It been more than a month...

i'm currently sitting

on the floor

of our unfinished basement

listening

to construction noises

and getting dusty as fuck.

 

I'm sorry its been so long since I posted.

Falling for Fall: Alliteration (3 of 6)

This was about to be Fall.  But then I decided: I just did summer; also, I alliterate a lot, and I have to do 6 of these damned posts.  Anyways, alliteration: I'm sorry.  This is just too damned stupid.  I'm tired.  Fuck it.  3 of 6 it will have to be.  At least until tomorrow.

Feels like Summer (2 of 6)

Its warm out, not hot, a bit too cold at night, but pleasant.  The sparrows are waking up at 6 am, but there aren't any mosquitoes: a good trade-off.  The bees swarm around the sweet-smelling-in-bloom lavender and the exercises at the range sound like firecrackers at night.  The rabbits are active out back, the weed-patch out front is in full growth.  The back of the throat tastes of animal and chlorine and grass and woods and sweat.

To me that's summer.  And I feel like all of it, and I feel fine.  And as I feel this one last time, it's Fall.

6 Days, 6 Posts (1)

I've been bad, and Boy and Socks are on my case for not posting.  Anyways, I'm gonna post six times, or so I intend right now.  We'll see how it works out.

Today's a good day.  Its about to be the weekend, and it's pretty light on the work front.  Walter's on the lam from the frat, and is staying with me, which is great ! :)  It feels like a little kid sleepover (which I pretty much didn't do, or I did too many of, depending on the way you look at boarding school).  But we'll stay up late and make hot chocolate and tell ghost stories and paint each others' toenails and have a pillow fight!  Or, actually, we'll stay up late, watch a movie maybe, and gossip like fishwives.  And his toiletries sound like a maracas.

And that is the first post

Let the Good Times Roll

Good evenings just happen one after the other... All's I gots ta do is get my shit done tomorrow, and next week looks to be amazing.  I'm definitely up right now, but that makes me a bit paranoid.  All of my self-doubting, introspective indicators are starting up, and I'm scared that I'll fuck up.  I'm walking a fine balance.

Loving Lovett

Recently got back from a Lyle Lovett concert- first time I've heard his music, and it was awesome.  He's kinda blue-grassy and folksy, two descriptors I normally avoid like the plague, but he totally pulled it off.  The theatre was a bit down at the heels, but the sound quality was good, the staff were friendly, the place wasn't packed, and the audience was totally unpretentious.  Lovett has great stage presence, and the collection of musicians demonstrated technical skills often lacking in younger, more popular bands.  Overall, it was a great end to a hard week, and a good start for the next.

Well, that last post was waaayyyyy optimistic...

And we have a new record of days till post.  Let me fill you in on the events of the last week:

1. I was sick.  Again.  Miserably fevered.  I epically overcame my illness to... Sleep 16-20 hours a day!
2. I got behind on work.  I work poorly when fevered and get mad drowsy if I take advils or whatever.
3. This is a "Hell Week".
   
4. I became well, and immediately was forced to work too hard on a poster project.  Also, poster project?!  Like, seriously, do I look 5 years old to you?  No, didn't think so.  The poster was beautiful, an example of marketing aesthetics.
5. Despite the pset, 10 page paper, lab notebook and other associated miseries due since wednesday, I've still managed more procrastination than I thought possible.  In particular, I've been chilling and making friends (is it making friends if you're only making a friend?) and watching TV.
   
6. I am done with work!  At least until tomorrow.
7. Tonight, we celebrate survival of another week.  The following are on the schedule: seafood, concert, party, afterparty, and hangover.  Hopefully I'll dodge the last of those.
8. And now, I need to get a start on living.
   

The 3-Day Post

I've been busy these last three days, so I haven't really had time to post... Actually, that's a fucking lie.  I've just been apathetic, lazy, tired and sick.  I still am all of those, but I'm procrastinating, so, I post.  But I'm warning you- its gonna be more fragmented than usual (I did mention tired, lazy, sick and apathetic, right?).  So here goes:

The evening's entertainment was ruined.  It was a paltry, pathetic entertainment but it was mine and it was witty and it was forgotten.  And hell, boring as my life is right now, I need everything I can get.

Those stupid little energy efficient light bulbs are ruining the environment.  Each one has a bead of mecury, and you morons almost never dispose of them properly.  Also, as a little FYI, if they break in your room, you are meant to get it decontaminated, which can cost upwards of $5,000.

Halloween was sick.  I was happy with the way my costume turned out, and spent the night in good company.

The post's title is bothering me.  "The" implies that this isn't going to happen again, and while I don't intend for it to, I know, and you know, that that's a bit too optimistic to be truly honest. 

But while all these thoughts are in my head, they aren't my head.  My head right now is boredom.  Picture an oil-water mixture.  Now make it like a soap bubble, oil on the inside, water on the outside as a thin shell.  The water is the thought, the oil the boredom, ennui, tiredness.  I feel like offending peoples' delicate sensibilities, playing games with their morals and beliefs, just for something to do.  I know why dogs sleep so much.

A Rose by Any Other Name... And, Sick Again? Seriously?

I've caught a cold (or it had better fucking better well be a cold).  Anyways, today was pretty good- sorted out that whole academic dishonesty thing, got some forms signed, felt good about myself.  Thought about how I was feeling good about myself last time I got ill.  Also, I can't get this one dream out of my head.  I dreamed I made a deal with god, or a god, and I can't remember the deal, though I remember the rest of the dream.  Also had a dream while it was raining about my favorite umbrella from England.  Thought that was kinda funny.

Anyways, onto tonight's main topic.  Names.  I think names have some kind of importance- after all, adults spend ages deciding on a name that's just right, considering tradition, history, myth, sound, possible nicknames, etc.  If people didn't feel it was important, we wouldn't bother.  From a psycho-linguistic standpoint, the structure and sound and such of a name are important to our understanding of it as a word.  From an intellectual standpoint, names with stories behind them, reasons for the naming, can have an effect- for example, a fairly rare name from a famous piece of literature will link the person with that piece. This may improve the way that English teachers look upon them in high school, make them feel like they have to live up to the name, etc.  Earlier in the past century, a member of the English government with the same initials and last name as a more senior government official was often mistaken for him and connected with him- this ended up helping his career.  Anyways, see how this thought sits in your mouth- A rose by any other name is not so sweet.

Dishonesty and the Relief of the Repreived

Tonight, I had a (not so minor) issue: my 3.016 (Math&Mathmatica for Materials Science Majors) group pset received a score of 0, since another group turned in identical code.  As it happened, I wrote the code copied, which turned out to be a serious blessing- more on that later.  Anyways, this pissed me the fuck off since it means we, and more importantly I, am screwed when it comes to getting a good grade, not to mention the fact that someone either stole the code while I was getting food or in the bathroom or, worse, one of my group-mates sent it out without my knowledge.  Any way I look at it, I was getting robbed of points, which is pretty serious since we only have a few pset grades and no exams.  Academic dishonesty pisses me the fuck off, especially when I become the victim.

On a good note, as I mentioned, I wrote the code, and happened to have timestamped previous partial versions that show that we were in the right, or at least that I was wronged.  A few hours ago I was screwed, now I am saved.  My reprieve feels so damned good.

Being a Citizen

I read a pretty sickening story tonight about a gang rape that happened in California (http://www.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/10/27/california.gang.rape.investigation/index.html?eref=igoogle_cnn) which got me thinking about being a citizen, or just a moral human being.

Whenever I think about this kind of thing, I always think about 9/11.  While everyone remembers the Twin Towers, and maybe thinks about the Pentagon attack, I think about the plane that was meant to go to the White House.  The terrorists weren't that well armed, and were massively outnumbered, so why is it that only one plane rebelled successfully?  I can think of a few reasons: the first to cause trouble are going to die, people don't have much physical courage, people are basically sheep.  But still, 19 hijackers split between 4 planes, and they managed to successfully use 3 of them.  Its a tad ridiculous. 

Where is the relevance?  The relevance is that I think people need to man the fuck up, and start taking responsibility for the state of things.  Were people to act along with their convictions, the world would be a far better place.

Vertigo

I hate heights.  When I get over a certain distance, I have this irrational feeling like I should throw myself off, just fall forever or fly or something, and my stomach drops out and I become somewhat paralyzed.  Anyway, I have that same feeling of vertigo right now.  Everything was going so well a few weeks ago, before I got the flu, and its been spiraling downhill since then.  I'm in bad habits of self-allowance: my sleep pattern is still all fucked up, I'm still not working out again, and my work is suffering.  I can still fix everything, or rather stop from getting to the point where I have to fix it, but I have that same feeling of vertigo, that feeling of height that is already falling out from under me.

Stories, week 1: Chau Chow City 1

I decided that every Sunday, my post would include a short story.  These should be considered works of fiction.

One of my favorite restaurants is Chau Chow City in Boston, near-ish South Station/Chinatown area.  Its not particularly great value or service or food, but it is good, and it's open till late in the am, and its fun.  Picture a chinese restaurant, a little gaudy and touristy and over the top, the kind of place that looks like it could be the scene for a gangster-movie shootout.

"Freshman year, I was waiting with A. for a friend of mine from England, H., to arrive at South Station to visit.  Anyways, its around 10pm, and A and I, being hungry students, decide to grab some food at this place, Chau Chow City, while we wait.  We sit down and order some soups, waiting for H. to arrive before ordering main courses.  In walk a woman and her husband, decently dressed, the man balding, in glasses, the woman thin and fidgety.

They sit next to us, and after some time, begin to order.  The woman, speaking slowly to the waiter as if to a small child or retard, wants chinese broccoli with garlic sauce- not oyster sauce, not soy sauce, garlic sauce.  Just garlic sauce.  Definitely no soy sauce or anything other than a light garlic-oil sauce.  After a couple minutes of this, A and I are cracking up- the poor waiter is suffering it well, but the situation is a tad ridiculous.  I, being polite, and with my back to the couple, am being careful to keep still, though my face is about to split with my smile and the effort of swallowing the laugh.  A. is rather less circumspect, almost out of his seat.

Without warning or hesitation in her demands, the woman picks up a chopstick and whips it at A.  At this point, three things happen: I lose my bearing and start laughing alound, A actually does fall out of his chair with laughter, and the chinese waiter goes pale as a sheet.  This woman was, after all, a close cousin to the customer from hell. 

Again, with no hesitation, the woman turns back to the waiter and says "oh, its ok, they're my kids".  A and I are laughing too hard to deny it, and besides, she's entertaining us.

And in such a vein did the rest of the evening pass, and the tradition of late-night Chau Chow's was born."

Alright, hope that was enjoyable.  I'm going back to work now, and will hopefully rest before dawn.

In Good Company

I had a very enjoyable evening; I neither partied nor drank nor used recreational substances, I wasn't involved in mischief or mayhem, had no great adventure.  What I did have was good company; we wiled away the evening in banter and bullshit, relating stories banal and bacchanal and between.

I'm not sure what makes good company good company.  Wit, obviously, and some interesting stories and skill as a raconteur.  Unexpected depths help, as do friendly arguments.  A feeling of deep connection is key.  But in the end, what makes good company are the memories of an evening free of boredom and worry, would that every night might be as nice.

Judgment and values

I've noticed that when it comes to judgment and values, the faults you tend to despise most are those that you have eradicated within yourself.  People with little room for error with others have little room for error within themselves.  Really, what I'm getting at is that you apply the same judgment and values to your image of yourself as you do to your image of others.  The image aspect is important; unless you are highly and fairly accurately introspective and analytical, the image may differ largely from "the truth", often a nebulous target itself.  Anyways, hope that is some useful food for thought.

Animals

For all our thought and religion and philosophy and art and pretensions, we're just animals.  I'd go into body language, micro-expressions, social behavior, but all that will have to wait for another day. 

This animal is tired.

Desire, Or, the Lack Thereof

I, like most people, have a love-hate relationship with desire.  But my problem, unlike many of those my age, is not that I have some incredible sex-drive, but rather the opposite.  I desire, as does everyone, a certain ideal, yet unlike others, am almost totally unwilling to settle.  The greatest reason for me to have casual, unmeaning sex is just that- to have it, so that I can get my friends off of my back about some need, apparently universal to college students, to fuck anything willing. 

Anyways, today, as with most Thursday evenings, I had Philosophy of Art, and, again as with most Thursday evenings, I talked to a certain student afterwards, and, again as with most Thursday evenings I picked up on signs of sexual interest on her part.  I'd have had to been deaf and blind not to- they were about as obvious as the repetitions in the previous sentence.  Anyways, I know I'm leading her on, but can't really help myself- the game is too much fun, even if it is a bit sadistic.

I almost desire to desire, wish to want what I don't- it would make life simpler.  But I like my ideal- I just hope I eventually meet her.

Fat, Dumb and Not-Quite-Happy

I have a confession: these last few days, I have become, in my own way, fat, dumb, and happy.  I'm bloated on self-indulgent semi-intellectual pursuits: I learned to read the ancient Greek alphabet (though still lack anything approaching grammar or vocabulary), I've read some books, looked into whether I think the form and style and content of "The Sandman" by Neil Gaiman, proposed long ago by a friend, constitutes art (still haven't totally made up my mind, though aspects, certain pieces, certainly do). 

And why did I set out on these endeavors?  Boredom, a desire to be inspired in some unknown way.  Yet for all my efforts to spark my creativity, engage myself more fully, I've merely dampened my desire to create as my desire to behold creative thought is fulfilled.  However, it's fulfilled in what I consider an almost mediocre fashion- my lack of involvement in creation, or using what I see as inspiration, has tainted the experience.  Neither truly hungry nor fulfilled, my happiness in this aspect remains in limbo, undecided.  I hope that my Philosophy of Art class will re-engage me.

What, Exactly, Is a Rebel?

Our great and wonderful king of false hope and dope is coming.  Yes, that's right Obama will be here at MIT to speak.  Anyways, I'm gonna avoid talking about politics, and false unemployment rate predictions, and instead talk about rebels, teenage and otherwise.

So there's this idea about being your own person by "being a rebel"- far left liberal, emo/goth/punk, drugee, sexually liberated, whatever category you choose.  But what I love about it is that very few people are actually being rebels- they just choose conformity to some idea that doesn't necessarily agree with other people.  By this standard, far-right Christians or Republicans are far more rebellious when looking at, say, the North-East.  I especially love cliches at schools and such where kids with good families, no real issues become all "tortured" and dress in black to be accepted by a group just as judgmental and ridiculous as a traditionally accepted jock group.

Wake the fuck up, people, and open your eyes- if you're part of an accepted herd and aren't persecuted all that much, you're not a rebel, or a minority, just a sheep of different color.  And most lefties are far more accepting of the so-called "rebels"- "misunderstood youth", homosexuals, what have you then they are of "baby-killing neo-imperialists" (I've actually heard that one used) or other marginalized minorities in this, the People's Republic of Massachusetts.  Finally, to any liberals that might read this, realize this- YOU are now the persecuting majority, forcing your righteous views and values down the throats of all Americans.  Accept it.

There is no element of rebelliousness in conformity.

Well Worn Jeans

I didn't actually press "Publish" yesterday night, but here is yesterday's post.
One of my favorite things is putting on a pair of well worn jeans.  And I'm not talking about that fake bull shit where you buy pre-distressed or faded or ripped or whatever jeans.  I mean when you put on some jeans that are thin and faded and soft from hundreds of washings and wearings.  There's just something about the innate familiarity, the possessiveness.  Anyways, this got me thinking about the simple pleasures, perfection in small details.

I, and I think we as a society, focus on the big things: big ideas, extravagant parties, that kind of thing.  And while that's all good, I think its often out of balance with the small things.  Not that I'm OCD or whatever, but some times its nice to stop and stand and enjoy the roses.

Mental Masturbation

So I have way more work than I want to.  And I didn't really know what I wanted to write about today.  Thinking about it, I realized that I'd spent the day avoiding as much work as possible by daydreaming.  I wasn't even particularly creative.  I generated a bunch of writing which I'm not sure is crap, or acceptable, or steps in the right direction that I'll eventually come back to at the end and fix in some sort of weird snake-eating-its-own-tail kind of way.

Anyways, all of that was just mental masturbation.  I was thinking, even arguably being creative, but not in any kind of useful way.  In fact, I was (more-or-less) purposefully useless, applying my mental energies to meaningless self-satisfaction rather than writing, say, my aesthetics paper.  And writing this is making me think about Freud and his "Relation of the Poet to Daydreaming" and now I really am filled with self loathing because I'm fulfilling his expectations and I hate his take on aesthetics and art- he made useful contributions, but he's totally out-dated and my beliefs towards art involve something deeper and almost religious.  Anyways, this blog was born of mental masturbation and continues as an expression of it- I just hope that I can garner something useful from it.

All I Can See Are Silhouettes

So I was going to write about something completely different (family weekend maybe?), but when I logged in, I saw that I have some kind of generic silhouette as my image.  So then I start thinking "Do I want to change that?"  Except, I then thought that the silhouette kinda looks like me.  And I'm lazy, so I hesitated, hoping I could convince myself that the silhouette is a good representation.  And then I thought that the silhouette kinda looks like everyone.  And now I'm thinking about silhouettes as a reflection on reality, humanity.  Silhouettes to me represent just the surface of an image, it's lossy compression to the most simplistic rendering possible.  And as far as I can tell, most of us go through life seeing silhouettes.  We ignore the depth of people, seeing just their public persona's, an outline of their personality that completely fails to capture coloring and detail.  But this isn't the real tragedy.

The real tragedy lies in the similarity of snowflakes.  Ever hear that saying, that everyone's unique, just like snowflakes?  Well, have you ever noticed a real difference in snowflakes, beyond size and maybe, if you particularly like snowballs, stickiness?  No, of course not.  And so with people.  Most (I'd guess around 85%) people go through life and they are boring.  They are a silhouette compared to someone truly interesting.  Their personality is predictable and pedestrian, they define themselves not through their own views but the views of others.  They are, in a word, sheeple.  And the tragedy is that they are happy to so remain.

My first post...

Wow... this feels really strange. Talking to a computer, some faceless audience instead of a friend. I suppose some introductions are in order- I'm Oscar, and this is my Rag on Reality. I'm a student suffering from terminal ennui, and I'll be writing on whatever currently has my interest. Current topics include: art and aesthetics, identity, the habits of humanity. I'll put out any thoughts that strike me as interesting- feel free to agree, disagree, or just be ambivalent.


So, now that that's out of the way... Tonight, my friend D. said something that I thought was pretty interesting at dinner. We were talking (ok, ok, gossiping) about a mutual friend and whether he's having bit of an identity crisis, and meandered over to the topic of self-identity. Basically, how you define yourself. So here's a recap of the conversation.

D: I base my self-opinion on others' opinions of me... You can't maintain objectivity on yourself.
Me: Wait a sec, what? Are you serious?
L: Ya, that's totally what I do too.
Me: Alright, K, what do you think?
K: I don't get that. My opinion's all that really matters. You know yourself way better than others can know you.
Me: I totally agree with K.

Anyways, this then descends into D and L unable to shift K or me, and vice versa. After we paid the bill and left the restaurant, K and I have a little mutter fest (well, a fairly loud, longish mutter fest), and I assume L and D did too. So, here's the doggie bag of thought I took back from the restaurant: Is your opinion what matters, or do you define yourself through the thoughts of others?

- Russell