Completely Wrong...Totally Wrong

You Are Bart Simpson

Very misunderstood, most people just dismiss you as "trouble." Little do they know that you're wise and well accomplished beyond your years. You will be remembered for: starring in your own TV show and saving the town from a comet Your life philosophy: "I don't know why I did it, I don't know why I enjoyed it, and I don't know why I'll do it again!"

The Simpsons Personality Test

Since I Was "Tagged."

4 Jobs You Have Had In Your Life:
1. Merchandising Sales Clerk - Zoological Society of San Diego.
2. Legal Assistant - The Law Offices of Peter J. Mueller
3. Child
4. Adult

4 Movies You Could Watch Over and Over:
1. Fight Club
2. Fight Club
3. Shawshank Redemption
4. Team America: World Police

4 Places You Have Lived:
1. Montclair, California
2. San Diego, California
3. Irvine, California
4. The dark side of the moon.

4 TV Shows You Love To Watch:
1. The Simpsons
2. Family Guy
3. American Dad
4. World Series of Poker

4 Places You Have Been On Vacation:
1. Cambridge, England
2. Hyderabad, India
3. Karachi, Pakistan
4. Houston, Texas

4 Websites You Visit Daily:
1. Hotmail
2. Myspace
3. AOL.com
4. The Unrest Cure

4 Of Your Favorite Foods:
1. Anything my mother makes
2. Anything Prego's serves
3. (Shepherd's) Bread
4. Cheese

4 Places You Would Rather Be Right Now:
1. Irvine, California
2. Redding, California
3. Cambridge, England
4. Prego's

I'm not tagging anyone else. This ends with me.

He's Even More Punk Than Me...

So I'm in Ithaca, New York at a keg party in the summer of '88, and this kid says that I gotta hear this Operation Ivy 7". I say whatever, and he puts it on. It sounded weird and not very good, then this kid turns the record player from 33 to 45 and starts it over. "Yellin In My Ear" came on and it was about the best song I ever heard. A couple months later, I was at Ruthies Inn in Berkeley seeing Op Ivy play. I had never seen them before. They sounded wierd and not very good, but it was an awesome show. I introduced myself to Lint after the show. He was wasted and slurred at me that I had just witnessed the worst Op Ivy show ever. I told him I would come to the next and decide for myself.

So I'm in Maui at a fish taco stand talking to Shawn and Mark Stern about how the surf was too big, and they ask me if I wanna do a split record on their label, BYO. I said yeah, but I kinda meant not really. They suggested we do the split with Lag Wagon or Pennywise. I told them that we were too similar to those bands and that it would make a boring record. So they said, "why don't you think of a FUCKING band then tough guy. I told them politely that I would think about it and get back to them.

So I saw Op Ivy a bunch more, and Lint was right, that first show was the worst, but then they broke up. Bummer. Then Lint calls me one day and tells me I should check out his new band that he started with Matt called Generator. So I go to their rehearsal and they were like hardcore or something. But this doesn't matter, cuz they brok up real quick and started Rancid.

So back on the mainland, I tell the Stern brothers, how about Rancid? If you guys can get Rancid to do the split, then I'll do it. But I was really thinking, they'll never get Rancid to do it, and I wont have to do this stupid thing. Then they call me and tell me that Rancid said they would do it. Shit.... I tell myself. Cool I tell the Sterns. Then they say that Tim (who used to be known as Lint) thinks that it would be cool if we covered each others songs. Hey, this sounded pretty cool. I hadn't thought of that. This whole thing was starting to sound bitchin. I ask them if this meant that I had to play all of Matt's bass riffs and they told me I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to. So I tell myself.. cool, and I tell the Sterns.. cool.

-Fatty

The Adversary

By Omer Kazmi

He heard a whispering outside of his open window. It was more than the wind, less than a human voice. It sounded like a ghost trapped between this world and the next, and when he cocked his lupine ears in the void-like darkness, he could have sworn it was saying his name.

He himself was trapped between this world and the world of illogic, the dream-world. Furthermore, he was trapped between the sheets of his bed, and he dared not venture out in the cold January night to verify, empirically, what he had heard. To be sure, he was uncertain whether he was awake or dreaming, and this Cartesian doubt was preventing him from any form of rest. There it was again, a cold shudder in a silent night, a vibration running at 220 cycles per second (if his ears did not deceive him), a honey-sweet tremor, a near comforting sound. He could have sworn it was saying Nathaniel. He could have...

This was not the first night that the whisper had plagued his sojourn between worlds. It began on his twenty-third birthday, but since he was trapped between the worlds of sobriety and drunkenness, he imagined that he had imagined it. He eventually had fallen asleep, a sort of blissful sleep that could only lead to a nightmare. Lying in his bed now, suffocating under his comforter and sheets, he remembered vividly the dream he had that night.

He was looking at himself from above himself, omniscient and confused at the same time. He wore a starched brown jacket, starched brown pants that were knee high in length and ended where pure white stockings began, and the stockings ran down to plain black shoes with a silver buckle. He had atop his head a black hat with a small brim, and a silver buckle encompassing the barrel of the hat. Though his jacket was buttoned, he knew that he was wearing a pure white shirt underneath, for the cuffs of the shirt billowed out from the sleeves of his jacket. He knew, in his omniscience, that both the shirt and stockings were cotton, that the hat and shoes were leather, the buckles silver, and the pants and jacket were suede. Everything he was adorned with was simple and pure, and he knew, in his omniscience, that he was a puritan.

He was also within a cabin which was safe and warm, a fire in the hearth warding him from a cold winter night. But Nathaniel was summoned out immediately by a whispering of his name, and why he chose to follow the whisper—even his omniscience did not know. The murmur had led him to the edge of the town where the road led into a forest, and from which he received an ill-feeling. His omniscience (now his conscience?) instructed him not to go in, but ever-transgressing, he did not listen. He stepped into the forest, a world trapped between the mystical and the material, and though regretting his decision immediately, he could not ignore the summons of the whisper.

After following the sound, he came upon a clearing with a fire in the center, but a noticeably different fire than the one that blazed at his hearth—though, in his omniscience, he knew that the fire in his hearth had burned out. This fire, this new fire, was of a bluish tinge, and, as in deference to its color, was colder than the fire he missed now. Nymphs were dancing around it, and it threw a blue tinge on them, and wolves yipped and barked and pranced around it as well. Some satyrs were also about, playing strange wind instruments that gave the dance a modicum of festivity, but a strange, alien festivity that seemed to send chills down Nathaniel’s spine (whether in joy or in fear, he was not sure which). The festival seemed to reach a feverish pitch as Nathaniel approached the fire and stared into it. He began to sweat as he got near, but in his wonder he did not notice the radical change in temperature. When he was an arms length away from the fire, he thought he saw himself laughing and singing within the fire, but it was so blurry that he felt he needed to come closer. Then he felt the push, and he felt himself dissolving in a passionate burn, and the pain was unbearable and real. He saw the satyr that had pushed him in, and the satyr was laughing for a seeming infinite amount of time.

That’s where the dream ended. Nathaniel thought back on the dream, now, hearing the whispering susurrate through the open window. After that bizarre night, he did not hear the whispering again for a long while. Maybe a month or two. He could not remember. It returned on a sober night, and it brought back the vivid memory of the dream. Nathaniel had thought it to be only the wind, and even though he kept hearing through the night, he eventually fell asleep believing thus. Then it would come and go, like women talking of Michelangelo. He began to hear the whisper of what he believed to be his name on more and more nights, and just this past week he heard it every night. He was convinced that it was really something, and not merely the wind. Last night he did not fall asleep because of the sound, incessant, dissonant and yet harmonious, a hypocrisy of trembling. He knew it was someone, and yet...

He got up and shut the window.

It was strange how the simplest solutions never seemed to occur to him. It was as if he was cut by Occam’s Razor and wanted to forget the pain. The whispering was silenced, and he soon found himself asleep.

He also found himself trapped between the sixth and the seventh level of hell. There was screaming and burning, and what he imagined would be the sound of the sun had space the ability to carry sound. Through the blue, white, orange, and red—which could not seriously be called fire, but some kind of smoldering mist—he saw Virgil’s face and a seemingly detached arm, palm outstretched, fingers grasping at nothing, at him, a plea to follow. Virgil, whom he only knew in his omniscience, was speaking, his mouth formulating words in mimicry of a bass reeled in, a slow coughing at a ubiquitous and destructive oxygen. It looked as if he was saying, "Rome wasn’t built in a day," but Nathaniel was not sure. Nathaniel could hear not but the boiling and broiling, and understood not but the feeling of torture. Virgil’s face faded away, and that’s when Nathaniel escaped.

The next morning Nathaniel got up, got to the telephone, and dialed work. A female voice answered, somewhat hushed. He could hear the office buzzing in the background, he must have awoken late. Nathaniel was very attracted to the female voice and the woman behind the voice, one of the secretaries in charge of some project that he knew very little about. He did not know what really happened in the office that he worked; what he even did there. He just knew he got up, went, killed time, and came back to his home to either fall asleep or listen to his name being whispered outside his window. He did not even remember the secretary’s name (Leanne? Stephanie?). He did know he was attracted to her.

"I’m not going to make it in today." He did not at all feign any sort of physical illness.

"Who is this?" She was so pert. He imagined having sex with her in some bedroom in the middle of nowhere, nothing. He shook the momentary illusion.

"Nathaniel." He never went by Nathan.

"Oh, okay Nathan, I’ll let the boss know. Get better. We’ll miss you here."

"No, you won’t." And then he hung up.

He then picked up the receiver again and dialed his psychiatrist, immediately regretting the decision. He scheduled an appointment to meet with his doctor with the fat, decrepit secretary, whom he found himself staring at in the uncomfortably small lobby later on that afternoon. She did nothing, she rarely spoke, she only stared at the guests who were foolish enough to come too early. There were no magazines. Just a sofa, two chairs, and the secretary’s desk. Her name was Margaret.

Nathaniel tried to envision his dream clearly to relay to the quack that somehow got a doctorate degree in psychology. It never helped speaking with him, a Dr. Oshner or something, but he scheduled appointments regularly now because he was addicted. Dr. Oshner or whoever would prescribe various medications which he never took. The first thing that the doctor would ask was:

"So did you take your Thorazine?"

"No."

"Your problems will never be ameliorated unless you take your medication."

"I had another dream of hell." Nathaniel ignored that psychobabble.

"Look, if you just take—"

"Why didn’t you just tell me to shut the window, you prick?" He wanted to kill his psychiatrist right now. Unfortunately, nothing sharp was available, probably a lesson learned from a previous unstable patient that had to stare at Margaret for two hours.

"Because the voice is in your head." There was a pained expression on Dr. Oshner’s face, as if he himself was an inhabitant of Nathaniel’s dream.

"When I shut the window, it stopped. I fell asleep and I dreamed of hell."

Before an objection could be voiced, Nathaniel went into his dream in great detail, explaining Virgil known through omniscience, Rome not being built in a day, the outstretched arm, and then—for kicks—Nathaniel having sex with Stephanie. Dr. Oshner feigned interest poorly, and, instead of analyzing this dream, began writing on a pad of paper.

"It’s like I’m trapped between worlds, doctor—"

"Since you haven’t taken the Thorazine, maybe some Lithium will calm you down." Dr. Oshner handed Nathaniel a sheet of paper ripped from the pad with black chicken scratch on it. Nathaniel took this as his invitation to leave. He got up, saw Stephanie unzip her jumpsuit in his mind’s eye, and left. He threw the prescription in the waste basket next to Margaret.

That night, as he tried to fall asleep, this time with the window closed, he thought he still heard his name coming from outside. He double-checked the window, to make sure it was sealed. Surely, the voice was fainter—a whisper of a whisper, but he could still detect it, and it truly bothered him. As he lay trapped in his room underneath covers that provided no comfort, he stared at the ceiling blankly watching Margaret and Stephanie’s face meld together in the stucco. Then he saw movement in his peripheral vision, fast enough to be a thief, and Nathaniel jumped up. He thought he heard his door slam. He ran, brown pajamas billowing, to the front door. For a moment, silence. And then, the whisper, louder than in his room. Nathaniel opened the door, and stepped out into a cold January night. It was not until he reached the gate of his apartment complex that he heard the whisper again. He opened the gate, stepped out, and instinctively turned left. And there he was.

The man was standing about ten yards out. Even from that distance, Nathaniel noticed his eyes. They were a yellowish green, and they glowed like a cat’s. Nathaniel thought that it was just the reflection of the street light the man was underneath. Nathaniel approached him, believing that this man was in his apartment.

"What were you doing in my home?"

"I was not in your apartment. I have been waiting here patiently, ever so patiently, for you to come out and visit me."

Nathaniel was finally close enough to make out the features of this strange man. He was of average height, but somewhat skinny. He was clean shaven, with the exception of a goatee that made him satyr-like. His face was soft. The man was neatly dressed, in a fine Armani suit of various colors, which seemed to shimmer in the pale light of the street lamp. There were fine Italian loafers that cushioned his feet, and if Nathaniel did not know better, it appeared the man was not quite touching the ground. What struck Nathaniel the most about his dress was the red tie that seemed to bleed onto a black shirt. Upon closer inspection, the man’s eyes appeared to be those of a snake, a slit that acted as the diameter of yellow irises, and his eyes seemed to have a glow that was intrinsically their own—not merely a reflection of the dull light of city property. The man’s voice was comforting, though affected.

"Would you like to join me? I was just on my way for a stroll." Nathaniel began walking.

"Who are you?"

"You know me. You know me well. I am one of your friends."

Nathaniel could not remember the last friend with whom he had spoken. Nathaniel wondered if he even had any friends.

"Were you the one whispering to me all of those nights?"

"Yes." The s was lengthened to a soft hiss, an alien whisper. Nathaniel shuddered.

They walked in silence for a while. It was oppressive, and Nathaniel occasionally glanced at his friend’s eyes to see if they were still glowing. He wondered if he should have actually taken the Lithium. Then, like a lump in his throat, he felt the beginning of the urge to tell this person the things he could not seem to convey to this psychiatrist. The lump grew in the silence. It continued to grow until Nathaniel was choking on it, and he began: "I’m trapped between worlds!"

"Everyone is. Go on."

Nathaniel explained how he was stuck between waking and sleeping, logic and illogic, comfort and torture, Stephanie and Margaret, work and doctor’s visits, isolation and friendship, drink and sobriety—he kept going, feeling the need to unload augment as he was unloading, his face becoming red as he spoke, seeing the glint of the snake eyes flash in seeming acknowledgment and understanding. Nathaniel stopped talking to inhale. He saw Stephanie’s smile in his mind’s eye. Nathaniel just realized where they were.

"Where are we?"

"At the edge of the forest, but you knew that."

"What are we doing here?"

"I want to show you something. But do go on, you have so much on your mind."

Nathaniel continued speaking as if he had lost control of his tongue. He talked about killing the psychiatrist and fucking Stephanie. He spoke of those sleepless nights, and how he had nothing to show for himself after all these years on earth, and how he had gotten drunk by himself when he turned twenty-three because there was no one to drink with. He talked about his life being a living hell, comparable to his dreams, and how nothing really seemed to matter anymore. He continuously talked, not being able to stop because the lump in his throat was killing him. With every word he spoke the lump seemed to get larger and larger, insatiable. They were deep into the forest when Nathaniel realized, with shock, that he was no longer speaking words, but simply voicing meaninglessness. It awed him more as he realized that he was speaking in tongues. Just when he stopped to inhale, the two friends came upon a clearing.

There was a fire in the center with a bluish tinge. There were people around, laughing, singing and dancing. It seemed rather pastoral.

"Come," and Nathaniel followed his friend into the clearing. Nathaniel was given drink, and he began to feel comfortable. As he drank more, he felt the need to laugh, and to sing. Time seemed to stand still, as he was perpetually given cups of more drink, a sweet, nectar-like fluid that only seemed to make him thirsty for more. Nathaniel was dancing with some of the women, tripping and stumbling and falling. Men were playing instruments that sounded strange in this new state of his, but he liked it. He felt at home with this strange men and women, and he kept looking at his friend who sat on the outer edge of the circle, smiling. It got to the point where Nathaniel was ecstatic. He wanted nothing more than the drink and this infinite moment; he had never felt better in his entire life. He felt so good that he called out to his friend.

"You indeed are my friend! I have never felt this good ever!" He exuded emotion.

"Oh really?" His friend was suddenly behind him, and Nathaniel temporarily—though brushing the thought off immediately—wondered how he got there.

"Yes! I think I now know what it feels like to be a god!"

Nathaniel did not feel the push until after the fire was upon him. He saw his friend laughing with his tongue out, and within the fire it looked like his tongue was forked. In his omniscience, he realized that that was not a person at all, and that that non-person was not his friend. He then realized that he was not omniscient, but it was too late. As he burned, hardly feeling anything but pain, he turned and saw Virgil, mouthing the words he knew he did not know.

New Year's Reflection

How soon hath time the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endueth.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even,
To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which time leads me, and the will of heaven;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task-master's eye.
~John Milton (1631).

"As true today, as when it was written."
~Homer Simpson

"I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."
~Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Feeling The Gun In My Hand

"I was young too, I felt just like you. Hated authority, hated all my bosses, thought they were full of shit. Look, it's like they say, if you're not a rebel by the age of twenty, you've got no heart, but if you haven't turned to the establishment by thirty, you've got no brains! Because there are no story book romances, no fairy tale endings... Before you run out and change the world, ask yourself, what do you really want?"

Sick of being [sic]:

"Hello my name is Amy, I am a fun loving, attractive, intelegent woman. I will be in the USA for 12 months on business. I really enjoy meeting new people it's so exciting. I recieve free air fares so I travel quite often. I am looking forward to your reply. Reply to my personal email only please. By the way, I saw your profile and luved it. My personal email is [censored: I don't know if this is a real person or not] I will reply back with a picture, Promise. ttyl..,Amy"

I've been looking for an "intelegent" woman my entire life...

Your Space.

So lately I have been neglecting this blog because of my Myspace. The thing is addicting, pointless (much like this blog, but to a stronger degree). I basically am posting to let the world know that a book review of Tremor of Intent should be coming soon: I am nearly done with the book. I might also post my Personal Statement as graduate school application deadlines are coming up, fast. I might also post a story that I am supposed to be working on, the deadline for that is December 31, 2005 at 11:59 p.m. This year (and my life) is almost over. And, while on the topic of what I might post, I might post pictures that my sister took while she was India (if there are any good ones). Bug me in the comments section if you particularly want to see something.

So many goals. Higher, higher, low.

An Anniversary for the Annals

So it has been one year since I have started this blog. One whole year. I could look back and see what terrible posts I have written--maybe highlight them here in traditional self-loathing fashion-- but instead I sunk to a new low: I got a myspace. I think that exemplifies the steady (exponential?) decline in brain cell count, and encapsulates my general descent into madness.

I'm a Thief, I'm a Weirdo...

I hate my job
I hate my job
I hate my...

Six in the evening here I am
(Turning blue)
I'm staying late working late again
Bourbon can't clear my mind from this
Voice in my head
I hate my job
'Cause it makes me
Think about the smile that I'm faking

I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my job
I hate my job

Yeah, that's the scene that I am in
Lying
At odds with every bland image
How many assignments can this
Fool ask me to do?
I never cared
There is no end
Only misery and uninterest

I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my
I hate my job

I don't care
I don't care

This Unbalanced...

I got Resolve today. It came on a Monday that was a train wreck after a grueling weekend, betwixt a credit card bill and a bank statement (I owe them...). Before I get further into this, I would like to outline my Monday.

Before I outline my Monday, I'm going to highlight my weekend: I took the the "Literature in English" GRE. It was the hardest test I have taken in recent memory. My mother and older sister left for India on Sunday night. Their flight was out of LAX, and was not scheduled to leave until 11:30 p.m. I went to see them off, and I did not get home until around 11:30 p.m. So I did not get to sleep a whole lot. Now, to Monday.

First, I had to drop my brother off at a financial aid meeting at school this morning. I was late getting him there. I did get to work on time, but today I had to take care of several important documents that were due today. One of them required me to copy 500 pages in exhibits. The other involved me meeting with the client today (the day it was due...service is complete once the documents are in the mail, thankfully), and arguing with him over minutia. While I was focusing on finishing preparing these documents, I was dumped with more work that is awaiting my response tomorrow. My boss did not show up for one of his appointments, and when the finally called me, he wanted me to tell the client stuff regarding his case, and somehow that ended up in a half an hour appointment where the client was complaining to me about things that I cannot possibly change nor control. I needed the associate attorney's signature on some other documents that had to go out today, and, because of a late appointment she had that went extra long, I did not get that signature until 6:30. The credit card terminal ran out of journal tape, and it didn't take just normal tape, but "thermal" tape, which I had to get the office manager to get. The office manager returned with her daughter, and that was just a distraction (helping a high school freshman with English homework, and answering personal questions while I'm trying to get things in the mail was distracting). This was all on top of the normal phone calls of people yelling at me, getting the mail, and scheduling appointments. I did not leave the office until after 6:30 p.m. (6:45? 6:50?) It sucked, to put it mildly.

But I got home, and there was the package from Fat Wreck Chords. I opened it up, and there were the usual freebies (a poster for some band called "Consumed", a Strung Out sticker, a Dillinger Four sticker [which rules], a little ad advertising Lagwagon's Resolve (on one side) and Western Addiction's Cognicide (on the other), and a free compilation called Rock Against Floyd), and Resolve. It was not wrapped in plastic. There was no impossible-to-open-sticker sealing the CD in air-tight paradise, completely inaccessible to those of us who have fallen. I opened the case, and found the signatures of the band on the back of the CD booklet. These are not fake signatures. Leon's signature is in silver, Joey's signature is smeared a bit on the J, Dave's signature is kind of faded. I smiled as wide as the girl on the cover of Let's Talk About Feelings (I probably looked that beautiful too). My whole day changed. I thought "even if this album sucks, it rules that I have their signatures on this CD booklet." The album does not suck. I have listened to the album twice so far, and, like I usually do with new CDs, I'm going to post the lyrics from a song on it, but all this needed to be said.

Resolve

Don't leave me in this room
The walls are closing in
This is the space I used to say
The line is drawn for you each day
But every day you show
With sound of caving walls
Some day this song will have no pulse
And I'll cave alone
But there we are
Waiting for your answer
Your arms speeded elation
Beating out your salvation
But when the tape stopped you were gone
A half measure from home
This week I recreate
Edit you back into
The blare that could define you
Coveted by few who knew
The phone rings without pause
This grief wills everyone
All I have is our shitty song
How could it ever be enough?
Here we are in our final accord
A mortician and his tools
Sonically bury you
You could have chose another chord to resolve on
~Lagwagon

It's Not Going Anywhere

He was thoroughly convinced he was not a good person. There were moments--recurring, and often so--that seemed to prove this conviction. There was that moment (how long was one?) when he had popped that girl's balloon with a pen, vindictively, instinctively, and with such satisfaction that if the girl had several more, he would have gone (hypothetically, against and contrary to the fact, the history, but of such sure conviction that he called it true--made it so) on a(n) homicidal spree of flying rubber and ink. Her mother, standing by, innocent as the child, was so shocked, her mouth was a agape. The accomplishment fell to bitter ruin with the tears of the child. She must have been six or seven, the age where one can comprehend evil and fear, but had no idea that these things were real. His heart sank. He wanted to cry with her and apologize, but it seemed pointless. He should not have done what he did, and the regret could not be washed off with something as common as an apology. A carnival (for that is where they were, and the clown from whom the girl received the balloon, a few yards away, clucked bitterly, condescendingly at the scene before him) was simply not a carnival with a girl crying. But, ironically, and he noted this with the pen still protruding from his clenched fist, sword-like, he was simply saying farewell to the sins of the flesh. Destruction of oneself and others (and, by extension, their property) was a sin of the flesh, ingrained and part of the human condition, and though there was no lent--and hence, no purging, he... he could not justify it. He walked over to the clown, made a gesture to the jester, which the clown understood immediately. The jester gave him another balloon, the same color, and he gave it to the crying child while the mother stood, anger aging her skin with a thousand wrinkles. Why did he do such a thing? Why did it feel like victory? Why did he feel so bad afterward? He did not know, but only knew that there were more moments, and, incidentally, more incidents which proved his utter worthlessness to humanity.

A Tremor of My Intent

"We were both drawn, during the interim time, to the only community we knew; we went back to school."

~pg. 17

This sounds like me and a couple of people I know.

There Was Only One Catch...

I'm posting because I'm trying to avoid studying for the GRE Subject Test. This whole process of applying to graduate school is long, drawn-out, oppressive. But every day that I go to work I realize more and more that I should not be doing this yet; that I do not want to be a "Legal Assistant" (what the hell is that anyway? Why do crummy jobs always have the vaguest names?); that the only thing I have known in life is school and that is where I feel most comfortable. But how do I turn that into a "Statement of Purpose"? How do I write a "Personal Statement" about how I am running back to a womb (maybe not a fetal womb, per se, but certainly a more youthful day--a child-like state, at least)? I am not an academic man, though I try to be. I do not read as much as I should. I do not remember half the things I learned in college, and I barely remember one-eighth of the things I learned in high school. And other than trying to escape from the nine-to-five, I do not know why I want to go to graduate school. I have nothing to prove. I have no real academic goals other than getting a Doctorate in Philosophy and possibly teaching (though praying for a good publishing contract). All I know is that my friends say I have changed, I feel I have changed, and I am not happy where I am. Is that something some stiff in an admissions office in some accredited institution wants to see? I doubt it.

So what do I do? Find a new job? That certainly is an option, but there is the gamble that I will run into a worse job than the one I am currently doing (it is hard to believe, but I am sure there are worse). I also promised my mother I would further my education. And honestly, I do want to go graduate school, it is just applying for it that is so burdensome. It is also hard to leave a small office when you have worked there for a while. Things could fall apart; you are not so easily replaceable. I am Mr. Guilt. I somehow think I would feel less guilty if I had to leave work because of graduate school than to leave work for another job. Maybe they would understand better, I do not know.

Really, I know in my heart of hearts (as the sole-practitioner lawyer who shares office space with us says) that I should just buckle down, suck it up, and, as a co-worker says, "get 'er dun'!" (Another reason to leave...) But it is far easier to come home from work and do nothing than to study, or contact professors for letters of recommendation, or rifle (me) through old boxes looking for the last ten page paper I wrote to be submitted as a writing sample, or trying to get my official transcript, or sending GRE scores to schools that have not received them yet. I'm not lying, I'm lazy.

It's as Bart Simpson says, "You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't."

The Answer Is Still No.

Both this picture, and the caption above ("Sell your house and buy gold"), were taken from the Radiohead website. Who knows where they got them from.

Intuiting Verticality

On Colombus Day--a day that has long since been destroyed as a holiday because of "multicultural" issues--I finished The Intuitionist, a racial allegory (if the cover is any indication). And, like any book that deals with race, it left me confused. It does not define race, and it does not attempt to solve any issues, though it does seem to play with certain philosophical issues.

There's of course the Intuitionism versus Empiricism debate, which is the major issue of the book. These elevator inspectors (yes, the book is about elevator inspectors) are awaiting the new elevator of the future, entitled "the black box." Whether the elevator is indestructible or not, the book never tells us, but the creator of the black box, a James Fulton, is the originator of the Intutionist movement. The main character of the book, Lila Mae Watson is, in a sense, a disciple of Fulton, and she encounters a problem: Elevator Number Eleven in the Fanny Briggs Building, an elevator she inspected, goes into a total free fall. What ensues is a complicated mess that, at times, I wondered if I cared what was going on.

Now farbeit from me to criticize a writer who is actually published (while I have not yet submitted anything, nor do I have anything ready to be submitted, to a publisher), but when race is the driving factor, it makes it hard to care about it. All the characters are governed by their race--all the white people act in a certain way, and the black people act in a certain way, and nothing changes that at all. Even the Fulton is dominated by his race; I guess that makes it a racial allegory.

There are other issues as well. There's a religious issue which hinted to in the appearance of the black box, which will bring about the "second elevation" and new cities and a new life, thanks to this new version of verticality. There are political issues brought about with the impending election--who gets to be the new head of the Department of Elevator Inspectors? Will it be the Empiricist Chancre, or the Intutionist [I forget his name and I can't find it]? I did not really care, and I do not think it was a major factor in the book, but it was there. There was also corporate issues, what with United Elevator Co. and Arbo vying for dominance in this unnamed city during this unnamed time period. All these things blended together, which makes for a nice complex story. So it is not all bad.

It is just the racial aspect that pervades the story, and the complimentary racial language (i.e. "modernity," "verticality," etc.) which I cannot, for the life of me, find any meaning to that just makes this a frustrating read. Lines like: "In the last few days she has learned how to read, like a slave does, one forbidden word at a time" (p. 230) calls into question a lot of things, and provides no answers for. Lila Mae Watson already knows how to read throughout the story, what kind of "reading" did she learn the second time. A racial reading, perhaps? The reference to the slave seems to say so, but I cannot be sure, and that vagueness is frustrating.

Ultimately, the book tries to veer away from race (and I would explain, but I would be ruining the book for those who perchance want to read it), but it is so stuck in that quagmire that it cannot possibly extricate out of it. The final message seems to be: Look past the color of skin, white people! That kind of message is confusing and dissatisfying, and that's what I generally got from the book.

This isn't the review I intended for the book, but I have run out of time. I'm going to be really busy this month, so I may not post all that often. I'll post when I have a chance. Other than that, I'm glad I finished the book, and I'm sad that my holiday is nearly over. Despite what others may say, I'm glad we have Columbus Day.

New York Threatened...

Islamabad levelled.

These are crazy times.

You Listen to Coldplay

Thanks, Tony.

[He quoted the Network.]

Lies, Lies, Lies

"Omer -

Thanks for your order with CD Baby!

Your CD has been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.

A team of 50 employees inspected your CD and polished it to make sure it was in the best possible condition before mailing.

Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over the crowd as he put your CD into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.

We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of Portland waved 'Bon Voyage!' to your package, on its way to you, in our private CD Baby jet on this day, Monday, September 26th.

I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did. Your picture is on our wall as 'Customer of the Year'. We're all exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!

Thank you once again,

Derek Sivers, president, CD Baby
the little CD store with the best new independent music"

Even though I don't believe all that he wrote, it was still nice getting an e-mail from the president of something.

New Monkey

New Monkey

Here come the sidewalk boss again
Telling me how I can't cave in;
That I'm a study in black,
Need a pat on the back
I looked up and smile
A picture of dissatisfaction
That he can only see as a junkie.
Though I might be straight as an arrow,
He's busy shaking hands with my monkey,
Busy shaking hands with my monkey.

Well i go in the car,
Straight to the bar
Where my sweetie pours the beer
For the millions of fans ignoring the bands
He's in my ear,
Wants me to live in denial,
Says you've gotta settle for something
Though it might not be really living,
Anything is better than nothing,
Anything is better than nothing.

No actor action man gonna move in to take my place,
I'll be pumping out the product
Just a total waste.

Look at your hands unoccupied
Look at the lengths you'll go to hide
You're under the veil,
Pretending to fail.
Gotta whole lot of empty time left to go
Now you've gotta fill it with something;
I know what you can do, don't you know,
Anything is better than nothing.

No actor action man gonna move in to take my place,
I'll be pumping out the product
Just a total waste.

I'm here with my cup,
Afraid to look up,
This is how i spend my time,
Lazin' around, head hangin' down;
Stuck inside my imagination,
Busy making something from nothing.
Pictures of hope and depression,
Anything is better than nothing
Anything is better than nothing
Anything is better than nothing
Anything is better than nothing.

~Elliott Smith