Life, death, and renewal

It's a strange realization to know that someone can be the cause of so much of your life's agitation.

When you first realize that the attraction exists, usually you might wave it off as a silly crush, or even just passing admiration. But as time passes you realize it goes much deeper than you originally thought. Your gazes linger just a little bit longer, you smile just a little bit warmer, you go out of your way to be just a little bit kinder. You do things that you would never do for anyone else, you go places you would never go normally because they're waiting for you there. Ultimately you're faced with the prospect that you've become a blubbering idiot. And you couldn't be any happier.

But this is where life becomes something less than a sappy movie with a happy ending. Circumstances prevent the two of you from ever coming together, and you know it. It's one of those absolute truths that cannot be fought. And woe to those who think they can convince their heart otherwise. Once it has made its choice, it cannot be swayed.

So what do you do? Your heart has been anchored to an unreachable shore. All you can do is flee in the other direction, and hope that distance, a bit like absence, will not make the heart grow fonder. And sometimes, as luck would have it, it works. But the joke's on you because it only works if you maintain that distance. And if you keep relying on running away as a defense mechanism, where will that leave you after you've chased your demons across the globe? And what about the rest of your life? It's virtually impossible to transplant your job, your family, your friends. Your secret heartache isn't the only thing you would abandon.

So you're stuck.

Your love life, your ultimate happiness is suspended in purgatory while there. While you accept your fate as being simply "just a friend", you nevertheless feel you are a prisoner of your own emotions. Your only chance is to risk everything and escape, a prospect that becomes more and more appealing with each passing day as you come to the further realization that life moves on, whether or not you're ready for it.




So what do you do?

Sweet surrender, vague indifference

There's no greater burden on the soul than the specter of disappointment, and the fear of ultimate unworthiness.

And there's no greater sorrow than the promise of inevitable loss, especially the loss of something (or someone) that you could never make your own anyway.


The next months and years for me will be interesting. Suffice it to say, this is not where I expected to see myself, though I must admit I am neither too surprised or too anxious. Then again, I've been known to suffer from fatal underwhelming.

But the beat goes on...

Read the perilous future

Wiry sinews draped in dust
till the fields, scatter the pores
The hoary temple slumps in the mist
Wet black eyes and pointed ears
guard nothing and point to your weakness
All those who came before haunt their gaze
reflections rippled with a tremulous reach
as prodigal dreams drip doleful shame

Fear their honor, ache in guilt
Don't let them sustain your descent.

Those fitted jeans, those tailored shirts
that milky white belt with its steely rings
Light pours forth from its silhouette
Austere countenance and regal gait
reveal the stark difference in stature
Each and every one an ideal
whispering desire and rapture unrequited
as meager senses drown in reality

Mourn your worth, reject your pride
Don't let them kill your love.

Words and code rounded in anathema
trace the thicket of your fallow life
Dusk settles in with a sleepy haze
Idle hands and furious mind
hurtle toward the death of imminent certainty
Nothing can escape but everything has vanished
grasping and clutching for familiar ground
as horizons shift in ambivalent birth.

Possess your shame, bask in release
Don't let them decide your fate.

I'm going to China to escape my problems. Finally nomading again, right? Don't worry, they'll be waiting for me when I return in 2 weeks.

Shuffle, shift, and scatter

In the past, whenever someone would leave the city, state, or country, I would have the same reactions each and every time. Enthusiasm, excitement, utter joy that someone I knew would be visiting some fantastical new place in the world. I would wish them well, knowing that regardless of the contents of their trip, the experience would make them into a better person.

What I've taken for granted is the fact that, invariably, they would return. These travels were hardly ever permanent, and even if they would be gone for a month, two months, a year, or even longer, at some point, they would be back, and we would be able to reconnect and carry on like we used to.

Now, the onset of age has reared its head. People are graduating and literally scattering themselves around the globe. And this time, there is no defined "next time". No Gainesville, no Atlanta to come home to. Wherever they're heading for, that is home to them now. No guaranteed winter breaks, no guaranteed summer reunion. They'll be occupied in Los Angeles, Vancouver, Houston, Hong Kong, Copenhagen, Cincinnati, etc. I myself graduate in a little under a year, and have on idea where I'll end up.

Where has the time gone?

Climbing up shadows

"You're crying. But you endanger nothing in yourself. It's like the idea of crying when you do it."


I'm getting a head start on my resolutions for this upcoming year.

In previous years I had always reasoned that doing such things meant you were on the losing side of the existential battle between who you were and who you thought you couldn't be. The stigma associated with these self-made promises is the inevitability of defeat. You always hear people talking about their grandiose plans to succeed each January, and then later on, the topic of conversation becomes how they managed to fail yet again. The whole thing becomes a joke.

But I've decided otherwise, this time. Like all things popular and commercialized, the true meaning of the action lies in its owner, not the fancy clothes that it wears. Those who only understand the consumerist version of the winter holidays should have no bearing on those who regard it as the epitome of reflection, charity, and humility.

The sad thing is that of all the people I know, I think I lack self-control the most. Looking back through my spotty and sharply receding long term memory, I can't seem to pinpoint any specific occurrence which may have contributed to this. But I know they exist. In my mind they're as conspicuous as that last tequila shot you downed that previous night. You might not be able to recall sucking on that final lime wedge, but you know it happened.

So what does this mean for me? I'm going to be taking this whole thing as an exercise in discipline. Before long, I will have become "the Man". I won't be able to hide behind the labels of "child" or "student" anymore, and the full weight of responsibility will be on my shoulders. A younger, more cynical version of me might have waved all of this off as trifling and overdue. But for the first time in a long time, I feel a sense of urgency that always seems to precede the irrational panic of maturity. If I don't do this now, I'll be stuck here forever.

So, resolution #1: No more red meat. More greens. Also, limited salt and fat intake.

No, I'm not going on a diet. But in the spirit of health and preserving youth, this probably isn't a bad idea.

Trial by grace

I've been thinking about my audioblogging lately. I'm honestly astonished that I didn't draw this connection sooner.

One of my secret indulgences has always been the first couple seasons of Felicity that I have on hand. I ran into some more insomnia last night and instead of reading like I should have, I watched some old episodes. (By the way, just to illustrate how evil and bizarre Wikipedia can be, I went from the link above to the page about Janeane Garofalo, and from there to the page about that frigid bitch Katherine Harris)

Anyway, dusted throughout the first two seasons of that show is something of a cultural anomaly. Felicity communicates long distance with her friend Sally through audio cassette taped monologues, which are essentially letters spoken out loud. It's been years since I've watched this show, and now that I think about it, this is remarkably similar to the audioblogging/podcast revolution that's slowly sweeping the blogging world. In hindsight, the seed in my mind that has blossomed into this audioblogging frenzy was probably planted by these once-nascent episodes.

For awhile, I used to want someone to trade tapes with, and it didn't matter if I knew them or not. The promised therapy of making the tapes wasn't the only reasoning that went into it; even though there was some solace in knowing that an understanding soul would unwrap each tape to commiserate, there was added comfort knowing that the same person trusted you in the same capacity with equal fervor, and you could expect similar tapes from them.

I think the advent of the internet and the birth of the blog created somewhat of a strange beast. Previously, people kept diaries and journals to keep track of their personal thoughts. If they wanted these thoughts to be shared, they either had to write letters to specific people, or just talk about them in person. Albeit of minimal effort, each action was its own. Now, someone can perform the same diary-writing action on their blog and with a click of a button, make it available for anyone in the world to view. To me, the entire thing feels like it's lacking emotion. It's like a hospital almost: cold, hollow, and static... I can almost feel the fluorescent lighting.

I'll admit, it fills a void that some may have difficulty filling otherwise. You write a blog entry and publish it, and if its public, you assume everyone will have read it by the end of the week. In a way, you free yourself from the responsibility of divulging your history to those you wish to tell. Accountability shifts to them instead, because after all, they have access to it. Why wouldn't they read it?

The difference these have from letters are the personal touches that go into them. When you write a letter, you're writing to one specific person, or at most one specific group that will share the letter, and you've emotionally invested yourself into this fact. You pour more of yourself into it, because unlike an email, letters take more time. You hand write the words. You doodle in the margins. You speak familiarly, but probably don't use familiar speech. You're more willing to say some things, but less willing to say others, depending on the letter. Everything about this letter simply drips with your personality and being. But more than anything, letters are returned. Even if the time between each letter is longer than mere hesitation, there's a rapport that's created there. And as warm as that connection is, it's still lacking. Because as symbolic as each letter is of who you are, that's all it is. Just a scrap of paper.

And then there's verbal conversation, a common occurrence. This kind of communication goes one step further in that it brings in the range of subtleties contained in human interaction. It's dynamic, it's unpredictable, it comes from the heart. Things are communicated that don't necessarily come from words. But not all of us are as perceptive as we'd like to be. And the sad truth is that, in a way, we all censor ourselves around people. There are things that we feel we can't say, not to anyone, to the point where it's hard to even say to yourself in the dark. But every part of you inside is screaming to say something, to come clean, like the proverbial shaken bottle of soda that's about to explode. Sometimes, it's because we're in denial, and to say it out loud is to acknowledge the fact that it exists and is true. But usually, it's because we fear reaction. There's no telling how someone will receive what you tell them. You're caught in this self-inflicted trap. "I broke the vase last week." "You actually do look fat in those jeans." "I love you."

I'm not trying to tout any of these three mediums as the best option. Indeed, they all have their individual, optimal usages. But for now, I think I've found a happy medium, if you'll pardon the pun. This talking-to-myself thing has turned out to be pretty cool. I'd still love to have some anonymous confidante to trade tapes with, but the truth is, life isn't a TV drama. Our lives feel as complicated as the figures we see each night and in the movies we watch, but in reality it's all very simple. The entire basis of such a relationship would be grounded in the cathartic release associated with each tape. When you strip away the overblown, romanticized versions of yourselves and when your respective lives even out and calm down, what's left? Do you resort to small talk, or simply cease communication? It's just not feasible.

Hah, I feel like I've spent the past half hour typing/talking about absolutely nothing. I guess that's striking in a way.

The unfortunate hindsight

First things first...

Video is going to kill me. The whole "we only have 4 video editing computers on campus" doesn't help either, nor does the "you're not allowed to wait for a computer to open up, go away" rule. Seriously, do I really look suspicious as an Asian student with an Old Navy messenger bag and Lenscrafters glasses, fumbling around with his battered iPod nano?

Whatever. Serves me right for putting it off until now, I guess. I should have known that Sunday is a popular time for people to work on things, even if the upcoming week is dead week.

At least the end is in sight. I've figured out the intricacies of Final Cut Pro and its companion programs to the point where I think it's just a matter of sitting down and putting it all together. No more of this "staring blankly at the mac screen" bullshit.


And another note on hindsight...
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M.I.A. will be signing copies of her new record “Kala” at the following locations:

MIAMI, FL
10/29 @ 6:30pm
UNCLE SAMS
1141 WASHINGTON AVE

ATLANTA, GA
10/31 @ 6:30pm
CRIMINAL RECORDS
466 MORELAND AVE

DALLAS, TX
11/4 @ 4pm
GOOD RECORDS
1808 LOWER GREENVILLE AVE

SAN DIEGO, CA
11/11 @ 4pm
LOU’S
434 NORTH COAST HIGHWAY 101
ENCINITAS, CA

SEATTLE, WA
11/16 @ 6pm
EASY STREET
20 MERCER STREET
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Just shoot me. Right now. The concert was on the same day too. This is what I get for not paying attention.

But for now, off to scavenge for a video editing computer to the tune of Boyz.