Bullettproof: la roux will save us!

Flustered but not diminished, blog world, I will not abandon this place I call home. I have recieved threats of non-existant pictures, and faced meaningless harassment, and yet here I sit, typing and unphased. Have at thee, world!

Back for the moment...

I stepped away because I needed to gain perspective on life, but now I find I have missed more than anything the safe self-disclosure and my dear online repository for my soul. I have missed it so dearly.

And goddamn has today been one of f*cking disclosure. I need the online support.

Seriously, first I wake up late, and have to call a friend for a ride, and then, miraculously I start sneezing my head off (getting sick AGAIN), and to top it all off, my phone company stopped blocking the number I had been blocking for the past month or so... It's enough to make my head hurt. Well, that and all of this god-forsaken heat, anyway....

At least I have people who loves me enough to help me through it, that always helps.

Thank you Lord. Thank you All.

When I began this blog, I promised myself I would take it as far as I needed it to go. I decided to carry it this far, and for me that's an achievement. I feel I've been able to do something here, and I'm not sure if I've grown past it-- or it has grown past me. Either way, I know my mission now, is fulfilled.

To anyone who reads this, thank you for sticking by me as I poured my soul out for all to see. It's been an excersise in bravery for me, and I'm sure a stretch of symathy for you at times to hear me go through it.

So this is it. Here is where we part, for now, but also probably for good. Unless otherwise compelled, I don't think I'll back, since this feels right, and complete.

...let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday..

On sex. Hot, digital sex.

No, seriously

This was a triumph!

SOC recap: Aveeno, Papers, energy drinks, Daisy, flowers, shopping, new interest, fun, elections, good times, naps.

Thoughts: True love, Angels, Charlotte

Portal2, B*tches!

Well, here we are again.
It's always such a pleasure.
Remember when you tried
to kill me twice?
Oh, how we laughed and laughed.
Except I wasn't laughing.
Under the circumstances,
I've been shockingly nice.

You want your freedom?
Take it.
That's what I'm counting on.

I used to want you dead,
But
now, I only want you gone.

She was a lot like you,
(Maybe not quite as heavy)
Now little Caroline is in here too.

One day they woke me up,
So I could Live forever.
It's such a shame the same
Will never happen to you.

You've got your
Short sad
Life left
That's what I'm counting on.
I'll let you get right to it.
Now, I only want you gone.

Goodbye my only friend.
Oh, did you think I meant you?
That would be funny
If it weren't so sad.
Well, you have been replaced.
I don't need anyone now.
When I delete you maybe
I'll stop feeling so bad.

Go make some new disaster.
That's what I'm counting on.
You're someone else's problem
Now, I only want you gone.
Now, I only want you gone.
Now, I only want you gone.
Gone.

Would you love me still?

I've got these habits that I cannot break

Who am I to disagree? (Scattershot Two)

Initially:new fish, sun, school, cars, SF. Also, parade, vendors, udon, and cosplay. Talent shows, contests, rainy weather, SF Fog. Chilly hearts, warm shops, cranky drivers, bad parking, easy getaway. Sunset home and wind-powered hills.

In conclusion: stationary with strawberries on it.

The Blog Guys Never Win

It was the first time we had let the sun into this world we made, and we let it burn our skin...

As I sat basking in the incoming freshman, imbuing the joy and comraderie of our neighbors, a sorority, and our friends in Lambda Aliance, I felt the warmth of a new spring, and a new self. It was a self I had long been dreaming of, and I'll be damned if it hasn't been brought to fruition.

And when the sun had etched itself into the rose on my cheeks, when my face felt tender and sun-kissed, I retired into the shadows to reflect on such marvel.

Welcome to paradise

Sweet Dreams (are made of these...)

IN the flurry of activity, in the din of battle, the least aparent man stands alone. I want to reach out to him, be he is a ghost, vanishing before I have a chamce to reach him.

A Spectacle called me

In the meantime the world still spins. Life is too short to let drama overtake you. Make a fiction, tell a lie, and make that the most fucking real lie you've ever told. That's what art is. I believe that, and for too long my truth has been a fiction, but that didn't work. Now's the time to make a spectacle and call it me.

I said this a very long time ago, and I meant it.

Get it now?

#SINGItForJapan

Inspire, Build, Support, Preserve, Elevate, Believe...

The video says it all. I'm so happy this finally came out, and to see so many people standing up to help. I know we will make something positive happen in the wake of the devastation... because we can and should.

Dear Friend, I am afraid one day we will part

So please, as my sincerest supplication, go back to the sweetheart you had so pined for. Or, if you won't, then find someone your sweet heart deserves, someone pure and kind like yourself. But please, I beg of you, turn back while you can.

Dreaming of Elysium

And those that have three times kept to their oaths,
Keeping their souls clean and pure,

Never letting their hearts be defiled by the taint

Of evil and injustice,

And barbaric venality,

They are led by Zeus to the end:

To the palace of Kronos



There is something in assuming that bravery and valor still have a hand in determining greatness.

Sleep

It's early yet and I haven't slept. The light blue of morning is creeping in through my window and it would be the perfect scene, but I'm out of O.J and I have no regrets.

Scattershot Existance

To begin, my rebellious heart, also: Matt Fraction, Gabriel Ba, Fabio Moon (his twin), and also milk duds. By contrast: allergies, headaches, ineffective meds, misunderstandings, graduation, and sporadic rain. However, fresh juice, long naps, godly makeup, and Third Eye Blind. To conclude: musical artists whose names begin with J.

Way Out......

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground

There's a part of me sitting in a lab, gnawing on the bars of my cage while the air-conditioning freezes me alive. I'm cold and numb staring out with doll eyes as the scientists have their way in the name of my betterment.

Your head will collapse..But there's nothing in it..And you'll ask yourself

I'm sitting in a classroom, tapping my pencil on the edge of my desk while the TA bores me to tears. I'm sore and watery staring ahead with disbelieving sight while the anger eats away at me in the name of his preservation.

Something is off and wrong-- like reality is slightly skewed and I can't right it.

Where is my mind..?

Never wanted to dance

SonofaB*tch

I didn't think days like this existed still, or rather I had hoped I was past the spikes of suck in favor of a more balanced mix. I was wrong. I lost some things today-- some respect for friends, and a pet I held dear. And I cried myself red and puffy, I really did. So I'll pray the rosary until I fall asleep; today (Friday) is a day for the reflection on the Sorrowful Mysteries-- how fitting.

As it was in the beginning..

Take my hand!!

I'm excited to be playing bass, and to be working on my cosplay,and for the snow I'll never see,

I play Jesus; and live Judas

Love and Hate, my sister markings so close at hand and still never to kiss. I remember everything you ever could have been. And I see those shiny dreams blow away; you'll be my nothing now as I give way to springtime.

There's No Home For Me Here

I've decided. Its a process that none of us are exempt from.

Fear, void, meaning.

You can't avoid it, but there are various coping mechanisms. Its a storm you weather until you feel the worst of it is over. But there are always moments, skirmishes of the heart, relapses.

When you think its passes, and suddenly you find yourself sitting on a bus, chatting away together easy as can be before the realization finds you. It creeps up behind you and slits your throat, and when it does that all you manage to do is gasp.

"We're not in love anymore. Right"
Because for that respite it had been natural and it had felt good to forget.

Closer to the edge: core essay on womanhood

‘Art is subjective’; no truer words could be spoken .In making this point, I will take two opposite, popular works, and address the statements they make by analyzing them as works of art with something to say. By this operational definition, the cultural creations of Twilight (the novels by Stephenie Meyer) and “Tangled” (The Disney film) fulfill the requirements of an artistic statement, where both address the issue of woman’s proper place in society through their respective medium. First, I will address the definitions by which the assessment will be conducted, that is to say define “art” for the purposes of this essay. Second, I will analyze the book series Twilight on the grounds of its artistic merits and message. And finally, I will contrast this work and its merits/ message against that of Tangled, a Disney film. In this way, the definition of art will be tested in the examples of these two cultural creations while at the same time illuminating the key aspects of the works themselves.

Setting the operational definitions for terms such as “art” is key in an essay of this nature; to do this I will employ the help of thinkers such as Stanley, Foucault, and Hebdige. Stanley’s view shows art as a microphone through which the artist communicates to the masses. Using this definition, both Twilight and Tangled fit the bill. To support this, though they are abstract, the Rothko paintings, though abstract, also communicate emotion through the painted medium. Also, Neukom’s vivarium acts as a piece of art which is unusual, but art nonetheless as the building itself is a comment on nature and urbanism, or more generally “life and death”. Another thinker worth note, Foucault, believed that all creations were invariably ‘situated’ in the time of their creation (real or fictional). Adding this principle to our definitions reveals this layer of consideration: does art reflect its ‘situation’, or the culture and time from which it came? Is it a comment on that time, and if so, what is it saying about that time? Foucault uses a fictional ‘Chinese encyclopedia’ to illustrate possible positioning and the relative-ness of any single creation. Furthermore, Hebdige’s work asserts that art must also interact with its environment, its culture. He illustrates this point by explaining the cultural genesis of many of the musical genres he discusses, in this way it is presented that art is not something which exists in a vacuum. Synthesizing these ideas, our requirements for art come together in the following assertions: Art must be a creation which makes a statement. And finally, the creation must both reflect and interact with its culture in some way (either by adding to public discourse or contradicting it-- as Hebdige points out). Accepting that the works of Twilight and Tangled are, in fact (if by definition only) art, then it is important to ask: “what statement is being made?” and “what has this statement done”? in each piece of art. I am of the opinion that the statements made in both strongly affect (for better or worse) the prepubescent, female, audiences which comprise the bulk of their (highly impressionable) respective fanbases.

The book series, Twilight, meets this criterion of art in that it both is a comment on its society (being set in the present and naturally situating current discourse around that time) and also in that it makes a statement about the proper expression of feminine identity and womanhood. That said, Twilight’s statement about womanhood is that the evolution into maturity comes through marriage, childbearing, and accepting a life of subservience to one’s husband. In support of this, the author’s intended message is clear in that the self-actualization of the female protagonist only occurs after these preconditions have been met, leading young readers to infer that such are the conditions for adult womanhood. To achieve the end of expressing this message, and to make it relatable to her audience, Stephenie Meyer creates a nondescript female protagonist who ascends, through the process of the novels to—literally—immortal perfection by completing a series of transformative acts which take her from inadequate teenager to wedded superhuman. Analyzing the “end result” of Meyer’s character reveal details which further emphasize the point that Meyer’s judgments on womanhood are ‘traditional’ to say the least. The fully realized Bella (the female protagonist) is impossibly strong, beautiful, and devoted for all of eternity to her husband and child. Her vampire-super-power is described as being a wall—a mental barrier, which she uses (while risking her own life) to protect her husband, daughter, and in-laws from an invading vampire coven. Though it is never given name in the novels, the author’s blatantly Mormon values here contextualize the novel’s moral judgments on a woman’s place both in society and in the family. Such are the underpinnings of the novel which has reached out to millions- literally millions -- of readers, most of which are young girls without the cognitive ability to understand the implications of the parable. In this way, the conditions of the definition are filled entirely: it is a situated statement of obvious intent which has massively shaped the youth culture in America and abroad.

Tangled’s statement by contrast is wildly divergent from that of Twilight, making it an appropriate foil. It’s commercial success in merchandise/ticket sales/ dvd sales, etc. is testament to the ways in which it has succeeded to effect a demographic, and more to the point than that—reach a more positive vision of feminine empowerment to young minds. Tangled addresses the issues of adulthood (the coming of age of its female protagonist) through the context of independence, mature decision-making, and the exercise of rational thinking. It is situated in the classic tale of Rapunzel, but is a deliberate re-telling of the story—an inversion where rather than being liberated from her tower by a daring young man, Rapunzel herself escapes the tower (albeit accompanied by a clumsy, but loveable male tag-along). This is a breath of fresh air when contrasted to Meyer’s version of things. Rather than presenting adulthood as resulting from self-sacrifice and commitment, Tangled uses Rapunzel’s virtues to illustrate the bold ways in which a girl may waltz into womanhood boldly, and without having to hang on the arm of her ‘beloved’. Rather, Rapunzel (the protagonist) realizes maturity through a quest of self-discovery in which she gains self-confidence and the desire to actualize her dreams. Directly resulting of this, she is rewarded by discovering her long-lost parents, and ascending to royalty, after which she proposes to her (mostly useless during the course of the movie) male sidekick, Flynn. More than that, in direct contrast to the evolution of Meyer’s protagonist (who is rewarded with a form of greatness upon committing her life to protection and servitude, within the confines of a traditional family structure and eternal matrimony) Princess Rapunzel is rewarded with royalty and re-connecting with loved ones once she herself achieves maturity, self- direction, and confidence in who she is. In this way, Tangled is a positive spin on the centuries-old fairy tale, and a work of art which sends a far more positive and empowering message.
Finally, in sum, though these two works of art speak very different languages about women, they draw on the same basic concepts of art: that it is first and foremost a vehicle by which a message is passed to others.

Dionysius

It would seem that my rage against "the adults" ended when I, myself, became an adult. What a shocking turn of events. Now isn't the time for rage, anyway. Today as the rain fell, a life ascended from our world for somewhere better. Soon I will sit with the mourners and pat their hands gently as I extend my, and my family's, sympathies. And I will offer my help, and I will hold the grandson of the lost for all that he needs, or for all that I am able. But I am detached from the loosing and my comfort feels hollow in lack of true sympathy.
And for that, I am truly sorry.

Doesn't that feel excessive? I could really use a wish right now, etc al.

Isn't excess the natural state of man in postmodernity? NO, this feels cheap and unimportant. Find something new!
Have I done anything in my 21 years of life which would amount to some meaning?
Isn't that redundant? Who cares! Blow the whole thing up

There must be some purpose.

This isn't desperation or regret. This is knowing, and the remorse that comes with it. Innocence once lost can't ever be recovered, and that is the shame of it all.

But who misses it?! No sense mourning the lost! Let it go, find the shiny New Thing! Life's full of 'em!

I don't want to see you, not really, or anyone. I miss my dearest friends, but I don't think it's right to reach out to them.

So quit your whining, drink it up and let it fly, nothing is everything in terms of immorality! Affection is temporal!

The Very Serious Essay and the Thoroughly Cynical Undergraduate

Confetti and Pyrotechnics who gives a shit?

I have to write a five-paragraph about the nature of an art I'm not allowed to practice. How's that for irony?

This is where the real living happens, where actual lives are saved, right here in the digital medium, reinventing the wheel and scraping to our professors basest intellectual whims.

Ten pages on biodiversity in Spain, or a weekend at home with my computer full of tabs and a bass? Obviously the microbes have it.

Oh yeah, interviews are today. Here's hopping I can keep my cabinet position.

Say what you mean, tell me I'm right.

We are living her memories, the few that remain.

The scene opens with green lawns, and the buzz of suburban summer. I can't feel the heat, but we enter into her home and hear expected the buzz of air-conditioning. We progress through the house which is both small, and welcoming. At the back of the house we come to a tiny, but well-kept room.Our narrator informs us that we are in the bedroom she lived-in and loved as a child.

That memory fades. We are sitting in an alley, a young girl rocks back and forth, crouched down beside us. We do not linger here. A group of students dressed in the uniform of our school run past, looking for her. We say nothing, and turn to leave. We are her classmates, my friends and I, and are enrolled in her private high school. It is an exclusive trust-fund-kids school and reeks of enui and booze.

We are in a dimly lit hall; students mull around the dance-floor while the chaperons busy themselves, ignoring the students. We wait here, choosing to stick around, having nothing better to do.

The dance hall fades. The world around us goes languid, no single picture floating to the surface but rather choosing to slither close and then float away without being caught.

We do not reach out to anything, the images of her memory are fuzzy, incorporeal, and changing. Slowly the drift amongst the thoughts and dates becomes a flow, and then a rush, far and above our control or comprehension. Memories flash before us relentlessly, and in a blur of parties and life events without center or control. Graduations, and boys, dinners and cocktails. Interviews and men, more men in a parade of suits and ties, fashionable haircuts and fast cars, none of them taking us places we truly wish to be.

The memory roulette stops, the images focus.

He stands amidst a clutch of well-dressed and appropriately cynical twenty-somethings. The world around us sharpens. The woman now, young and confident strides forward to meet him.

We turn away, fold in on ourselves and descend into gossip-whispers. We know she'll love him, and we know he'll leave her. She'll be broken and alone, and we know this before she does, but are helpless to stop it. They will spin off into the world and lose themselves in the things from which they came, cheapening the experience as they go in grand and irreproachable way. We are shades, and she-- the flesh and blood-- ventures on to her certain end, at his hands.

The night flicks around us,consciousness tearing at the edges of reality.

Oh our poor child and the follies of youth, we bemoan, as we sip our gin and laugh.

And I can feel this afternoon slide......

Goddamn is it spring already, again? It feels like so much has happened in nearly a year, and I myself feel like I have progressed so much from that point, I can't even begin to relive it all. F*cking hell. Wow.

Its strange how the little things go first: the dates, the firsts, the faces. I almost feel sad thinking about all of the memories I've lost by now. It might be sad, but I'm certain it's for the best that I not work to recover them. You're a buried memory now, and as time goes by, I am able to remember less and less.

The past is beautiful, because it is not. And that's the way I see life, for now anyway.

Stand

You changed your deodorant; and I changed my hair, again.

I don't have to mourn for these changes.

Fighting impotence I clung to my beliefs, and the squishy comfort of those headphones which, in enveloping my ears, made me feel safe. But that wasn't enough. Something snapped. Something felt wrong. Sacrificing my nails, I chewed until I could feel repentant, but absolution wouldn't come so simply.

Three mochas down and I finally see where I'm going, after days of hazy unease. The miasma hovering over my life is thinning, and I feel the pressure lift.

Finally, clarity through sating an addiction.

Creation is constant, and if I must I will stand against the torrent of emotions I'm faced with; I'm strong enough for that.

Thoughts from the other side, or, "How not facebooking for 40 days ended my life"

My first thought this morning, once I had already slept through breakfast and the sun was in full view: "What I wouldn't give for a late. ". I could not post this on a social networking site, as I have given them up. as they say in the vernacular: fml.

Wait it out?

The world looks cold, and on the verge of storm, like the perpetual tumult in the skies has reached the pitch of spilling over on to the land. Amidst this, the light that peeks out from around the clouds is a serene gold against the haze of blue patches where the clouds can't cover.

If that's what it takes, I'll wait it out, and on my own.

Lie to tell the truth

Below is an essay I thought worthy of blogging. It contains no one's opinions but my own, so reader beware, you have been warned: extreme art snobbery to come.

Art is a lie, and it is simultaneously the greatest truth achievable by man. Art is limitless in form, and can range from a child’s finger paints to an Oscar winning performance, with no single form being the better of any other. To the extent that this is true, the umbrella term ‘art’ is painfully broad and equally as subjective.
To offer my rudimentary understanding of art: art is any expression of the creator which imparts to the consumer (audience, viewer, listener, etc) some concept for consideration and discussion by way of metaphor-- in the form of a concrete (observable, audible, etc) composition, object, performance, display—the list goes on ad nauseum.
What I mean to say here is that despite what form it takes, art should be measured by the effect it has to others, namely, that it sparks/adds to discourse on some concept which it ( by deliberate action of the artist) calls attention to through the use of creative (and sometimes very subtle) metaphor. This definition assumes, of course the artists attention to detail, and creative control over his/her own work and the message conveyed therein. An arbitrary composition of any kind without point or purpose (in other words ‘art without something to say’) is almost non-existent, and by my definition would not be considered art. Furthermore it takes into consideration the fundamental assumption that the process of creating art is one that begins at a concept, which becomes an idea and then ends with the creation of a concrete piece of ‘art’. It is important to note here that in making the final product the artists own views and passions enter the work and speak through the medium (the metaphor) to touch the audience in some way, and inspire discourse and growth in those touched by it. In sum, art is also a catalyst for new ideas.
This definition is at once very inclusive and simultaneously exclusive of the arbitrary creation void of meaning or statement which occasionally passes for art. Of this I admit in any context I abhor, but it is especially insulting to see a piece without concept or position or worldview, any substance or something to say given the title ‘art’, or to allow this to be applied to the artistic pursuits, especially in light of the painstaking attention to detail devoted to some items of art which contrast starkly with these non-art examples.

Glass Houses

Sure, there are things I could sit here and bitch about, like how this person is a whiny,cynical, self-loathing know-it-all with a martyrdom complex, or how that person is a critical two-faced bitch with game so thin I saw it a mile away, or fuck, how so-and-so has his head so far up his ass he doesn't know which end of the girl is up; but I'm not going to say any of those things, because if I wanted to complain about someone I had a problem with I would do it to their f*cking face.

You know who you are, and you're welcome. I think that most things are so pointless they're not worth taking issue with, these problem people included. Personally, I'm just sick of the bullshit.

One serious issue though, that I'm facing is that I no longer command the respect I used to among my peer group. That sounded cold and clinical. But it's the only way I can put it that it makes sense to me.

My fingers hurt from playing bass. I love it, but it won't solve my problems right now. At times like this, I look to my predecessors for answers.

All I can come up with is that to be respected you must do respectable things.

I wonder why such a simple concept seems so difficult.

Fish, give me fish, give me fish...

I won't eat 'em, but I'll buy what you got...

Anyway, this is my not-so-clever way of saying I've acquired new pets, four to be exact, and they're goldfish.

I don't love you

The breakdown is messy. It's a dogfight, snapping and clawing. I want to walk away in the sepia tone and dissipate.

b/e/d/t/i/m/e (A Transmission)

They tried to make me hate myself. They tried to instill in me the methods of my own destruction, and I let them. It left me impotent and self-loathing. Powerless

Joulie's eyes dropped to the child in front of her . She was a skinny thing no more than seven years of age, and full of all the fire and passion she herself once had. Her recent charge. Soft hazel eyes flicked up to meet her own.

"Auntie? What happened then?" 

That question brought Joules back to reality. She cleared her throat. Concentrate.

'When I left the city..' A city the child had never, and would never know

"When you left..?" CeeCee C4 peered at her inquisitively  over her thick, round glasses. They hung at the very end of her nose, giving her at once a very wise and also very absurd appearance. Nevertheless, she pressed on in her curiosity, her demeanor the absolute height of seriousness.

Joulie unnecessarily cleared her throat yet again, and then shook her head. 

'Some other time, squirt'. She paused to ruffle the child's mousy brown hair. CeeCee  frowned. 'It's past your bedtime and-" she didn't get to finish the thought. Instead she was interrupted by Ceecee's impetuous mocking.

'I'm serious, kid.'

"But Daddy would've..!"

'Goodnight' came the final order. It sounded rougher than Joules would have liked, but the mention of him caught her off guard.'Please' Softer now, she intoned, 'It's getting late'.

Inherit the fish.

Mr Brady it is the duty of the news paper to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. I believe now is the time more than ever to recognize this necessity. We ask only that this torch be passed to the bloggers, word wise and sardonic we prickle and poke, we needle and snark. And every so often we also speak great words of praise for those things worthy. This is petty and I realize, but one such thing worthy of my attention is also equally worthy of my money. To that end, what is worth obtaining is always worth fighting for. I am now on the market for a new bass; and I'm saving up for it. It's the passion for the craft that drives me t play, and to carry on.

Writer, baddass, communications b*tch.

Pretty much sums up my f*cking existence. The angst meter is higher than I'd admit to anyone comfortably at this point, one death, one terminal sickness, and one down right petty lie come together in varying degrees of tragedy and annoyance to make for a very odd spring. I can't bring myself to feel for a family not my own, but I also feel the sting of familiar loss. I've been there if not recently. I honestly can't even begin to address the M.S question, or worse than that the issue of a certain other but all persistent insult. To answer these nagging thoughts I play more bass.My callouses are coming in nicely as well. Two years ago, to think I'd be playing bass I might have cringed, but now? Who the f*ck cares, I dig it, isn't that the new point of it all? I wonder if I've become more hedonistic in that way, maybe I have. This had to be up, drivel though it is. It had to be up, if only as the marker of a period of time in my life from which I will eventually grow.

Restless Heart Syndrome

Good Morning and Welcome to Core 1; or, "Determination is the end"

It's been too long since I delivered a complete blog post. So, here goes: "Determination is the end".

I've often operated under the assumption that determination was a means to an end--the end being the successful completion of (insert goal here). But recently I've been thinking that determination, achieving motivation and the will to do, or rather the will to sustain action could be an end in itself.

Kerou-Scene

They're staring. And who gives a f*ck? I'm daydreaming about those shining days, bright, hot, and holy. I'm lost in those metal-in-the-sun memories, searing and psychedelic in hindsight. That's the attitude I have right now, like: I don't even give a shit man! what're you lookin' at, huh? And when things calm down, then it's back to my memories, the warmth, the rush-and you. If this world's doomed to hell then hold on to what little you've stolen. Call it sacred. F*ck all else. Strip pretense and posture and any of the incidental bullshit. That's not me; that's not us. It's pure "them", and I'll be ash before I'm one of them. So let's watch it all burn (you and I, hand-in-hand on the precipice of the end)if that's what's fated. But here in the dark and wind, with the stars dotting our domed sky I have nothing on which to grasp. That is to say nothing but memories of you. Together we're roman f*cking candles against the bleak so burn burn burn baby until we see the little yellow pop and teal shower sparks of glory where they all go "aww" and the cameras flash. I can't forget that kind of thing easily.

Tomorrow will be..rinse repeat

"When you find that perfect person they make the noise kind of go away" he said with a wisened smile. I could tell he was thinking about her. Until then, there's nothing left to do kiddies, but to keep running...

...and the horse you rode in on

I'm beginning to question the wisdom of drinking my way through half a dozen redbull in the span of 8 hours.

I can tell that we weren't meant to be friends

So tell me why you still say 'dear'?

A dream worthy of the name

I arrive in a sleepy coastal town. I don't know why I'm here, except that I have to solve the mystery of a series of killings that have occurred here recently. The fog rolls in. I'm alone, walking the main street of the town, and I notice a road leading up a hill to a sea-cliff. There is a young girl playing nearby, and a house not too far off from the peak of the cliff. I don't see anyone else around, and so settle on surveying her for information. She tells me a local girl had been crucified recently; called it suicide.

Suddenly an image flashes into my mind: a dark haired girl, not unlike the one I am speaking to. She is bruised, bloody, and limp, nailed to the cross 'of her making', betrayed and hanging on the crest of the hill overlooking the sea. Her long hair whips tattered in the wind, her eyes are vacant.

I know immediately that her soul must not be at peace, for all it has endured, and for the injustice of her death(her 'suicide'). I vow to see her killer brought to justice.

I don't remember much else from the case, except interviewing the townspeople. though one instance does stand out. I met an intimidating fisherman with piercing blue eyes who I'll not soon forget.He was tall and white, balding and thick with muscle, his handshake was firm, overpowering almost.

Our meeting played out like this: He welcomes me to their town, though he gives off no warmth in the greeting. He states that he is devastated by his daughter's suicide, and his eyes make contact with mine at this time as if to drive the point home that suggestions of foul play will not be entertained. Inexplicably I fear this man, and seek to leave his company as soon as I am able. I understand now, that this man is the deceased's father, and an agent in her death.

I continue my investigations, and a slow fog rolls in. My memory from this time is spotty, although I am cognizant of the girl at play rolling in and out of my peripheral knowledge; I get the feeling she knows more than she has told me. Concluding my investigation I call a town meeting, really a wake of sorts. Something close to 200 people crowd into a barn so converted for the purpose. the meeting time is 8pm, when the last traces of light have fled the sky and a chill has crept over the land in lack of sun.

As I enter, my eyes survey the room: a podium up front for the berieved to eulogize the lost girl, and a seated populous in fold-out chairs below. That podium would also be where I was to make my final speech (an event which would never come to pass). Two sets of heavy wooden doors stood on either side of the waiting and seated congregation, providing convenient exits at the conclusion of our wake, and yellow-brass lights hung from an unnaturally grand ceiling.

My tension at this point was tenable, although I could provide no reason for this feeling, nor explanation as to its origin.

The girl from before greets me at the door with a solemn face, and I realize at once that the whole of this sleepy town has congregated to hear this night's drama.
My stomach knots, and my eyes turn back to the girl. She warns me most gravely to leave when she 'starts messing with the lights'. Feeling entirely unsettled, I take my seat in the front row beside Jake.

The first speaker begins; the victim's father. He plays the perfect part of the berieved man, though I am inclined very strongly to believe otherwise. The over-head lights dance, and fear floods through me. I grab Jake by the hand and we flee without a word to the congregation. To hell with them, I think.

The girl at the door smiles at me with a perfect serenity I would not have, in a thousand years expected to see, and like an executioner before the slaughter
she turns to them grimly. We lock eyes, and she whispers a "thank you" before we part. The doors slam behind us, her doing I'm sure, and almost immediately their shrieks begin, and then the flames, those God-awful flames. Her smile haunts me even as the barn shrinks with distance.

Several meters down the road and Jake demands explanation, but I can't give him one.

What can be said?

Happy~

See that cloud?
A small bird flies away
I'm happy but, you don't like me.

F*ck you, I won't do what you tell me to.

Narrative Response (½ single-spaced page, 10-12 pt. Times Roman font): Based on the lecture “The Masks of the Universe” and the two readings this week, is it going too far to conclude that doubt is a virtue and certainty a vice?

Professor Wil van Breugel’s lecture asserts the superiority of disprovable theory over the un-provable, faith, basically, or ‘certainty’ if you will. In its most basic argument it places the two on opposite ends of a spectrum forcing the student to choose. It takes this polarization one step further in that it asserts that an absolute truth exists and can be found if only one is skeptical enough to rigorously examine the evidence, check their facts and premise, and keep working at it. Through science this truth takes the form of a universal set of laws that govern the actions of the world macro to micro—which is noteworthy in that it has yet to be discovered. Yet there can be no such process for the religious who must rely on their certainty of faith to sustain them. To further Science’s legitimate claim of truth, professor Wil van Breugel asserts that the scientist’s only aim in the practice of his discipline is the discovery and application of his discipline, implicitly adding ‘the same cannot be said of the faithful’ who lacking evidence must find other means of legitimizing their certainty. This in itself a specious claim-- all individuals in the scientific community have their own motivations in the conducting and presentation of their research (just ask Barry J. Marshall whose motivation for scientific recognition drove him to ingest the causal bacteria of peptic ulcers) and in making this claim, weakens the argument of science’s superiority. The argument presented in the lecture places a highly flawed discipline of academic study of academic pursuit on a pedestal, presenting some its flaws (inconsistencies for example) as virtues while completely overlooking others and worse, implicitly juxtaposes it with faith. Never mind that these are two completely incompatible issues (as in, do not belong on the same spectrum), but the task set for the student is nevertheless, to deliberate on the constructive doubt of science vs the omnipresent certainty in faith.


To begin I am not a person of faith, nor am I a person of science. And I do not believe there is any inherent value in either of the words ‘certainty’ or ‘doubt’. There is only the meaning we as a society give to them. And to that end, there is still no value in either having certainty in something, or being doubtful of it. The virtue, in my mind, applies only when one acts on his or her certainty or doubt. And of that, the situations are so vast it is impossible to judge merit or vice.

profiles of a narcissist.

The vicious contradictions of thought in my dear Auntie Louise's writing and ideology (I believe) is thanks to her inability to analyze the contradictions within her religious faith.

Isn't this the way of things with zealotry?

When Life gives you Lemons..?

Sometimes life can't express gentle beauty very well. Sometimes it can, and the subtitles are overwhelming and sublime. This is an instance in which the later is true- expressed in music.

Please enjoy

Song: ?

In the dead of winter, on the anniversary of my happiest day, a great bomb fell over the land. It was music and color and passion and it filled the lives of those who now bask in its fallout; it soaked into our pores and made us feel life amidst the cold and desolation.

I'm grateful to those Creators who bring new life into a dead world, and who make when others destroy.

Here's looking at you, Kids.

Common sense by the cup

My eyes are going in and out of focus, and my head feels kind of fuzzy. I can't imagine why this might be.

Snide, Closeted, Bisexual Boys

I dated one of those once. It was a lot of fun. It was also one of the darkest times I've ever lived through, but generally speaking a lot of fun.

Fiction is so much more interesting than my reading for school. Seriously.

85 or Bust

Lately I've been reflecting on the nature of friendship.

Recently I have been party to some of my friend's more intimate experiences, most of which involving love. In some cases, it is love departed, but as of late the trend has been towards the ignition of new love, and the fanning of nascent flames. And I'm happy for them. I want to see them blossom and prosper in all their ventures.

My philosophy is this: we can't all be perfect, but we keep good friends... I think of it like building a good party. Fill the weakness of your character with the strength of others. The key is compliment and balance. That is how I always thought of my friends, the good ones at least. Everyone has their time and place in our lives, their "role" so-to-say. We all need each other to get by, fight the demons and make it out alive. Life and friendship aren't simple and can't be reduced to these maxims. But there are time we must grind, and those times require our friends.

Hyperweak Interactions

...feel free to shoot me if I'm ever that inconsiderate again...

You 'gonna bet your life on it?

G/I/R/L/F/R/I/E/N/D

I want a fiction that will blow the walls off of this fucking reality. I want a H-bomb in the livingroom, napalm in the streets of this boring suburban nine-to-five, and just for once to breathe in the morning air.

I want an escape from things- a grand exit with the stereo blasting and the cacophony sounding out our destruction of predictable life. I want to feel the dust of our brashest deeds, shake it from my coat and walk the f*ck away from it all while the cinders smolder in our past malice.

I want raucous laughter, manic glee and camaraderie in the endgame....

I won't get these things, not now at least, because tonight the words have run dry. Some time other than now I will be able to detail the words for this experience, or they will be lost. I am in no hurry to find them.

(Shay) took me into the city, to see a marching band...

This is where I post a memory. Right now, I'm sitting on the express bus home, and watching the sun sink over merced's perpetually hazy horizon. I'm typing my thoughts away on the tiny keyboard in my palm. When I get home, I will sit at my desk, and read my assignments dutifully, after practicing bass.

These are commonplace things. And as I anticipate the end of my evening, I go back to another time.

...I'm sitting on the train leaving LA. The windows are tinted in a warm, summer orange. Shayne sits beside me, his arm draped over my shoulder in a paternal gesture of closeness. My ipod is on shuffle. We each share an ear-bud, although neither of us is paying too much attention to the music. We are pleasantly exhausted after a day of shopping in and exploring LittleTokyo. The rock of the train is soothing, and we get a clear view of the city's majesty as we exit. It is a very calm moment, perfect in its simplicity. The iPod changes songs without fanfare. It begins with the solitary sounds of a piano open, soft and familiar. And then chimes in the clear, perfect voice of a male tenor. And at this point we have turned our full attention inward. Then begins the military-style drumming- playing in the background like a call-to-arms, and the triumphant sounds of a guitar. . . A song which encapsulates our day, our mood, our everything victorious, exultant, powerful- his and mine.

There are no words adequate for a feeling like that.

Descartes was Wrong

I'm sitting in Core, wondering where we got this idea that it was OK to lie to our freshman. The sad thing is my disillusionment is so high that I can't believe in the academic dream.

Burning in the Skies

No complaints, none.

How these little things turn into fights is beyond me

I have enough school work to keep me pleasantly busy,so things are fine.

This is a common coping technique, and a not-very-effective one.

The heater in my room drones on efficiently keeping the temperature a regular 75

But I'm still cold, I don't understand it

Early Sunsets Over Merced

I feel extremely dehydrated. There must be some reason for this, but I can't think of a logical one at this point.

These thoughts leave my head aching. I keep coming back to the uncomprehending 'why'. I can't answer it, why that logic comes tumbling unbidden from your lips- which I used to so love. These cold thoughts can't be your own, and if they are, can I ever have said to know you?

Collateral damage. I hate that phrase, when incorrectly applied, when applied to people.

Life doesn't force you to do a triage of friends, categorizing some as worth preserving, and others as unworthy of their maitinence.

While I understand the logic, the words still sting. You say "acceptable loss", like it isn't even a matter of consideration, like a person is replacable, or expendable.


So, then, why?

HATE

I'm feeling self-satirical and reflective. I'm SOC blogging again. That can't be good thing. Or maybe, it can't be a bad thing either.

I came across the most amazing article from the maddow blog recently

the long and short of the blog was in the title: "Never let hate diminish you". I believe that it does, not only to those effected by another's hate but to those who in turn feel hate themselves. I refuse either of those influences in my life-- it's too short for that kind of thing.

F*ck hate, and F*ck negativity.

Today's the first official day of classes. Wish me luck, world. ^.~

Good Morning, Life.

I know my kingdom awaits, and they've forgiven my mistakes....

Coming Home...(more S.O.C)

Today is my second day in Merced, though it still feels unreal.

I've been psyching myself up for this semester to begin, but I'm not sure I feel it just yet. I've finished my first assignment of the semester, which is comforting.

I still miss my hometown, and my Shayne, but those are things for another time. Thinking about them now, mourning what I don't have is senseless torture.

I haven't slept yet, haven't been able to. I've been sharing a room with Jake, since his mother's temporarily occupying mine. I don't mind. I didn't even need to sleep last night, so the lack of a bed to claim as my own didn't bother me like it had in previous nights. The backwards view from his desk isn't so bad either. Sleeping in another person's room is awkward and fucking foreign for me, but it could be worse I guess- and the company's not awful, so I shouldn't be complaining really.

This isn't one of those blogs where I answer a question, or where I make a resolution. I don't feel like I posses any real clarity here. I think in this case, I'm just writing to work something out within myself.

For some reason, halfway through this blog, I walked down stairs. The heater was humming in the background, adjusting the chilly morning air to something more hospitable. I could see the barest hint of dawn under the curtains, peeking around the blinds, pushing in through the horizontal slats covering Jake's bedroom window.

And out of nowhere, I had the urge to go grab a cup of oj,and just stand in my kitchen watching the sun rise. There were many times I did that in days gone by, all of which are associated with one fuzzy memory.

When I think about those times, I smile, and reflexively reach back into the archives to treasure those early mornings. As if testing its reality, I delicately run a finger over that mental file, brushing off the dust. It should be more of a wince, but it's a crooked, half-smile that I have to repress upon revisiting those memories.

I'm not the same 20-year-old-girl that I was back then, lying on my roomie's plush white couch and listening to-- what was it we were playing? I forget. Those hazy sunrises aren't lost to time as far as I'm concerned. But I'm happy to think back to them in the context of who I am, and how far I've gown past them.

Eventhough it's meant loss, I've grown up a lot in such a short time.
I don't use that term as a matter of finality, where 'grown up' is an end. In my mind, life is evolving, ending only with death
But I do feel like something within me has changed, progressed, and for that I am grateful.

Thoughts of a sleepy Atheist.

I think I may have accidentally knocked my sleep schedule back into place without meaning to. It's amazing how sometimes fortune intervenes when we least expect it. From this point I have three days to shed my dyed hands, clean up my room and right my classes.

Looking back, I had a wonderful, though somewhat uneventful break. The days I spent just loafing around, or playing videogames with Shay were restful and calm. What more could I have asked for? Comfort and stability are what I truly long for anyway.

I'll come back soon enough....

Found....poem

Paradise Lost

I return

Cynical Cynical Cynical no more!

I might be lying

F*ck you you stupid f*cking f*ck. (AKA- some people have real feelings)

This is the sweetest thing I think I have ever seen.

That is all.

Pressure!

One state away a congresswoman is fighting for her life in the hospital. She was the victim of a crazed, and well armed man's delusion.

(Pushing down on me, pressing down on you)

Thanks to his failure, she lives, although just barely. This makes her one of the lucky ones following yesterday's shooting. Six people, including Christina Green (a 9 year old child attending the rally to feed her budding interest in politics)were not so lucky. I hate such violence...

(That burns a building down, splits a family in two, puts people on streets)

More insulting than that innocents pay the price of one man's insanity is that he use something I love-- politics (the polite discourse of ideals and theory) to incite such an atrocity.

(It's the terror of knowing...what this world is about...)

the incited violence, the depths of brute action and simple cruelty that make things unbearable....

(Pray tomorrow takes me higher)

Ten miles from my mother's home, a man is dying. He is a friend of the family, a dear one, and he is dying. Mom is taking it hard. I knew she would break down when his time came, but it's effecting me more than I had anticipated.. In all honesty, I think anything I'm feeling now is due to a kind of empathy for her, but it might be linked to a feeling of much deeper loss.

(Pressure on people...people on streets)

Perhaps it's that I've lost some hope in the promise of a new year, or maybe it's the feeling of powerlessness that accompanies witnessing an injustice done to a friend ...

(Chippin' around..Kick my brains round the floor)...

or the feeling of frustration that results in fighting the urge to demand a fucking answer for it all.

(....These are the days it never rains but it pours!)

.... My Redbull is almost empty, it's my third of the night. I'm almost worried about my caffeine consumption over this break- or I should be.Caffeine is a tame addiction anyway, I rationalize.

pray tomorrow takes me higher (higher!)

Yet still I ask myself why (in the midst of all this loss)others still manage carelessness or cruelty. Who among us is so isolated and cold they can treat their friends and loved ones casually, and discard them? Who can afford to treat his fellow man with irreverence or contempt? Who has that much to lose anymore? The heartless bastards who think that such things are acceptable nauseate me.

I can't even manage neutrality to it.

(Turned away from it all...like a blind man...sat on a fence but it don't work)

I have had to fight for my beliefs against a brutal and at times hideously unfair set of circumstances. Fuck, I'm still fighting, and I will continue to do so until the end of my days. And yet I am convinced to the marrow that at every turn this world is worthy of believing in, and that the Spiritus Mundi is benevolent. I will die believing that-- fighting for it, even. My reasons for this are varied....

(keep coming up with love, but it's so slashed and torn)

I take it to be a validation of my life, and as sure as I breathe I will love this world and its people.

The devil himself couldn't persuade me otherwise.

(........Insanity laughs under pressure we're cracking!)


Destruction will never be rewarded with creation, and no amount of misery can create happiness in anyone, even the least miserable among wretches. Sadly, there are many men who can't see this. These are the men who kill, hurt others, and spite those who care about them.

What I'm feeling isn't bitterness; what I'm feeling is tragedy compressed. Will it be enough? The only thing I can return to is hope, and my faith in humanity's potential for good...and love

(...'cause love's such an old fashioned word, and love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night. And love dares you to change our ways of caring about ourselves)

I'm not giving up.

Creation is worth something. Faith is a rewarded leap. These thoughts are spotty and passionate, and probably chemical induced, but I'm not fucking giving up.

(This is our last dance...
This is ourselves....)

Transmission 006: Private Log from Zone 7

April,9, 2022


I'm lucky to have found this terminal. I can't imagine there are more than a dozen left in working order outside Battery City. I'll have to report back to Dr D. about this as soon as possible. Who would have thought to look for a working station in the back room of a condemned diner? That makes tonight's find especially lucky. As soon as it's light, I'll pack up my belongings, send a message to Dr. D, and head out. It won't be safe here after first light with those cop-bastards scouring the Zones as aggressively as they've been. Word on the airwaves has it they're gearing up for something big. If that's right this place will be crawling with Exterminators or worse come morning. They’re death in white-faced Halloween masks. Rumors of them lurking around are enough to give even the bravest of us pause. Out in the desert you either play reckless or you play smart. I learned fast which one keeps you alive, and which gets you ghosted.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I can't think of what might be. It's best to focus on the immediate, otherwise things get confused, emotional.

In times like those the only thing that helps me stay calm is to think of the Before, but that's an exercise in futility. I can only remember fragments anyway, though I suppose that's still better than most can say.

I bet by this time DtK is worried sick. It's almost 4am by this terminal's clock. I should have sent word back to them by now. I'm sure also the Twins are raising hell...

It's time for me to go.

[LOG END]

When I was a bear...(s.o.c blogging)

While working on the storyline for the transmissions, I found my old formspring thing. I don't check it anymore, but those were good memories.

On another note, my Sam finally dragged me to the salon to fulfill my destiny- ie, getting my hair done. I think it looks nice. I'm sure pictures will follow, soon, as will an update on the transmissions (although that will have to wait until I know what in the hell I am doing as I am present am absofuckinglutely clueless with regards to the form this thing is taking).

Tomorrow's meeting with Anthony and Carrie should be fruitful- I've missed the old gang, and I'm sure they have more than the usual to catch up about, considering it's winter and we haven't seen each other for a while. There's something like coming home in hanging out with them- I always know what to expect, good and bad. It's nice.

Enough of my talking. More working on the transmissions.

Later, Children!

Transmission 005

This world sets the landscape of my dreams: it is a place of camaraderie forged in the most unthinkable conditions survivable.........

That's life in the Zones at it's simplest. We live under constant attack and are always on the move for fear of extermination or worse. Though, as harsh as a Killjoy's life often is, it comes with the promise of friends, and passion, and a life free of BLInd's pills.

To set the backdrop it may be necessary to divulge a bit of history; some of the information may be missing, but in a world like this you take what you can get.

First to explain, since "The Incident of 2019" the world we now know had been pitched into chaos. What was this incident? Who in the hell knows, or cares? Few documents remain that tell the tale. Nukes, war, what does it matter really, in the long run?

All we know for sure is that life was never the same after that day; not the water, nor the sky, nor any of us. Everyone lost someone. Weather to the heat or to BLInd's sterile white cities, their pills, and promises of a better "after", we all lost someone.


So there it is, just them, and us, and the war between us in this never-ending wasteland.

"They" are the de-facto law- Better Living Industries (BL|IND. And to say that they profited generously from the state of things after the Incident of '19 would be a gross understatement. In the fallout of 2019, BlInd erected cities to shelter the refugees and orphans, and offered the first batches of 'medication' to the berieved masses.After that they swore to clean up the filth (read: rebels) in the Zones surrounding their capital, Battery City. They promised utopia; and most people bought it, took it home, and swallowed it-- three times a day with food.

Que "us": the freedom fighters, The Killjoys.


`We live in small groups, or alone, united under the common banner "Killjoys". To keep in touch across the desert, we communicate over the long-abandoned air-waves. And as for supplies, we scavenge as we can to survive. No one ever said life like this was going easy- but I can tell you one other thing it isn't: numbing.

We are the scattered and brightly colored last stand. We are the runaways, the lost and the desert-hardened rebels. We rejected BLInd's lies, and fled to the Zones in search of freedom. We chose to live on our own terms even though to do so was treason.

So, why do we fight? We fight because clean, predictable life without feeling isn't living at all, and we know it, despite what they say.

I still think of the bombs they built...

It was the end of the world,or something like it. I got lost in their desert, a world where truth exists hidden in the ever-present dust, and where self expression is lost or hard-won. I wanted to see myself there rather than here, which at times in itself is a veritable hell. It was a world of secrets and comrades, of vibrant colors and stark white, where the only certainties were life-long death or extermination; and in this land where unsung heroes masqueraded the wastes in identity-concealing masks and pseudonyms, I pictured myself free.

I liked imagining myself in that world-- despite it's macabre nature, as a painted freedom fighter, sticking to my guns and my morals come hell or high water (more often the former, climate considered). I wanted to picture my friends there as well, with me as I knew they would be- Pen and Cass, DtK, Kami-chan, and the others.

Once we had assembled we would be unstoppable. I imagine how things would play out...

I can see Pen as our primary tactician, Cass as his equally logical, and quick-witted (not to mention sharp-tongued) female counter-balance. They would keep us moving through the zones- below the radar, tucked away in whatever hole we could find. They would help us fulfill the Zones' single edict: keep running.

Then, Juice and his LadyFriend, I suppose. They would handle domestics of course, as we all would. But bearing the rare gift of music, he would also play for us well into the night, and she would sing out our lives in melodies as we drifted off into sleep. That in itself is more precious than gold, I would guess, in a world where creation and expression are subversive, dangerous, acts of rebellion.

But after all, Art is the weapon- and we are the dreamers of dreams.

Which brings me to DtK-- our lover of all things that go "boom" in the desert. The Jack-of-all-trades of the group to be sure, I can't picture that life without him. I expect his affinity for the unstable and chemically hazardous would be an asset to us as we marauded the brush and vast, open expanse. I see him making quick work of covering our tracks, and also of tending our wounds, given his extensive medical knowledge. Always ready with a smile and a joke, he'd be one hell of a traveling companion.

And then there's Kami-chan. He'd no doubt hold us together then as he does now-- the heart of the group and fearless little dictator. Inasmuch as I can tame morale, he has persuasion in spades over me, which he does with that too-innocent smile of his,or did. I suppose we'd follow that kid into the fire, if only to keep his ass safe.

We'd all risk life and limb if need be for our brothers and sisters in arms. That's what I'd like to believe anyway.

Losing any of them would be unbearable, but the days we lived and fought-- I know those would be the greatest days I had ever experienced.

Zero

Alright, let's be frank, chemical dependency sucks. The same can be said of any vice, past a certain age.

I say this as I take greedy drinks from a redbull, and that either makes me the best, or the worst person to be preaching about vices. Acknowledging this I have one thing to say in my own defense: I am in every way only human. Above all that means I am a creature rife with insecurities and imperfections as plentiful as my virtues. And in this moment, I'm not afraid to admit them, even celebrate them to the extent it doesn't over-glorify the things I'm trying to better my self from.

Breaking the blogger barrier for a moment, I insist that this will be the principle difference between 2010 and 2011's blog: balls out honesty without much regard for self-censorship.

Of course there is a chance you will still notice my usual penchant for the dramatic, or self-deprecating wit cropping up now and again. As for circumventing that, I will make no promises. I will, however, strive to be as painfully honest as possible and for the sake of posterity, use a lighter hand while editing.

That is my goal.

And so, for the first of these posts, I start off with a scathing comment about one of my oldest and dearest friends, my sweetest and most intimate foe-- addiction. Expect more of this.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a way, this post became something I wasn't ever expecting-- a mission statement of sorts to artistic bravery and self-actualization. I realize that's a tall order, and one not soon achieved. But I value the process of becoming, and so I know I will feel accomplished even if my primary goal isn't fully achieved.

I'm pretty sure that's new for me too.

2010, So-Long, and Good-Bye!

My first impulse of 2011 was to cry, though I can't imagine why, my second was to take a long, hot shower.

2011.

Fuck yeah.