Edit: Let's call this Part I: An Introduction to Intent and Circumstance through a brief description of a few weeks in the Afterlife
Edit Two: Grammar, Clarity and Flow of Third Paragraph, Acknowledgement of Choppiness from Paragraph to Paragraph
In contemplating termination of my previous years of consciousness, I curiously explored the second-person knowledge of my day to day activities of my peers and colleagues. Even living with some immediate family my encrypted calls for attention stem from an inwardly pointing inquisitive nature and often lie outside the perception range of the blood-relative housemates making the effect implicit. Wild Tom Waits impersonations, showers submerged in Julianna Barwick or a newfounded William Basinski, reminiscent attempts to cover nostalgic Bright Eyes songs, hours buried in reddit articles or conversations with myself all describe recent realizations.
It's been about 5 minutes over a week since I moved to Eugene, Oregon and I want to take my time usually spent wallowing in social anxiety to reflect over the last few weeks in Illinois, and extend gently into the last four years. I used to blag (superposed blog+blah) in high school, but until tonight the motivation escaped me. My motivation became diluted with this inflamed sense of self-importance believing I really had something amazing to say, but now, as then, I really just wanted to talk about me. The truth is (after every sentence you may parenthetically add, "I assume.") after a while I began to generalize, and I failed to understand the entanglements between my motivation (a fuel) and the generalization (the motion generated from fuel combustion). After a while I strived to travel without fuel, which only lead to frustration, failure, and the employment of activities used to numb rather than stimulate the brain. In other words, I wanted to blind myself from the fact I wasn't traveling. Years were filled with tricks and shortcuts to make me throw up important words, but that's just like covering up body odor with more deodorant instead of showering.
My last few weeks in Villa Park were spent mostly inside. I love the idea of my presence having no effect on human lives, of not existing to other human beings. If I had my way, my movements would fail to perturb air streams and I would need no external sustenance. My perception would no longer necessitate the intake of molecules nor the absorption of photons, and physical contact with my body would violate Newton's action-reaction law. The physical reality prohibits any human from actually achieving ideal isolation, but of course at the same time, nobody could handle such isolation. I probably crave attention to an extent that lies within the statistical variance of the mean intensity of such a desire. The apparent dissonance here arises from the lacking standard of human behavior. Humans keep each other grounded simply because when we interact, we behave more like each other. Either there is an instinctive want to belong, or humans fear ridicule (majority of my motivation to remain undiscovered). Let's say one person first learned to walk on his or her hands and then sees everybody walking on feet. This person may try walking on feet and realize the ease in which one may walk.
In my dawdling the Reddit seed planted however long ago blossomed and I started an account. I had just created a Grooveshark account during my last few weeks in Urbana and so used the same username that rose from a recent exploration involving MF Doom, which, in turn, came about from a history with a friend who obtained their discography and the installing of a Linux platform on my computer. The articles of reddit range from the quick laugh (like /r/Pics) to the insightful jest of a fundamental question (/r/AskReddit) or a huge IAmA post containing a whirlwind of questions and fascinating experiences.
The branching possibilities here are now overwhelming. I don't really want to go into a list of Reddit articles I read, but have I really said enough to move on? Sure.
There were days I didn't escape the pull of Reddit, but I also found myself once again trying to cover Bright Eyes songs. I was a bit more successful this time using my brothers headset, my Dad's Gibson acoustic guitar, and a new found appreciation of free audio processing software. I recorded stuff with audacity, layered vocals, and even experimented with a free 10 day trial of auto tuning software. I ended up with finished, although not too polished versions of "I've Been Eating (for You)" and "Tereza and Tomas." "Make War," "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will." and "Laura Laruent" among a few others were less successful along with a few original chord progressions spiced with experimental vocals including the aforementioned Tom Waits impression.
Along with this came a couple of June blag posts where I tried to reconnect with my yearning to tell stories and put in meaningful, cryptic messages hidden in anagrams or their use. I began to read a bit, although this habit died quickly and was only revived to a comatose state while I finished "The Swimmer" through "The Open Boat" in the Seagull Reader I failed to return to Eric (former roommate). Still I was happy to be reading at all, even if a majority of what I read were Reddit articles.
While alone in the house I liked to sing in the shower and put in a lot of effort, taking in all the air I could and using it to hit notes, sound full and booming. Sometimes I would try to alter my voice and try to eradicate the characteristic overtones that associate with the unique system of my vocal chords and surroundings. I would pretend to be crazy and preform dynamic chants that evolved over time from what I was saying to what else I could be saying that sounded nearly the same sometimes truncating a vowel or even replacing words with synonyms (although a bit more cerebral than I wanted to be during a chant).
I finished up Oz during the first week or so and completed the entire Mr. Show series along with modern stand up performances by Janeane Garofalo and David Cross, which left me craving some older material of the two. A Nick Swardson performance make me laugh, but I felt ashamed relating to drug humor and chuckling at sex, alcohol, and video game related stories. It was a performance I felt aimed at my age demographic, of which I'm ashamed of I suppose.
Towards the end I began to look for new music and having completed LA Noire in a few days, I rekindled my affair with the music of the early-mid twentieth century including Nina Simone, the Andrews Sisters, and a couple others I can't remember. I don't have the music with me anyhow.
I suppose this is a decent stopping point. I've gotten a few things out in the air. I've kept things reasonably detailed, but I'm writing this as if someone will read it. I remember someone asking in a movie, or some medium, their friend why he or she wrote their diary like someone was going to read it. If a diary is a personal description of innermost thoughts and feelings why should someone hold back? I agree, but anything documented, paper, orally, digitally, etc. creates a trail. Whether stumbled upon or deliberately sought out, there is a chance the material may be uncovered, hence diaries written and censored for a general audience. In my case, I'll be very forward and actually explicitly state, in fact, I intend people to read this some day.
I write this with a target audience in mind including people that know who I am, have vague ideas of my notions, convictions, and intentions, family immediate and unknown to me, friends I loved, people I were acquainted with, etc. Basically anyone that may have a slight interest in who I was and what I had done during my life is the target audience. I'm being an egoist and I want to take this time I'm alive to express my essence and declare information, motivations, etc.
I can't promise my style will improve, become less juvenile, but with performance will come discovery and with discovery, changes and with changes, maybe some improvements to what ever deficiencies exist. My thoughts are typically organized in reverse chronological order and with decreasing importance prioritized by extent of self-discovery. The ninth letter of the alphabet called me up and apologetically explained the death threat written in blood left on the inside of my pants suit, so we're back on speaking terms.
Edit Two: Grammar, Clarity and Flow of Third Paragraph, Acknowledgement of Choppiness from Paragraph to Paragraph
In contemplating termination of my previous years of consciousness, I curiously explored the second-person knowledge of my day to day activities of my peers and colleagues. Even living with some immediate family my encrypted calls for attention stem from an inwardly pointing inquisitive nature and often lie outside the perception range of the blood-relative housemates making the effect implicit. Wild Tom Waits impersonations, showers submerged in Julianna Barwick or a newfounded William Basinski, reminiscent attempts to cover nostalgic Bright Eyes songs, hours buried in reddit articles or conversations with myself all describe recent realizations.
It's been about 5 minutes over a week since I moved to Eugene, Oregon and I want to take my time usually spent wallowing in social anxiety to reflect over the last few weeks in Illinois, and extend gently into the last four years. I used to blag (superposed blog+blah) in high school, but until tonight the motivation escaped me. My motivation became diluted with this inflamed sense of self-importance believing I really had something amazing to say, but now, as then, I really just wanted to talk about me. The truth is (after every sentence you may parenthetically add, "I assume.") after a while I began to generalize, and I failed to understand the entanglements between my motivation (a fuel) and the generalization (the motion generated from fuel combustion). After a while I strived to travel without fuel, which only lead to frustration, failure, and the employment of activities used to numb rather than stimulate the brain. In other words, I wanted to blind myself from the fact I wasn't traveling. Years were filled with tricks and shortcuts to make me throw up important words, but that's just like covering up body odor with more deodorant instead of showering.
My last few weeks in Villa Park were spent mostly inside. I love the idea of my presence having no effect on human lives, of not existing to other human beings. If I had my way, my movements would fail to perturb air streams and I would need no external sustenance. My perception would no longer necessitate the intake of molecules nor the absorption of photons, and physical contact with my body would violate Newton's action-reaction law. The physical reality prohibits any human from actually achieving ideal isolation, but of course at the same time, nobody could handle such isolation. I probably crave attention to an extent that lies within the statistical variance of the mean intensity of such a desire. The apparent dissonance here arises from the lacking standard of human behavior. Humans keep each other grounded simply because when we interact, we behave more like each other. Either there is an instinctive want to belong, or humans fear ridicule (majority of my motivation to remain undiscovered). Let's say one person first learned to walk on his or her hands and then sees everybody walking on feet. This person may try walking on feet and realize the ease in which one may walk.
In my dawdling the Reddit seed planted however long ago blossomed and I started an account. I had just created a Grooveshark account during my last few weeks in Urbana and so used the same username that rose from a recent exploration involving MF Doom, which, in turn, came about from a history with a friend who obtained their discography and the installing of a Linux platform on my computer. The articles of reddit range from the quick laugh (like /r/Pics) to the insightful jest of a fundamental question (/r/AskReddit) or a huge IAmA post containing a whirlwind of questions and fascinating experiences.
The branching possibilities here are now overwhelming. I don't really want to go into a list of Reddit articles I read, but have I really said enough to move on? Sure.
There were days I didn't escape the pull of Reddit, but I also found myself once again trying to cover Bright Eyes songs. I was a bit more successful this time using my brothers headset, my Dad's Gibson acoustic guitar, and a new found appreciation of free audio processing software. I recorded stuff with audacity, layered vocals, and even experimented with a free 10 day trial of auto tuning software. I ended up with finished, although not too polished versions of "I've Been Eating (for You)" and "Tereza and Tomas." "Make War," "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will." and "Laura Laruent" among a few others were less successful along with a few original chord progressions spiced with experimental vocals including the aforementioned Tom Waits impression.
Along with this came a couple of June blag posts where I tried to reconnect with my yearning to tell stories and put in meaningful, cryptic messages hidden in anagrams or their use. I began to read a bit, although this habit died quickly and was only revived to a comatose state while I finished "The Swimmer" through "The Open Boat" in the Seagull Reader I failed to return to Eric (former roommate). Still I was happy to be reading at all, even if a majority of what I read were Reddit articles.
While alone in the house I liked to sing in the shower and put in a lot of effort, taking in all the air I could and using it to hit notes, sound full and booming. Sometimes I would try to alter my voice and try to eradicate the characteristic overtones that associate with the unique system of my vocal chords and surroundings. I would pretend to be crazy and preform dynamic chants that evolved over time from what I was saying to what else I could be saying that sounded nearly the same sometimes truncating a vowel or even replacing words with synonyms (although a bit more cerebral than I wanted to be during a chant).
I finished up Oz during the first week or so and completed the entire Mr. Show series along with modern stand up performances by Janeane Garofalo and David Cross, which left me craving some older material of the two. A Nick Swardson performance make me laugh, but I felt ashamed relating to drug humor and chuckling at sex, alcohol, and video game related stories. It was a performance I felt aimed at my age demographic, of which I'm ashamed of I suppose.
Towards the end I began to look for new music and having completed LA Noire in a few days, I rekindled my affair with the music of the early-mid twentieth century including Nina Simone, the Andrews Sisters, and a couple others I can't remember. I don't have the music with me anyhow.
I suppose this is a decent stopping point. I've gotten a few things out in the air. I've kept things reasonably detailed, but I'm writing this as if someone will read it. I remember someone asking in a movie, or some medium, their friend why he or she wrote their diary like someone was going to read it. If a diary is a personal description of innermost thoughts and feelings why should someone hold back? I agree, but anything documented, paper, orally, digitally, etc. creates a trail. Whether stumbled upon or deliberately sought out, there is a chance the material may be uncovered, hence diaries written and censored for a general audience. In my case, I'll be very forward and actually explicitly state, in fact, I intend people to read this some day.
I write this with a target audience in mind including people that know who I am, have vague ideas of my notions, convictions, and intentions, family immediate and unknown to me, friends I loved, people I were acquainted with, etc. Basically anyone that may have a slight interest in who I was and what I had done during my life is the target audience. I'm being an egoist and I want to take this time I'm alive to express my essence and declare information, motivations, etc.
I can't promise my style will improve, become less juvenile, but with performance will come discovery and with discovery, changes and with changes, maybe some improvements to what ever deficiencies exist. My thoughts are typically organized in reverse chronological order and with decreasing importance prioritized by extent of self-discovery. The ninth letter of the alphabet called me up and apologetically explained the death threat written in blood left on the inside of my pants suit, so we're back on speaking terms.
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