feat of concentrated awareness, as all other thoughts quickly recede into secondary importance. balance, agility and speed must be maintained in the face of vast stretches of yawning darkness that appear at the whim of unpredictable waveforms rippling and crashing into nothingness underfoot.

finally, the traveler is surrounded by echolalic depths of emptiness, supported only by a trembling jagged shard of crumbling earth. the illusion of rhythm has given way to the truth of chaotic instability; the comfort of routine is now an impossibly abstract notion with no referent in the present reality.

-

movement, influence, agility, fluency, response.

when an uncrossed chasm stretches to the horizon, how can a drawbridge be successfully thrown to the opposite side?

i suppose the first step is to find out exactly where the horizon lies.

audio: this is sander kleinenberg . cd 1 . chymera . arabesque

2008-06-14T03:12:00.002-04:00

deprivation imposes creativity.
distance accelerates love.
chaos unleashes exponential variation.

ends create beginnings.

dreams incubate logic
sleep engenders prose.

grammar comes later.

audio: md11 . ascent

2008-02-25T02:21:00.002-05:00

"What is better?"

"What do you want to do?"

These questions may outweigh all of the negatives that could take their place.

Saying "no" to activities that are best left alone can become a snowballing process -- one that eventually stifles decisions that would be useful as well.

Instead, it will be worth trying to ask "between option x and option y, which is better?"

or

"between them, what do you really want to do -- which option will help you more? In the short term, and of course, in the long run?"

It is a question of knowing what path to take. Interrogating decisions in positive terms can help to clarify the intentions in light of each step and fork in that path, rather than using artificial rules and strictures to force self-compliance (which apparently does not work for very long).

What... do you want... to do?

2008-01-22T19:15:00.000-05:00

he hears murmurs. the wall itself is just thick enough to obscure the words, but porous enough to allow intonation's meaning to seep through. Misgivings, ambivalence, persistent disbelief in the possibilities of what lies ahead. he hears his own vision put to the test, feels the sound of his ideas being pulled apart, dissected, inspected for validity and soundness in the face of impending reality. this is the shadow of bright curiosity, the intrusion of logic and the apparently impregnable illusions of pragmatism in their relentless assault against weightless formations of unspoken dreams.

-

and how does one side lie to the other, anyway? inside one mind, it seems impossible. vague inclinations of unrest are much more disquieting, in some ways, than the inevitable war of symbol and meaning that such discontented whispers always precede and often predict.

"You sometimes have to perform a little lobotomy and cut people out of your mind or they will drag you down," Truman said by way of explanation.

2007-11-18T03:15:00.000-05:00

Toying with the idea of spending most of my leisure time within the arts (presently drawing/painting, guitar, tango)... and perhaps a bit of writing.

And finding whoever I find along the way.

Hm... feels like one of those small thoughts that ripples outward into something larger if held onto over time.

learning tension

2007-09-17T21:04:00.000-04:00

change... to make a decision that will redirect the course of future events.

a migrating urban goose flies for days, ever higher into the clouds, finding slipstreams and favorable winds to accelerate its progress; in one fateful instant, it finds itself sucked into the intake of a supersonic jet on a three-hour voyage across the Atlantic Ocean...

in the past, the concept of personal freedom was always connected to the amount of time available. "available" meaning open for anything, everything and nothing. the rationale, on some level, was that if there were no pressures to actually do anything, that would indicate that the time spent in the midst of activity would have to be more productive.

on some level, that logic held a certain appeal. in the days when autodidactism seemed the only path to learning, yes. intense study, time spent thinking about ideas, allowing creativity to take its course. after a lifetime spent in opposition to every education authority available, there seemed to be few other viable choices.

in the past year and a half, however, this has revealed itself not to be true. as the realm of technology becomes less and less professionally interesting, it becomes clear that most other vocations require educational creditionals. after throwing darts at a cluster of related career choices, the present one found itself in the bulllseye. hence, school.

immediately upon setting foot into the first lecture class, one issue became painfully apparent. a latent fear of not being able to learn.

not being able to learn. how is that possible? it wasn't a question of being "smart" enough. it wasn't an issue of motivation... and for the first time, the educational establishment actually seems interested in the students rather than just the statistical mean of pass/fail and GPA. the problem, then, was something far more intrinsic to the way rather than the what.

the learning styles of other people never seemed to make sense. regurgitation of empty facts, solutions to equations for the sake of passing exams... is it really learning if the knowledge is forgotten immediately after the testing period ends?

more frustrating, though, was the feeling that learning was a slower process than it seemed. if data would be formed into a personal sense of information, then transformed into individually learned knowledge, the process itself would have to be inherently different from the cookie-cutter "cramming for success" approach that seems to be at least tacitly condoned -- if not implicitly expected -- by most educational command structures. and so learning has gradually become a puzzle, a riddle of sorts.

if learning is not something done quickly, not something done on command, not something to be forgotten as soon as it is digested, what is it?

and the answer, until quite recently, seemed to be immersion and waiting. immersion in the sense of surveying as much of a field or issue as possible. piling the memory high with possible points of reference and interpretative horizons. making it impossible to forget due to the assimiliation of so much data. sleep would take care of the rest; most connections seemed to be unconscious anyway.

a time-consuming approach, to say the least.

looking forward, now, there must be a more condensed way to learn. time becomes shorter, attention more precious and required for so many more questions. the question is no longer whether learning quickly is possible, but rather, how to learn meaningfully in a short period of time -- without becoming a mindless regurgitator of facts...

elaboration. repetition. overlearning. what part does creativity play in all of this? what a strange question. perhaps if sleep holds the answer to the meaningful combination of ideas, dreams can manifest a means of interacting with those ideas.

dreams. expanded focus... open curiosity rather than obsessive concentration.

to play the opposite... worth a shot. perhaps the tension headaches will dissipate, if only a smidgen.

audio: repair . forgive & forget [richard davis remix]

2007-08-06T00:12:00.000-04:00

note to self: associate with positive people only. negative people will latch onto you, leaching time and energy for as long as they can...

there were ample warning signs that this might happen. naturally, i charged in, thinking that it would be simple -- and extricating myself has become somewhat difficult.

somewhat.

emails back and forth. suddenly this other person is revealing deep secrets in an attempt to "fix" a situation that was a relief to finally end. the possibility that this could have gone smoothly is no longer such a clear path to resolution. even after anticipating several routes to this outcome -- and taking precautions against them -- it is difficult to maintain a clear sense of a desirable future.

becoming dominant apparently has its price: the more submissive personality may not clearly demonstrate the extent to which it has voluntarily relinquished self-control... until its position in the shared space is threatened in some way.

now the question becomes how to shift that shared space into a less volatile state without wasted energy or time... of which i have neither at present. it is a valuable lesson: some challenges are better left unconquered. the spoils of victory are sometimes more troublesome than they are worth.

audio: pete moss . strive to live [16b mix]

2007-08-05T23:30:00.000-04:00

note to self: do not associate with negative people, only positive ones.

more later.

2007-06-14T01:12:00.000-04:00

finally, at long last, it is finished. the perfect computer has been built.

and it's completely unimportant.

in the past, it was always a question of figuring out how to ration processor cycles. close this app? open that one? wait... the computer is thinking, let it finish.

and so on. of course, now that the machine has been custom built for performance, all of this building has also taken place at a pivotal moment when computers themselves are becoming more of a side show than the center stage attraction.

somewhat sudden, nonetheless, that technology is taking a backseat to reality: over the past six weeks, a recent class has brought unknown resources to the fore, simultaneously arousing a sense of confusion, curiosity and complete impatience for old limiting beliefs. the difficulty now lies in having to untangle outmoded self-defense mechanisms and transform them into useful ways of interacting with a remodeled worldview... and then there's the question of how to live without a nine-to-five... until other endeavors pick up the difference (and the debt).

technology is no longer a fetish. flesh and blood have taken its place.

about time, saru. the world has been waiting for you... which isn't to say that computers are somehow not intrinsic to communication and work; perhaps moreso now than ever before. the main difference is that it is now as natural to go offline as it once was to go online... an odd sideffect of this is that, having stepped outside of that world, computers and technology are now easier to interact with -- in a way, it is more familiar now that it isn't so close, not so bound up in questions of identity. technology, and the mastery of it, is no longer a question of pride. a processor is just a processor.

i can hear myself think again...

audio: cibelle . shine of dried electric leaves . instante de dois

through a glass, darkly...

2007-05-17T23:27:00.000-04:00

a moment that was only to find explanation by accident, much later. or possibly not by accident at all.

during the practice session, a group of three was to speak to the fourth while seated in a quadrilateral formation, facing one another. one person was to be the "conductor", setting the pace of the session and leading the fourth person into an altered state.

creativity was suggested; the enhancement of creativity, and the method was visualization. having established the parameters by which suggestions would be delivered, the conductor began the session. eyes closed, breathing calm... feeling the immediate sensory reality, beginning to focus more internally... allowing any images to arise, easily, effortlessly...

the session lasted for approximately fifteen minutes. nearing the end, an image became immersive, real, literally submersive: the sensation of being held in place, drifting slightly from side to side, inches below the surface... looking upward at the surface of the water, a concentric circle rippling outward along the surface. the sun and blue sky were visible as impresssions on the water's surface, the cloudless sky reflected and transformed by the alternating motion of the circular waveforms extending outward in all directions.

much later that evening, deep into the night, sitting in front of the computer, there was a sudden urge to initiate an image search. in 1995, an anime was released involving humans with cybernetic bodies and even brains, pondering their own existential significance as human beings (and apparently falling prey to a superhacker who could take control of their bodies and minds). there was no particular reason for the search on that topic, other than a tired, wandering mind.

and then it became clear. the visualization from earlier in the day of slipping below the water's surface and gliding quietly underneath. it was actually depicted in the anime, used to set the tone for a moment of philosophical introspection. one of the cybernetic characters -- these machines don't float -- had fallen into the habit of scuba diving through the use of a powered device strapped to her back. her reliance on the machine was underscored by the fact that in many ways, she was also a machine... in a way connected to the reality of her own mortality through reliance on technology to survive, and yet deeply estranged from the feeling of being human by her own reincarnated state of inorganic functionality.

how was the choice made, entirely outside the realm of consciousness, to relive that image, from the inside? and why did the unconscious mind decide to present the source of the inspiration more than eight hours later, without even being asked to do so?

audio: bt . see you on the other side

2007-05-14T11:19:00.000-04:00

what does the word 'celibate' mean?

so easy to forget...

reconstruct

2007-05-06T22:52:00.000-04:00

"maybe you're not so far off, after all..."

a kiss goodbye, with the expectation of another day, another time; the prediction of a future that may have ended before it began.

it was a strange situation from the beginning, as seem always to characterize my interactions with other people:

from early on, it seemed somewhat ordinary. she wanted sex... and pursued me... and i was vaguely bored. but this time, the boredom became an intention to play, to push her a bit. there probably was a bit of cruelty mixed in, a desire to push her away, to make her fall in love, to say that she loved me. the reality of who i am is somehow unimaginable to others, so they manufacture an illusion that fits their preconceived impression. recently, it has become an increasingly simple matter to pace their realities, then amplify and feed them back.

in her case, first we played a game. the seduction. we saw each other rarely, instead exchanging emails. she had the feeling of being the aggressor, as she later would say "i pursued you for so long because..." of course, any intelligent cat knows how to earn its food. how? by enticing its owner to work for the cat's affection. my primary reason for engaging her was her ability to appreciate descriptive language. what she failed to realize was that my writing wasn't for her -- it was an idealized portrait of her, one that does not exist. therein, perhaps, lies the cruelty. hundreds of words, painstakingly crafted, honed and sharpened in order to take her mind away from reality and into a world where she could be who she wanted to be... and yet, the fabrication of such a mirage ultimately leads to a realization of sand, heat, and little else.

the particular oddity of this situation lies within the fact that at no point in time was i ever taken up in the moment; it was always a conscious game, fueled by an unconscious impetus. the feeling was one of oscillation between curiosity and compassion: curiosity at how far the game could be taken, and compassion for the fragility of her mental state. the fascinating beauty of it -- how a person can pretend to be "normal" and yet have an unspoken something deep inside of them, something that makes them unusual. i have yet to meet someone who has that quality, and is not also in some way damaged by the world in which they live.

as i wove a mirrored reality around her, insinuating an idealized version of myself into it, the enjoyment was primarily based on the fact that there was a hidden structure that only i could see. her role was predictably filled, almost as if there were secretly pulled levers and switches that caused this feeling and that, triggers for emotional states and physical arousal, even at a distance.

at this moment, it has come to the point that in a state of erotic hypnosis, i was able to guide her to an orgasm without touching her, or her touching herself. i have come to exist inside of her mind... the ultimate goal of any seducer -- introjection. "i imagine you inside of me... and i ache..." she says. of course, it is not a perfect simulation, but this is an art rather than a science, and i don't want to hurt her; rather, give her an experience that she can hopefully remember fondly after our time together has passed. no, more than that: i want her to be able to demand that her lovers treat her differently than before. her own weakness, until now, has been reflected by her "toys", as she calls the men in her life.

it seemed immediately apparent that she had rarely if ever been truly cared for, as she immediately attempted to slide into a purely sexual relationship. empty sexuality always seems a waste; it is a kind of intentional numbness, an escape. SM was naturally her chosen form of expression... and it fit perfectly that her habit was to dominate.

my original nature was passive. passivity, of course, is an easy way to draw the attention of predatory influences. the web of scar tissue that surrounds my early life and obscures my memories could have its roots somewhere within that early tendency to shy away from pain.

over time, a toughness became necessary to move inside of the world and not become a victim of it; the perversion of timidity into masochism became internalized as punishment of the body through harsh training and discipline of the mind. as time passed, my experiences with the martial arts, with the psychological act of fighting itself -- against peers, authority figures, my own intertwined fear of death and desire to die -- have become sublimated into a desire to challenge, deconstruct and reconstruct every power structure that i encounter. i am driven now to find out if life is truly as empty as it seems, and if there is any way to find a respite from the constantly unraveling red thread that seems to be the only reason for modern society to continue. most people seem blissfully unaware of the dark origins of eros, including this woman who is most likely, at this moment, contemplating whether to throw away her misconceptions, her desire for order, her sense of predictability, to fall in love with someone who feels incapable of feeling the emotion himself.

audio: cantoma . moonsmith

2007-04-22T00:53:00.001-04:00

amusing that she tried to play the dom, but found it impossible to keep herself from laughing too much to fulfill the role properly. it was entirely and intentionally my fault.

at this point, when dealing with ordinary people -- or those who would find me to be unusual, including this recovering "good girl" -- my frame is one of understanding their motives without their comprehending where mine even begin.

"Please help me, Ms. A. I need you right now..."

Upon hearing the plea of her consort, Lady L., the severe expression of Ms. A betrays none of her true intentions. Her long eyelashes and expressive eyes the hue of brilliant coral blue are muted by the presence of expertly crafted eyeglasses. The vermillion tones of her hair pulled back into a strict ponytail only adds to her appearance of unimpeachable authority.

Ms. A savors the delicious tension in her pupil's voice. As she has been instructed to do, Lady L's fingers continue their exploration;

having been on the outside looking in for so long, it has become natural to reveal only the barest glimpses of this inner world. more often than not, this world is simply not accessible to anyone who does not live inside this skin. or at most, accessible only to a few others.

her body responds by allowing for deeper penetration. She settles into the pillows and the softness of the bed that cradles and gently supports her shoulders, back and hips... the lesson in masturbation has begun.

From her vantage at Lady L's knee, Ms. A observes the telltale signs of arousal beginning to have their mesmerizing effect on the face of her counterpart: eyes narrowed and dark, lips a deepening rouge, skin slightly flushed. She reaches for Lady L's right breast, enclosing the pink areola between thumb and forefinger, increasing the pressure as her fingers move to encircle the reddening nipple. As her fingers reach the firm yet supple tip,

naturally, control over social situations, both personal and professional, begins to shift... everything is changing now, more tangibly than ever before.

Lady L begins to increase the pace of her own fingers between her thighs.

A sigh escapes her lips. She nestles herself more deeply into the softness of the pillows, enjoying the connection between the two points of stimulation. A moment later her eyes open, shining and intense in the semidarkness of the room; her fingers are soon replaced by Ms. A's slender middle and ring fingers. Ms. A begins with methodical precision,

checking email. has she written back? not yet.
probably with "the boyfriend" today.

lightly at first, caressing her outer labia briefly, then the inner labia, then deeper inside. Lady L closes her eyes again, her mind entirely consumed by the delightful anticipation of what is most certainly to come.

Moment after moment, she becomes more absorbed by the smooth progression of Ms. A's fingers sliding easily along her innermost regions. She begins to feel a heat spreading throughout her body

and he knows. the odd part about it is that her frame is stronger than his -- she tells him that there is another, and he begrudgingly accepts it as fact, rather than simply deleting her from his address book and finding someone new.

as the rhythm gradually increases in a synchrony of rotation between Ms. A's wrist and her moist inner walls. Her breathing becomes shorter, faster, she is no longer pacing herself... giving herself over to the inevitable release that looms so near.

Ms. A's fingertips search knowingly for their destination, their speed accompanied by a steady circular pressure. Lady L cries out and begins to feel herself losing control,

his weakness stems from his inability to walk away. she simply wants to play, whereas he introduces his own, and most mens', insecurities into the relationship by not properly defining his boundaries from the outset. and of course, knowing how to deal with her tests when they inevitably arise.

her entire body consumed by the radiating sensations that seem to transcend pleasure and become a pure agonizing ecstasy. Ms. A leans over her, studying the passionate abandon and focused concentration that has given Lady L's face an expression of rapturous vexation. Ms. A begins to feel a tingling warmth of her own as her full breasts begin to swell and her nipples become taut. She softly bites her lower lip in an attempt to properly maintain her composure. Her body betrays her, however, heart beating more rapidly as her excitement builds... she quickly touches herself and inhales sharply, suppressing her own sounds of lust while expertly turning her attention back to her pupil.

Sensing that the time has come, Ms. A moves closer to support Lady L's hips with her knees and begins to rock her fingers higher inside.

fear of being alone, of psychic death, may be the single most important obstacle to overcome. it is difficult to realize, however, that social disconnection is not death. all relationships are transitory and must be continually renewed in order to survive. the beauty of this realization is that human interactions are characterized by a certain plasticity, a changeability by which one can manifest seemingly contradictory character traits without loss of overall consistency.

Lady L's voice becomes louder, her cries more frequent and urgent as the rhythm becomes faster, fingers plunging ever deeper. Ms. A can feel that Lady L is at the moment of no return, and strongly commands her to bring the sensation to complete fruition as her inner muscles begin to contract harder and harder. Mentally, Ms. A counts from ten to one, having calculated the exact moment at which Lady L will lose the ability to contain herself. At last, Lady L is no longer able to form words, writhing and trembling, her breathing ragged and wracked by the most beautifully unpredictable moans.

At the height of the moment, there is a pause as Lady L arches her back and all of her muscles become tense; Ms. A's fingers too, pause and allow her to ride out the unbearable perfection of its apex. Lady L is absolutely lost now, lost

to a varying extent, human nature is unpredictable. often our true motives are hidden even to ourselves. the real question is whether or not we allow ourselves to express these elements, and learn to do so skillfully.

can i surprise myself every day? can i use those moments to fuel my ability to create and more essentially, to be creative in a meaningful way?

in the incandescent undulations that seem to continue and continue without end, reverberating through every cell of her body and overwhelming all attempts at regaining control.

Only after a few minutes have the previously unimagined sensations begun to subside, as Lady L's breathing returns to a level that allows her to speak again. She finds Ms. A lying to her left, eyeglasses perched primly on the delicate arch of her nose. Ms. A's glasses are nonetheless unable to hide the rosy glow of her cheeks as she combs her fingers through Lady L's tousled and unruly hair. And when she is ready, Ms. A whispers into her ear, almost inaudibly, "that felt good didn't it... perhaps too good. I have decided, then, that our next lesson will be on the topic of spanking..."

allegory?

2007-04-14T20:34:00.000-04:00

"Alright. This seems to be the appropriate time." A light sonorous chime is heard lilting its way across the room, accompanied by the rustling sound of clothing and hushed voices.

Quickly gathering round, eager faces turn upward toward the deeply lined countenance of their clever old teacher and mentor.

Sitting in a slightly elevated position, legs folded comfortably in seiza on a soft yet firm pillow... it is a thick, supportive cushion the warm color of saffron, matching a flowing, well worn and simple robe that drapes an aged frame whose posture is relaxed, yet alert.

"As with all of my stories, this one concerns itself with questions of love and change, sometimes suffering, but more often", eyes twinkling in a bemused, enchanting way, "the everyday world in which each of us -- you, and even you" -- pointing a gnarled old finger straight forward toward the listener's nose -- "can perceive things in different ways." The wrinkled, expressive features soften, belying their true age as time itself begins to smoothly slide forward, becoming malleable and indistinct, one moment rolling seamlessly into another. Each listener begins to focus on their own sensations of ordinary sitting and listening, allowing themselves to find a unique place in between the words of their teacher's calm, even tone of voice. With each breath rising deeply and falling into a continuous wave of sound, the words seem to arise of their own spontaneous volition:

"Today's story is a bit different from the others. You may have the impression that it is the tale of a young man and woman, but try to look beyond it."

. . .

A voice reminiscient of wind through autumn leaves begins to unfold the teaching tale for the day.

Overcast, quiet. Faintly in the background, the early evening tides can be heard in their familiar ebb and flow. In toward the shore; pause; then washing sand, shells and even small fish out to the sea. Every so often, gulls flying overheard train their keen eyes on the curling, lapping motion of the waves in search of a fresh evening meal.

Caught in a small alcove at the corner of a rock outcropping, a wave ripples and swirls, becoming an eddy that pulls surrounding water into its darkened center. The deep, seemingly impenetrable blue of the sea, speckled with the foam crests of upstart wave formations, forms an endless body that stretches to the horizon and beyond.

Bare footprints in the sand trace a path along the water's edge, sometimes weaving farther, sometimes closer to the point at which the sandy shore disappears into its liquid counterpart. Following along the path, the footprints begin to move farther away from the water, soon to be joined by another set of prints. This set is somewhat smaller, with a slimmer line connecting the impression of the pad with that of the heel, implying a higher and more delicate arch of the foot. Moreover, the smaller footprints periodically leave their linear trajectory along the waterline to inscribe twirling pirouhettes, tiptoe sprints and even the balletic grace of en pointe maneuvers. Following the course of the two intertwining sets of footprints stimulates within the viewer an idyllic imaginary scene, a sunset perhaps, alight with the playful laughter of those who delight in the companionship of one another amidst the radiant warmth of the dying afternoon sun.

Overcast. Silent. Nearly enveloped in darkness. The footprints have become blurred, distorted, in the process of washing away entirely and returning to the smooth, virginal sand of the inevitable morning's tide. Heaving upward from the farthest reaches of the distant horizon, tidal waves begin to rise, gaining strength and speed, eventually crashing heavily against the beach. Wave after wave relentlessly pummels the finely grained sand, mixing it into a thick compound of watery cement; it has become clay to be molded and recast as the sea sees fit.

The footprints are gone, never to be seen again.
Where are their erstwhile occupants?

the perils of low hanging fruit

2007-04-04T00:34:00.000-04:00

engorged blushing peach
enveloped in sweet fragrance

pendulous arc through crisp evening air
just above nose, tongue
teeth

do not inhale, do not exhale
do not lick, do not bite

run, escape
the terrible initiation of spring.

2007-03-19T03:11:00.000-04:00

realizations

- image: woman, in form only, body and face changing as if a mirage.
- idea: female-as-sexual-selector is false. for one to idealize the other is to lose self identity in pursuit of a poisonous illusion. both individuals are responsible for protecting themselves, physically and "psychically", from the omnipresent danger that either partner can hide their true selves until it is too late.

i have saved myself by instinct twice so far. time to learn this lesson firmly and remember it.

more later.

then, again

2007-03-10T19:45:00.000-05:00

impatience.

in the stairwell during a break in lecture. we climb the stairs to a secluded landing two floors above the lecture hall. she pushes me against the wall, her eyes are clouded with an intensity that seems to spread throughout her whole body, transforming her entire posture. her breathing is shallow and quick, causing her voice to take on a slightly higher pitch. her words tumble out in a fast, unpremeditated rhythm.

she draws closer as i gaze quietly at her, lips slightly parted and knowing what will come next. she seems fully intent on having her way with me, enacting a real version of the emails that we have been sending back and forth... naturally, though, i am going to make her suffer a bit for it. i pull her close, then lightly push her away and start to quiz her about her boyfriend with laughter in my voice. she denies that they are actually a couple, saying that they've been seeing each other "off and on for a couple of months". a lie.

you said before that he was hot... do you like him?, i ask in a soft, singsong voice... "yes, but he's not as hot as you," she breathes. thank you, i reply, almost as if yawning. after a few minutes of distracting her from our reason for coming to this hidden place, gently allowing her mind to reassert control over her emotions, i unceremoniously walk away, leaving her hot, bothered and a little bit dumbfounded.

she hasn't shown me why i should take her from her boyfriend, so i won't. if she has a problem with that? i don't care. unexpectedly, i have become dispassionate... without attachment to the outcome, the process becomes clearer, though definitely not any simpler.

fascinating that a person will act from a basis of emotion, and only afterward explain their actions in a way that aligns with their imagined sense of self. from the beginning, i knew that she intended to test me and find out if i was "new boyfriend material". i'm not, not for her, not right now. hence, the game began with an ambiguous phrase. before she could resist, she was indirectly asking for more. at that moment, one strong reinforcing response allowed her to express herself fully, without conscious interference. only afterward did she have to face the consequences of an action that caused dissonance with her desire to appear modest and "good"...

in everyday life, this happens all the time. habits are hard to break; the average person often speaks without thinking; emotions, memories, desires come upon us before we can comprehend their causes. so our inadequate mental apparatus is forced to clean up the mess, explaining "i just changed my mind" or blaming fate. in the case of having been lead astray by one's own desire, the victimized self needs deniability -- "it was his fault; he made me feel that way."

she wrote me an email later that night, explaining that she wanted nothing more than to know my mind, my "soul", as she put it. the amazing part of this is that she may actually be sincere in her reframing of the situation -- she doesn't even know what came over her because her conscious mind was not involved in the decision. after the fact, however, all kinds of mental gymnastics are performed to re-mold and re-sequence events to fit with "who she is"... although, in light of her actions, she is clearly not a single consistent personality, but a complex of sometimes conflicting elements, each with its own agenda.

the question, then, is threefold:

how do these emergent facets of personality manifest in our daily lives,
how "conscious", or volitionally aware, are we of them,
how are our unconscious motivations intentionally manipulated by others?

having studied for a few years, the sequential nature of this process only now begins to reveal itself. in earlier days, i may have referred to it as "hacking"... but this software exists inside the minds of every person alive today.

the real question, then: who needs computers?

a garrison of square black letters stand sentinel against white signboard, the sidewalk buttressed by sawhorse barricades and yellow tape. "please do not cross this line. a movie is being filmed..."

production assistants stand in phalanx position, each wielding a clipboard, a haggard, bored look and a somewhat unconvincing authoritarian air as they patrol the intersection. should anyone display the audacity to set foot across the threshold, they are sternly warned. the street is cleared of pedestrians, as everyone crowds around at a twenty foot remove from the four corners facing the improvised set.

we are too far away to see exactly what happens, but after about ten minutes, the p.a.'s begin to relay orders down the street. shouting in unison, they signal their readiness for the impending event. moments later, the intersection erupts in a cacophony of steel colliding against steel and tires squealing against pavement. after about a minute of dimly visible but clearly audible mayhem, the take is complete and action ends.

people are still not allowed to cross the intersection, however, and are beginning to ask questions about the delay. the production assistants nearby offer no explanation, instead maintaining a truculent silence other than warning us to stay in place "for safety".

across the street, the corner is likewise cleared of anyone not involved in the shoot. among the crew members milling about, a young man wearing a black jacket and nondescript beige pants turns the corner, apparently lost in thought. after taking a few steps, he stops and takes a sip of coffee from a distinctly bland styrofoam cup. for the first few minutes, no one notices him, and rightly so -- aside from being a few inches above average height, his appearance is resolutely unspectactular. if not for numerous close-ups taken during the previous movie whose sequel is unfolding in today's crash scene, his face would be completely anonymous.

the production assistants- turned- pedestrian- traffic- coordinators whose day began at four a.m. this morning give us the signal. we are free to go, passing through the intersection under their watchful gaze lest we disturb the wreckage and debris so artfully strewn about. the ordinary-looking thirtysomething year old assumes a slightly hunched, almost bashful disposition, shyly acknowledging the crowd of fans and admires who pause to pay homage to a movie star as they go about their everyday affairs.

audio: l'arc en ciel . anemone

image, email.

2007-03-06T01:26:00.000-05:00

no apologies, old man. this is far too amusing not to record. besides, perhaps one day you'll remember these moments and think, "i wrote this bollocks?"

and she's enjoying it too, judging from her responses.

...ballet boots... taut calves and thighs, straining to be freed from
their glistening black encasements, boots laced tightly to provide the illusion
of function when their real purpose is something else entirely.

Bleary eyes slowly focusing on the blackboard... only to find reality
quickly supplanted once more by images unfolding in brief bursts of subconscious
communication with the deeper, darker parts of the mind.

A slight stirring below brings him back to the present, and a rather unappealing
debate about illicit substances being used as medicine...

From the corner of his eye, he unintentionally begins to take in the sight of
the sometimes-cute-sometimes-not redhead sitting nearby... no, she becomes transparent
as his imagination reveals a vision of the curvaceous, dreamy brunette a few seats over
who also seems lost in a bit of covert reverie. I wonder whose film she's starring in,
he asks himself with a bemused half-grin. More images splash across the pages of
his improvised sensual screenplay... hands behind her back, held there, breath visibly
incited to a quick, heated rhythm... her eyes closed as she is told that they must be
at all times unless given permission to do otherwise... so close, the heat from their
bodies driving her slightly mad... mad for the whispering kiss that lightly dances
across her lips and then is so cruelly taken away... always so deliciously close that
she can taste it... worth risking an equally stimulating punishment should she choose to
break his playfully impossible rules.

Rising from his seat, he quietly moves across the short distance to the door,
intent upon finding a breath of fresh air outside. After all, he didn't come
to lecture in order to think about his classmates...

motion: garbage . cherry lips (uncensored)

2007-03-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

as you listen to your breathing, you can feel the movements of your body, in your rib cage, your abdomen, your posture. you can take in a full, natural breath, then let it go, completely and easily. you may notice your breathing as it becomes more settled, deeper, calmer. inhaling again, slowly and fully... then you can you allow yourself to let go of any tension as you exhale, feeling more and more relaxed as you listen to the rhythm of your breathing...

the surroundings were not entirely ideal, but the relatively soft lighting and warmth of the room worked to our advantage. the small restaurant was nearly empty except for the small group of friends at the bar. we had not seen each other for quite some time, and had become engaged in a conversation that took an unusually psychological turn. she mentioned a few issues that had been bothering her recently, including anxiety and panic attacks.

the first aspect of taking control of an issue can sometimes be re-creating the problem itself. in an everyday tone, the suggestion was made that she remember how it felt to experience the onset of anxiety -- physical manifestations, i.e. tightness in the chest, rapid breathing, etc.

it was all too easy for here to recall those sensations.

after lightly touching her on the right knee and shifting her thoughts back to the comfort of the present, an explanation followed that she had actually not been in any danger at all -- that she had actually created the experience herself.

next, she experienced the onset of anxiety again; this time, after entering the anxiety state, she became aware of her body in that mental context and at each step, was able to fully consider the fact that she was both the same, relaxed person as before, and the person creating her own sensations and thoughts at this particular moment.

the last step was to give her the opportunity to unravel the moment by simply becoming conscious of her breath. as she became more aware of her breathing pattern, it was only a question of pointing out the connected nature of her posture, and the feeling of what happens when the breath becomes steady, even, and relaxed. as the body relaxed, so did the mind.

the most interesting part of the experience was that she could so easily be guided to feel a fully "real" physiological state -- a stress/panic response -- while sitting in a completely unrelated environment, with friends in a safe place. it was only a light induction, of course, lasting only about two minutes to move her into the altered state and then about five minutes to bring her back. and the language patterns felt so natural that she began to exhibit signs of suggestibility almost immediately...

an unintentional, and exciting experiment. a first step.

2007-02-24T00:32:00.000-05:00

I swear by Apollo thanatos, hunched forward to gather heat from the dying embers, grasps a fleeting thought for long enough to share itPhysician and Asclepius and Hygieia with his brother, hypnos. their kin, the oneiroi, whisper quietly amongst themselves nearby, building silent worlds in the darkness.and Panaceia and all the gods and goddesses, "if you prod him with a fork and he still squeals,making them my witnesses, then you know you've got a live one... but,"that I will fulfil according to my ability "if there he lies without a trace of fire in his veins, well.and judgment this oath and this covenantyou snatch him right up."
a cold, gentle wind passes, and with it, the voice of their mother, nyx. "if only your desire for what ran inside those veinsTo hold him who has taught me this art as equal to my parents and to live my life in partnership surpassed your desire to emulate your brother,"with him, and if he is in need of money to give him a share of mine, and to regard his offspring as equal "your words would be less silken and your lips more crimson, as the fine example set by your sisters' affinity"to my brothers in male lineage and to teach them this art - if they desire to learn it - "for the blood of those who no longer have use for the confines of mortality."
hypnos, pensively regarding the swirl of burning ash dancing about in the atmosphere before him, replies quietly,without fee and covenant; to give a share of precepts almost to himself, "consumed by its taste, warmth, the urgency with which it appears and is eagerly devoured... aching for ownership of the pulse itself before a dying wish ebbs away to nothing. so often", he intones in an indecipherable rhythm, "those wishes were gifts, handspun creations from my own enchanted looms. if only they knew that such payment was their fate,"and oral instruction and all the other learning to my sons and to the sons of him who has instructed me "would they have been so enraptured by their dreams?" thanatos laughs, looking kindly uponand to pupils who have signed the covenant and have the wistful image of youth that mirrors his own delicate countenance. "come brother, it is time to get to work."taken an oath according to the medical law, but no one else.

Non (Erotic) Non (Fiction):An Email

2007-02-18T02:15:00.000-05:00

Fire in the Phrase
An Unfinished Original Work of Literary Brio
Author Unknown

"Only if you're a good boy," she said, full cherry lips curving into a winsome yet mischievous smile. In a room that had become saturated by the idle chatter of overstimulated minds, the words were clearly audible, despite her unusually quiet tone of voice.

Frostbitten clouds began to roll darkly over the horizon, hastening the slumber of an indifferent winter sun. A crepuscular spell seemed to fall over the inhabitants of the city below, transforming the bustling avenue into a mass of lugubrious shadows hastening toward unspoken destinations.

He was suddenly in a bind, loath as he was to offend his newly betrothed who sat only an arm's length away. She was a fiery Italian brunette, possessed of eviscerating wit and a penchant for litigious behavior (she once sued a grocery store chain into oblivion for "allowing" a can of Campbell's to tumble from the top shelf, leaving a rather dainty scar on her otherwise flawless forehead). Her perpetual jealous fury led to various bite-and-scratch encounters, not
all of which had been entirely unpleasant. He did, however, find himself leaning toward a more refined path to pleasure, and had begun to enjoy the present conversation.

A good boy, he thought, composing a revised version of the phrase as a vision of his own propensity for creative mischief. The words "bad" and "girl" figured prominently in the revision process, as did several more evocative phrases and concepts. Rather than incur the inevitable wrath of the Implacable Wife, he took mental note of the unmentionable scene unfolding behind his eyes and decided to write a little something about it later.

07oshougatsu

2007-01-02T12:30:00.000-05:00

Easier to send an e-card of manic singing trees or
Insipid ducklings quacking loudly just a click away

Release corporate remote control
Scrawl a few line breaks without punk tu a shun
So important to breathe in the new year

Change is all though it may seem to stay
the same for a while
So I say not sure of the words

Enjoy it

refactor prefactor

2006-12-30T23:04:00.000-05:00

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

up, out, in

2006-12-17T02:53:00.000-05:00

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

atypical. in the same way.

2006-12-14T23:47:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-04T00:29:00.000-05:00

mr. oh is back.

note to self: link him.

to change, to set

2006-11-22T19:10:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-10T00:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-08T02:41:00.000-05:00

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.

9.30 Dream, Recounted as a Message

2006-10-11T00:39:00.000-04:00

(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

the misfits

2006-09-10T12:45:00.000-04:00

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

her blade is wet, her eyes are blue...

2006-09-02T03:45:00.000-04:00

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...)

alone together

2006-08-29T19:50:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-27T23:33:00.000-04:00

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.

miss mirror

2006-08-16T01:54:00.000-04:00

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.

keeping time

2006-07-25T02:39:00.000-04:00

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.

dust or dreams

2006-07-22T22:16:00.000-04:00

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.

selfdestructiveness is not an admirable character trait.

2006-07-12T01:36:00.000-04:00

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.

identity check

2006-06-18T02:41:00.000-04:00

"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.

counter, factual

2006-06-05T00:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-23T12:45:00.000-04:00

empty for the moment...

and other word nonsense.

2006-05-04T23:20:00.000-04:00

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)

2006-04-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

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.

reptilian rapport

2006-04-20T00:35:00.000-04:00

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

your light may go out

2006-03-25T19:12:00.000-05:00

"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

2006-03-16T14:08:00.000-05:00

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.

guess'd motive

2006-03-09T23:31:00.000-05:00

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.

escape | create

2006-02-23T01:09:00.000-05:00

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)

cycle, re

2006-02-09T22:27:00.000-05:00

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

Day One, Email

2006-02-03T20:06:00.000-05:00

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)

daruma tumble

2006-02-02T00:51:00.000-05:00

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

And then there was Saru.

2006-02-01T01:23:00.000-05:00

Return to the blog.

New layout. Alot has happened over the past two months. CSS handcoded for Opera (8), tested in Firefox (1.0.4).

Internet Explorer? What is this "Internet Explorer"?

release, spirits

2005-11-17T10:58:00.000-05:00

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?

agonist

2005-11-10T23:01:00.000-05:00

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

spending from an empty hand

2005-10-02T22:59:00.000-04:00

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)

within a concave lense

2005-09-15T23:45:00.000-04:00

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

what are you afraid of?

2005-09-01T20:42:00.000-04:00

to imagine a world, and then create it.

audio: kas product . never come back

light sweet crude

2005-08-31T23:38:00.000-04:00

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)

the unnatural, natural

2005-08-28T22:40:00.000-04:00

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)

squirrel's nest

2005-08-13T20:49:00.000-04:00

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.

more people, more interesting

2005-07-25T21:17:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-07-23T22:55:00.000-04:00

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?

to quote the grove

2005-07-19T14:52:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-06-22T12:15:00.000-04:00

time to get up.

from nacre to oynx

2005-06-18T13:56:00.000-04:00

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.

claws of a certain mind

2005-05-25T12:24:00.000-04:00

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

the privilege

2005-05-15T14:37:00.000-04:00

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

The Post-Phone Call

2005-05-10T16:54:00.000-04:00

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'...