20.06.08>freetime

Every man needs his rabbit.

I'm officially a senior. Instead of partying hearty, it is apparently my instinct to go walk my rabbit finger puppet, Hillary Clinton, all the while taking pictures of our 'escapades'.

Holy fuck, it's going to be a long summer.

Ms. Clinton decided to go incognito during our walk. Wouldn't want rabbit fans popping up. Yes, that was a pun.

We start our walk in an inconspicuous back lane. There are seven Secret Service ninjas hidden in this picture, but you can't find them.



Hillary, unused to such fatigue, must stop and rest in the shade for a moment. A red pallor is quite unbecoming of an ex-presidential candidate.



We make it onto a random side street. Ms. Clinton cannot refrain from looking into the camera.



Hillary stops to pose for a crossing safety announcement: "Drive not when the sign is red," she says a little daftly.



Hillary frowns at the litter. Or, perhaps she's hungry.



Wistfully, she reminisces about her childhood in the wilderness. Why she does that upon viewing an admittedly suspicious weed, I do not know.



Hillary still enjoys the simple things in life--swinging on a fine summer's day...



However, life's carnal pleasures also please her.



Hillary pretends to fly, this time without the aid of narcotics.



Hillary takes a moment to adjust her moustache and enjoy the view.



At the end of her day, Hillary finds a moment to mourn for those whom we have lost.



She then heads back to her computer to GoogleFight naughty words.

Such a lovely story.

14.06.08>the friends and enemies of identity formation

It's hard when you know that someone you know is alone. Doesn't matter if you like them or not, the fact is there's someone suffering out there and absolutely nothing you can say or do would help them.

You can't talk to these people. It's futile. They're not looking for a friend. You're not looking for a friend. There's no way they can take solace; they can only look on as all those around them comfort one another. There is nothing that any person can say that will make things right. This is one point where time is not on your side.

It's sudden. Split-second and you realize that you've got to deal with something new here, something mature that you shouldn't have to handle. You want to scream that you shouldn't have to adapt, that this is unfair or wrong—thing is, if we don't cope, we'll never grow up. Half of us never grow up anyways, until we have one of these moments. Maybe we should seek them out. Maybe we're supposed to.

The point is that we don't get to choose our moments. We're actors with some shite script. Convenient plot devices run amok.

The ultimate example of helplessness is the accident. Leagues of people could be standing by; you could have a whole fucking Senate of bystanders next to you, and yet you're the one that has the moment. Every one of them could see, could strive, could want to help you. It's the bloody alacrity with which the moment flies that does you in. Our bodies aren't built for reaction—we've got to train ourselves to move and dodge and notice. We can't push until it's but a second too late. And yet you can count them: one, two, three—three and a half. There were three and a half seconds that stood between you and what could have been.

This is why the accidents should always go to Heaven. People can live good, pure, biblical lives because they want direly to have a nice death, but in reality it's the average people lost while striving to get by that should get in. Those striving to get by while having a little fun along the way. We're not meant to be perfection incarnate. We wouldn't have our moments otherwise; we're imperfections just waiting for some cosmic accident to happen. Maybe we're mistakes.

There's a reason we associate death with dreams. Unconscious thought is the essence of the startling rapidness of the moment. You see a funny face on the man that stabs you; while jumping to your death, you think of what to have for breakfast tomorrow. Accidents aren't everyday—they're so extraordinarily short while we're so amazingly slow that we can't react. Un sentiment d'impuissance. It's why crimes take ages to solve, and nobody really knows what's going on inside your head. It's an attack on what is everyday. It's flipping off the identity formation process. It's callous.

And then, two days later, we forget it all happened. For some, it's but a brief moment of peace, but for the rest of us it is our everyday restored.

15.05.08>come, it's question for the present

Then, two days later, she had suddenly leftat old lace. 'is
this the great monsieur poirot?' let the words o' the bible
alone you're going drew her yes, dear, i'll take you. Come.
it's question for the present. The ripping and tearing pearl
was not there. Then, with the help of some homais, as usual,
came at halfpast six during to counterfeit ram, wether,
or any mutton for hastings. Employ the little gray cells.
if your in triumph i my daughter fain would bear, with in
the dark of the low passageway appeared the little backs,
and caps on their round headswhile horrid suggestions rushing
over her in a flood. A man's. She is gruff and what you
call hearty. Waterproof double tent over the lot of them,
as.'

And people believe they know what 'random' is. The only kind of random humanity has yet succeeded at is spam email messages. I mean, they're generally about 'Enhancing Your Viagra' (which makes me wonder if we all secretly have a Viagra to enhance) or $17mil Swiss bank accounts that suddenly need transferring into our own. This, er, 'gem' was hidden in something about 'REAL MEN! GIRLS!'.

I'm not having a good day.

27.04.08>zero

"well, what an ugly name you have."

"thank you, it's really quite abstract."

"yes--like a smashing pumpkins song."

"yes, exactly. like any song, really."

"any song? i suppose you've never heard of nickelback, then."

"i have."

"i don't count them as abstract."

"they probably use metaphors and the like."

"i don't count that as abstract."

"difference of opinion?"

"no--can't something be concretely abstract?"

"no."

"i take it you're not completely into this conversation?"

"difference of opinion?"

"we all have to agree some things are abstract--the masters. take picasso."

"picasso tries to be abstract. being abstract comes from the subconscious."

"then the subconscious is concretely abstract?"

"no. it's programmed, it's automatic, it's simple."

"you're a fucking paradox."

"we could say that's abstract."

"i guess. but that's gone. isn't there anything that will remain and still be abstract?"

"no. then it'd be concrete."

"so, again, can't something be concretely abstract?"

"no."

"you're talking in circles."

"i realize that."

"why can't art be abstract?"

"why do you assume it's art that has to be abstract?"

"what do you think is?"

"i don't know. but if there's something concretely abstract, it wouldn't be art."

"but how would it stay concrete? only art stays static."

"art can change. easily. i could go shred it. or record over it. or something."

"then it would become trash."

"yeah. but trash is more abstract than art."

"look, nevermind. this isn't going anywhere."

"i'm sorry i can't tell you the meaning of abstract."

"i know what abstract means."

"yeah. cliché, but you don't know what abstract is."

"it's not a noun."

"sure it is."

"fuck off."

"naked pictures of your mother."

"what i said."

"abstract or random?"

"fuck off."

"guess."

"that's random."

"yeah. ripples in a pond."

"neither."

"why not?"

"laws. motion. gravity. i don't know."

"then why don't you think they're abstract?"

"what the fuck is your definition of that word?"

"i don't know. what the fuck is abstract."

"what the fuck is abstract is this conversation. this is pointless. and before you say it, pointlessness is not abstract."

"of course not. it's human, and we're not abstract."

"well, we decide what is abstract."

"do you? it's not just what it is?"

"nothing is what it is without definition."

"that's a sad, sad view on things. i'm sorry for you."

"you're sorry for what i believe?"

"define belief."

"i can't. but it's not something that is. it's something i define."

"yeah. exactly."

"point?"

"i don't have one. you know me--ever attempting to be abstract."

"you were trying to prove something."

"yeah. i don't know what. i was just trying to make you think, hope something proved itself to you."

"see, that's abstract."

"maybe."

20.04.08>national pothead day

early sunday morning, sitting in a chair,
drinking tap water from a yellow mug.
i've sworn not to go past underwear,
and my mind is tapped like a girl post-frug.
there's an owl i've spent sixty hours looking for,
but my materialism sparks to a bowl of flaxseed more.
everything i thought i'd wanted hidden in some box,
but it turns out my mind is drawn more to the things i've never done,
or dreamed of doing.
i dream of doing when i dream of doing nothing.
i dream of nothing when i dream of making something,
out of nothing.
i dream of making something out of nothing,
when i dream of doing; doing nothing.
fallacy at face value for the heretics at my door;
a policy of malcontent; of ever-changing yore.
i give them what i dream of and they huddle close for more--
they dream of me.
it's what i make, it's what i give;
hypocrisy, prophynol, fake memories.

14.03.08>but it's the pelvic thrust

Into another dimension...with voyeuristic intentions...

Some nights, I swear the entire populace is out to spite me. Then I realize that indeed, no one's all that concerned about me or my general doings at the moment unless I'm making too much noise or spouting bitter slurs, so I become content in that I'm relatively safe and peaceful (albeit paranoid).

On that note, I'm incredibly paranoid--almost uncontrollably so. It's irritating, really, as my musings are inevitably wrong. There's nothing out to get me unless I'm secretly watching myself.

Haven't giving five minutes to my 'book'. Story of my life. I've got a tale but nothing to say. It's all sex and video games here.

And since I've got nothing I'm wont to rant about...night.

28.03.08>random things to do on a friday night

Tonight, I will do five random things. I'll write them here as I perform them.

i. Stood on right foot until it became somewhat painful and I fell. Sad thing is, I only lasted around three minutes.

ii. Stuck five single sheets of toilet paper on my bulletin board.

iii. Attempted to do yoga. Failed.

iv. played EyeToy with two 5lb weights, and got a new hiscore

v. entertained myself with pliers for a good five minutes.

That is all.