(no subject)
I wrote this earlier this morning, but it wouldn't let me post it then, so here it is:
The Laramie Project was equally funny and depressing and powerful and contemplativistic and provocative and well put-on. Thanks to Cait and her friend Tracy I was able to experience it.
Rule^n: know that which you might hate before you decide to hate it; know that which you might love before you decide to love it.
A cold freeze of weather hurtles me through the evening by numbing my toes and blanketing my lips in a dryness fit for a chapstick king.
My car works and I am but relieved, for I can bring it home in three days and leave it home for many more; that was the only reason I was stressing over it as of late... interesting, that is, to note that I stress over getting rid of the generally supposed material convenience.
The Spongebob Squarepants flick reminds me how hearty a laugh can be when in sobriety. Not even caffeine or stimulation provided these laughs, although I did take it before the previously mentioned performance.
Austin's radio show was impressive and all the while the moment was shared with Chris, of whom I figured I would be inspired to feel awkward around. But alas, no suffering commenced, and perhaps Austin and Cait's combined presence contributed to that.
Post-radiosity I indulged in ten milligrams of red-powder adderall, as I call it - I wish I could announce the amphetamines in a more descript fashion, but I've have yet to get the knack of such a skillful technique. Alas, the results of taking that adderall are thus:
Talked to Matt about freedom of drug use and subjectivity being a positive thing in the allowance of others to do those drugs which they wish to do and of one's own drug use being their own and their own alone, for which no other should contribute an opinion against it with unmoderated tone and stature; my favorite quote of mine, and I indulge in this perhaps too highly, was: "I say, take what you want when you want. It's your decision. You can deal with the effects and the outcome - people who fall down can pick themselves up again." Perhaps that's too general a statement, for it's not true that everyone can get out of a habit that actually prove inhibiting of them and of a negative presentation. I suppose that one who picks himself up again might not revert to sobriety or allow the self to become freed of the habit or general use, but at the least, the experience and the learned implications of such experiences allow glimpses into the possiblity of other options, oppurtunities, or wayward shifts. I suppose it's an emotional strength that is consistently subconscious in us all. Just because we don't see it at first, or ever - note Bukowski as a primary example - doesn't mean that the knowledge isn't somewhere inside us, boiling away and brewing in some deep crevice. For the process is always in our becomings, and a human being will at some point become attracted to the linear mental vapour of the thoughts and ideas that spark up within us - a flame to heat the cold and numb, so to speak. I can't say when that attraction will commence, but I can say that perhaps death will release all the information and solve all the quandries that are either seemingly hopeless or, at another level, invisibly present.
I then ventured on to Krissy's where I watched her and Kristina get drunk on gin and tonic. I wrote Krissy a poem entitled Fuerte Passage Amore (revised title, of which I'm almost certain - almost - is incorrect, but probably a cross between Latin and Spanish) that I promised to write her prior to spending the moment with her. As I wrote this three-quatrain piece, she danced and sung to nineties alternative rock, such as the song "Little Black Backpack" (the artist escapes my room mate and I's attention) and "Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode and "Wait and Bleed" by Slipknot. One thing to note was her uncontrollable shaking of the legs, her wildly manic behavior - smiles of course! - her dancing that reminded me of a puppet (connection to the alcohol intake and perhaps a metaphor if looked at in a conceited light), and several wild drinking games including a form of poker in which a duration of seconds of drinking were the bets on the line. The poem came out as I expected to, for I was writing it in a special meter (of which the name escapes me as well), and therefore somewhat constricted to word choice. I was also highly distracted - remember the above actions stated about Krissy and apply them to Kristina as well - a dual force of visual distraction. But the poem did finish, and I noticed I made much alliteration and repetition with the letters "s", "p", and "w". An interesting combination, but I still have no reasoning behind it. Upon reading the poem to her, as she sat on my lap in an inebriated frenzy, she paid attention but, afterwards, claimed that she "didn't get it." Alas, I was still aroused with my own pleasure and pride that I wrote a poem about her and for her and was able to read it to her.
The same Matt I mentioned then sold me some adderall, and I then smoked some cigarettes with Krissy and Kristina, as well as Michelle and her boyfriend (Josh, is it?), and took many-a-photograph with my digital camera (which has returned its use to me). The pictures I will probably decide to not host and post due to the dramatic and exploitive nature of them, but I am assured that they will reimburse on occasion the fond memory of this evening.
In any case, the night turned out to be a wild ride into poetics as I sat in the corner of Krissy's room and wrote one or two pages in my black notebook on subjects far from those of blackness. Now I sit here, in the wee (sic) hours of the morning, later than I've been up for several weeks now, and I feel refreshed and subtle - subtle in the sense of a passive and calm feeling, where my actions are meaningful, my words pleasantly pungent, and my stance lean and casual. This weekend seems to be posing itself as a giant pasture for getting work done ahead of time. I do not have many academic priorites on Monday or Tuesday, but there still exists many projects of grand size that will be required of me by the end of the semester, and to get them done over this weekend would hold off my conscience through Thanksgiving Break, and continue through the remaining weeks that follow.
I am quite happy with the assignment I will be completing this weekend - a modular design story. I have already typed a page of notes on it, and this is startling because I am excited knowing it is my first form of pre-writing that I have ever done for aesthetic value, and it seems to have helped the thought process dearly. Startling it is, because I've always been disposed to progressive improvisation in my writing style and being quite spontaneous. But this is not the case, for a modular design is heavy in logic and is of a rational, almost mathematical aesthetic. The notes, therefore, serve as a beam of balance in which I can choose to lean my mind towards in case I run out of ideas or fall into a slump of progress.
Other items of note that I am planning on working on throughout the weekend are as follows: I must finish reading The Good Earth, and then begin to pre-write for my final project on the book, which will be an 'epic' poem of no more than one thousand words in total. This, I am sure, fails to fit the requirements of the title 'epic', but alas, I still will consider it to be one of my longest poems ever written. The poem's lines will be short, as to be running parallel to the surface simplicity of the novel, and therefore the page number will be quite long if I am not mistaken. One thousand words. Yes, that seems like quite a long poem indeed! I must also - and by 'must' I mean for complete and necesarry benefit of myself educationally - begin to work on my final Aesthetics project, which is a Power Point Presentation (on a side note - I had to read the book 'Creatures of Habit' for my Narrative in Design course and the author was Jill McCorkle. This last name sparked my eye - to notice a name with inward use of alliteration does not happen often, and is quite brilliant as I am concerned!) consisting of using the artistic knowledge I've gained through the scope of the course as a medium for representing a part of myself. I am going to incorporate a small, self-composed and self-created 'film' into it, set to the music of either Radiohead or Neutral Milk Hotel, but I must wait to do that aspect of the project until after I've downloaded video-editing software from the firewall-free Internet service back at home. I can still do other parts of the Power Point Presentation though, and with that I choose to regardless of the fact that I don't need to turn in this project until December fifth. I'd also like to finish my personal reading, which is Hunter S. Thompson's Hey Rube. Why, you ask? Why am I in such a hurry to finish this book that I've just recently begun? Well, for one, I ordered two books by Miller that will be coming soon, and seeing that I loved Tropic of Cancer, I believe I want to get to those as soon as possible. I also have a stack of personal reading that is sitting on the bookshelf to my right, and a stack of books that I have yet to order. There is so much literature, and new doorways into the literary world have been since opened upon the courses I've taken this semester.
Alas, I will be returning to Maine in several days, and this is very exciting. I plan on doing more of my work there - anything that escapes this weekend - and I plan on meeting so many people of which I have missed for so long, including but not limited to: Amy, Neil, Marcel, and Casey. There are others obviously, but these 'close friends' have become a memory that I want to renew and keep as being not-so-distant and vague and growingly fuzzy - fuzzy like the pencil writings that smudge on the crinkled base through time periods of being set aside. This is not just the people that I refer to as the benefits of return - many-a-landscape, building, and lifestyles I miss with a heart heavy and strong-holding. Both Gorham and Portland have the influence on me that continue on through my writings and I am constantly thinking of. I must not fail to mention my own home, in the heart of the rural area of Northern Gorham, and the family I have not seen in several months. I miss my mother, my sister Katherine, my brother Kevin, the family dog Birdy, and hell, I even miss the grump'd-up stepfather that he is, Roberto. Yes, I call him that - but with jest, because he is indeed as the name describes - a Spanish drunkard type who lives life care-free in the sense that he forgets the value of others' emotions, opinions, and liberated lifestyles. I can't wait to show him my own, and live in harmony knowing I have power over him and his despotically-ruling mentality.
It's very frigid here, in Rhode Island, weather-wise, but I wonder as to how cold it is in Southern Maine. From what I've heard through way of voice and impression of others, Maine is, on average, ten degrees colder than Rhode Island. That means that the weather in Maine is below freezing, if not very far below it. I can only remember the cold weather of Maine vaguely, but I do remember that although it is startling, especially in contrast (note my venture from Dallas, Texas to Portland, Maine last year) with warmer areas, Maine weather and temperature is also peaceful, passive, and subtle, and makes for great times spent looking for modes of entertainment and comfort indoors - especially at place of which I adore, like coffeeshops and warm houses with woodstoves and brilliant smiles and chapped lips.
On a final note for this entry, I must express that I have chosen to cancel my plans for going to Greece during Spring Break. To provide an explanation, I find that although I was once very excited with Greece, the more I think about it, the more I find that I would rather spend the same amount of money visiting a place I am extremely infatuated with, such as South or Central America, or Iceland, or New Zealand, or some part of Africa. Greece simply is not providing the excitement now as it was before, and considering the warm fact that my mother is my benefactor when it comes to these trips (Greece AND Japan), I want to take my mood and view towards the trips into consideration, and if it falters more than slightly, such as I feel towards Greece now, I want to make appropriate changes. Fortunately, I have been informed that the money already spent on the trip (prior to the trip's occurence) can be transferred to a different trip, or even redeemed (this particular being unconfirmed) and reimbursed. In any case, I have yet to tell my mother, but I will do so after I make the call to the official office of the concerned affairs.
I write this still being in a passive mood, and although I feel I could continue writing for many more minutes, I also feel I must retire into the night of sleep. Who knows if that will be attained on the stimulants I took two hours ago, but I am inclined to try. In the words of Melville's Bartleby, 'I prefer not to' stay awake longer. And yes, that's all that will be said.
The Laramie Project was equally funny and depressing and powerful and contemplativistic and provocative and well put-on. Thanks to Cait and her friend Tracy I was able to experience it.
Rule^n: know that which you might hate before you decide to hate it; know that which you might love before you decide to love it.
A cold freeze of weather hurtles me through the evening by numbing my toes and blanketing my lips in a dryness fit for a chapstick king.
My car works and I am but relieved, for I can bring it home in three days and leave it home for many more; that was the only reason I was stressing over it as of late... interesting, that is, to note that I stress over getting rid of the generally supposed material convenience.
The Spongebob Squarepants flick reminds me how hearty a laugh can be when in sobriety. Not even caffeine or stimulation provided these laughs, although I did take it before the previously mentioned performance.
Austin's radio show was impressive and all the while the moment was shared with Chris, of whom I figured I would be inspired to feel awkward around. But alas, no suffering commenced, and perhaps Austin and Cait's combined presence contributed to that.
Post-radiosity I indulged in ten milligrams of red-powder adderall, as I call it - I wish I could announce the amphetamines in a more descript fashion, but I've have yet to get the knack of such a skillful technique. Alas, the results of taking that adderall are thus:
Talked to Matt about freedom of drug use and subjectivity being a positive thing in the allowance of others to do those drugs which they wish to do and of one's own drug use being their own and their own alone, for which no other should contribute an opinion against it with unmoderated tone and stature; my favorite quote of mine, and I indulge in this perhaps too highly, was: "I say, take what you want when you want. It's your decision. You can deal with the effects and the outcome - people who fall down can pick themselves up again." Perhaps that's too general a statement, for it's not true that everyone can get out of a habit that actually prove inhibiting of them and of a negative presentation. I suppose that one who picks himself up again might not revert to sobriety or allow the self to become freed of the habit or general use, but at the least, the experience and the learned implications of such experiences allow glimpses into the possiblity of other options, oppurtunities, or wayward shifts. I suppose it's an emotional strength that is consistently subconscious in us all. Just because we don't see it at first, or ever - note Bukowski as a primary example - doesn't mean that the knowledge isn't somewhere inside us, boiling away and brewing in some deep crevice. For the process is always in our becomings, and a human being will at some point become attracted to the linear mental vapour of the thoughts and ideas that spark up within us - a flame to heat the cold and numb, so to speak. I can't say when that attraction will commence, but I can say that perhaps death will release all the information and solve all the quandries that are either seemingly hopeless or, at another level, invisibly present.
I then ventured on to Krissy's where I watched her and Kristina get drunk on gin and tonic. I wrote Krissy a poem entitled Fuerte Passage Amore (revised title, of which I'm almost certain - almost - is incorrect, but probably a cross between Latin and Spanish) that I promised to write her prior to spending the moment with her. As I wrote this three-quatrain piece, she danced and sung to nineties alternative rock, such as the song "Little Black Backpack" (the artist escapes my room mate and I's attention) and "Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode and "Wait and Bleed" by Slipknot. One thing to note was her uncontrollable shaking of the legs, her wildly manic behavior - smiles of course! - her dancing that reminded me of a puppet (connection to the alcohol intake and perhaps a metaphor if looked at in a conceited light), and several wild drinking games including a form of poker in which a duration of seconds of drinking were the bets on the line. The poem came out as I expected to, for I was writing it in a special meter (of which the name escapes me as well), and therefore somewhat constricted to word choice. I was also highly distracted - remember the above actions stated about Krissy and apply them to Kristina as well - a dual force of visual distraction. But the poem did finish, and I noticed I made much alliteration and repetition with the letters "s", "p", and "w". An interesting combination, but I still have no reasoning behind it. Upon reading the poem to her, as she sat on my lap in an inebriated frenzy, she paid attention but, afterwards, claimed that she "didn't get it." Alas, I was still aroused with my own pleasure and pride that I wrote a poem about her and for her and was able to read it to her.
The same Matt I mentioned then sold me some adderall, and I then smoked some cigarettes with Krissy and Kristina, as well as Michelle and her boyfriend (Josh, is it?), and took many-a-photograph with my digital camera (which has returned its use to me). The pictures I will probably decide to not host and post due to the dramatic and exploitive nature of them, but I am assured that they will reimburse on occasion the fond memory of this evening.
In any case, the night turned out to be a wild ride into poetics as I sat in the corner of Krissy's room and wrote one or two pages in my black notebook on subjects far from those of blackness. Now I sit here, in the wee (sic) hours of the morning, later than I've been up for several weeks now, and I feel refreshed and subtle - subtle in the sense of a passive and calm feeling, where my actions are meaningful, my words pleasantly pungent, and my stance lean and casual. This weekend seems to be posing itself as a giant pasture for getting work done ahead of time. I do not have many academic priorites on Monday or Tuesday, but there still exists many projects of grand size that will be required of me by the end of the semester, and to get them done over this weekend would hold off my conscience through Thanksgiving Break, and continue through the remaining weeks that follow.
I am quite happy with the assignment I will be completing this weekend - a modular design story. I have already typed a page of notes on it, and this is startling because I am excited knowing it is my first form of pre-writing that I have ever done for aesthetic value, and it seems to have helped the thought process dearly. Startling it is, because I've always been disposed to progressive improvisation in my writing style and being quite spontaneous. But this is not the case, for a modular design is heavy in logic and is of a rational, almost mathematical aesthetic. The notes, therefore, serve as a beam of balance in which I can choose to lean my mind towards in case I run out of ideas or fall into a slump of progress.
Other items of note that I am planning on working on throughout the weekend are as follows: I must finish reading The Good Earth, and then begin to pre-write for my final project on the book, which will be an 'epic' poem of no more than one thousand words in total. This, I am sure, fails to fit the requirements of the title 'epic', but alas, I still will consider it to be one of my longest poems ever written. The poem's lines will be short, as to be running parallel to the surface simplicity of the novel, and therefore the page number will be quite long if I am not mistaken. One thousand words. Yes, that seems like quite a long poem indeed! I must also - and by 'must' I mean for complete and necesarry benefit of myself educationally - begin to work on my final Aesthetics project, which is a Power Point Presentation (on a side note - I had to read the book 'Creatures of Habit' for my Narrative in Design course and the author was Jill McCorkle. This last name sparked my eye - to notice a name with inward use of alliteration does not happen often, and is quite brilliant as I am concerned!) consisting of using the artistic knowledge I've gained through the scope of the course as a medium for representing a part of myself. I am going to incorporate a small, self-composed and self-created 'film' into it, set to the music of either Radiohead or Neutral Milk Hotel, but I must wait to do that aspect of the project until after I've downloaded video-editing software from the firewall-free Internet service back at home. I can still do other parts of the Power Point Presentation though, and with that I choose to regardless of the fact that I don't need to turn in this project until December fifth. I'd also like to finish my personal reading, which is Hunter S. Thompson's Hey Rube. Why, you ask? Why am I in such a hurry to finish this book that I've just recently begun? Well, for one, I ordered two books by Miller that will be coming soon, and seeing that I loved Tropic of Cancer, I believe I want to get to those as soon as possible. I also have a stack of personal reading that is sitting on the bookshelf to my right, and a stack of books that I have yet to order. There is so much literature, and new doorways into the literary world have been since opened upon the courses I've taken this semester.
Alas, I will be returning to Maine in several days, and this is very exciting. I plan on doing more of my work there - anything that escapes this weekend - and I plan on meeting so many people of which I have missed for so long, including but not limited to: Amy, Neil, Marcel, and Casey. There are others obviously, but these 'close friends' have become a memory that I want to renew and keep as being not-so-distant and vague and growingly fuzzy - fuzzy like the pencil writings that smudge on the crinkled base through time periods of being set aside. This is not just the people that I refer to as the benefits of return - many-a-landscape, building, and lifestyles I miss with a heart heavy and strong-holding. Both Gorham and Portland have the influence on me that continue on through my writings and I am constantly thinking of. I must not fail to mention my own home, in the heart of the rural area of Northern Gorham, and the family I have not seen in several months. I miss my mother, my sister Katherine, my brother Kevin, the family dog Birdy, and hell, I even miss the grump'd-up stepfather that he is, Roberto. Yes, I call him that - but with jest, because he is indeed as the name describes - a Spanish drunkard type who lives life care-free in the sense that he forgets the value of others' emotions, opinions, and liberated lifestyles. I can't wait to show him my own, and live in harmony knowing I have power over him and his despotically-ruling mentality.
It's very frigid here, in Rhode Island, weather-wise, but I wonder as to how cold it is in Southern Maine. From what I've heard through way of voice and impression of others, Maine is, on average, ten degrees colder than Rhode Island. That means that the weather in Maine is below freezing, if not very far below it. I can only remember the cold weather of Maine vaguely, but I do remember that although it is startling, especially in contrast (note my venture from Dallas, Texas to Portland, Maine last year) with warmer areas, Maine weather and temperature is also peaceful, passive, and subtle, and makes for great times spent looking for modes of entertainment and comfort indoors - especially at place of which I adore, like coffeeshops and warm houses with woodstoves and brilliant smiles and chapped lips.
On a final note for this entry, I must express that I have chosen to cancel my plans for going to Greece during Spring Break. To provide an explanation, I find that although I was once very excited with Greece, the more I think about it, the more I find that I would rather spend the same amount of money visiting a place I am extremely infatuated with, such as South or Central America, or Iceland, or New Zealand, or some part of Africa. Greece simply is not providing the excitement now as it was before, and considering the warm fact that my mother is my benefactor when it comes to these trips (Greece AND Japan), I want to take my mood and view towards the trips into consideration, and if it falters more than slightly, such as I feel towards Greece now, I want to make appropriate changes. Fortunately, I have been informed that the money already spent on the trip (prior to the trip's occurence) can be transferred to a different trip, or even redeemed (this particular being unconfirmed) and reimbursed. In any case, I have yet to tell my mother, but I will do so after I make the call to the official office of the concerned affairs.
I write this still being in a passive mood, and although I feel I could continue writing for many more minutes, I also feel I must retire into the night of sleep. Who knows if that will be attained on the stimulants I took two hours ago, but I am inclined to try. In the words of Melville's Bartleby, 'I prefer not to' stay awake longer. And yes, that's all that will be said.