Before I Discovered Motion and Limbs, I was a Mannequin

There are some basic goals I would like to keep in mind around my daily schedule, whatever that may end up being from day to day.

By the end of the week I want to have a bike, as I plan to being a bit of distance training this weekend. The greater Eugene area riders map their rides, so I figured I could start off with a couple 20 to 30 mile rides to see how I weathered. Depending how I preform, I would love to start riding with GEARs members on their longer rides which range anywhere from 30 to 100 miles. So in short, this is a hobby I would really like to get off the ground, metaphorically of course. My only experience in long distance, if we can even call it that, comes from a 30 mile round trip to Homer lake and back when I lived in central Illinois, which was last summer, although with an undesirable bike that applied the brake constantly on a contorted back rim. So my navigation and endurance are large question makes in the list of my capabilities. 

I need to start working out a bit too. When I live on my own apparently, I mostly consume fruits like bananas, apples, and oranges coupled with copious amounts of Bread or Matzos and peanut butter, chips and salsa, with raisins and cottage cheese on the side with seasonal organic strawberries. Although I can't fail to neglect the Spinach and cheese turnover or the wild berry bunch I had at the Oregon Country Fair and the occasional outing. So far I've only had Pegasus Pizza, where we ate during the grad school visit in April. I actually posted an ad on Craigslist to see if anyone wants to explore downtown Eugene with me, but I am as of yet, comically afraid to answer replies. I should probably make an effort to make friends. I have come across to many opportunities, but I need to shed my proposed guilt. 

For example, the first weekend I was in Eugene I went to the David Minor Theater. Aside from this theater being awesome and offering a service where you can text for food and drink (including beer mind you) while in a screening room. Of course as you may have guessed this place is small, with 2 screening rooms sitting about 50 and 15 people and they show recent movies that pretty much just stopped playing at theaters within the last few months or so with the occasional flashback or classic like Back to the Future, etc. Anyway, they have couches in front of the larger theater (I think in the small theater they have nothing but couches, love seats, and reclining chairs, they call it the 'living room') and I figured I would take a seat on the couch. Well, I showed up about 10 min before the movie started and ended up watching the DVD menu from True Grit (remake with Jeff Bridges from the Coen Brothers) about 23 times, but this girl sat down on the couch adjacent to mine and even commented on how to get the couches, you had to show up early. I could have easily segued this into the casual conversation of who we were, why we were there and if the conversation failed to arouse our intellectual curiosity we could have stopped talking. I think that is how everybody else ends a fruitless conversation. 

Of course this is not to mention the OCF (fair I mentioned earlier) where I could have walked around in my underwear high as a hippy at 4:20 or danced like maniac flailing my painted limbs, face and torso with a crazy hat that said 'Viva la Pasta.' I will definitely have to become more involved with the people that put together the fair at the events they put together during the rest of the year. 

The next thing on my mind is housing. I am so anxious to find housing. My dream single I can really begin to explore who I am. I can start with silverware, posters, a turntable, set up an area where I paint, an area where I read or whatever and no one can see what I have done to judge me. I can let people in selectively as I wish.  

I also saw how much I owe in student loans, and these are just the loans I took out, not including the loans my Dad took out, which actually are probably a little more than the sum total I owe, which is 24,000 fucking dollars. And I only make regular dollars. I know I am probably lucky to only owe that much, which coming from the University of Illinois (started in 2007 and had a fixed tuition) amounts to roughly the total cost of a year of classes and housing. I started to daydream about paying off these loans and the thought of completing payment on this debt almost sexually excited me, because that is something I am not ready to admit to.  

Wrist Bands and Well-Laid Plans

I am uncomfortable with my sexual appetite. I associate nudity with sex. I was taught, or I learned about sex before I was taught about the human body and before I saw a naked body aside from my own, which was covered up except during bathing. 

This coupled with other social issues including the sale of audiovisual sexual services and the acts themselves destroys the concept of love making. I can understand that masturbation comes from curiosity and later, if not concurrently, an individual learns of sexual pleasure and that people in fact pleasure each other sexually as well. Unfortunately during this time, society feels the need to hide nudity at the cost of destroying some sort of innocence. Naturists don't walk around with erections having sex with anything that moves. Clothes are a man made cover of something that is not man made. 

Of course this is all confusing during adolescence and the discovery of sexual pleasure and organs and during this time of uncertainty even young people are known to don clothing during this period of their lives. 

Basically I feel that I'm sexually confused. There is emphasis on taboo in society and the real focus is sexual orientation and stereotypes like genres of pornography. I don't care about my orientation, but I have a problem with these sales of artificial audiovisual pleasure. Even years of avoiding pornography has recently sent me crawling back and I have began a phone sex escapade I desperately seek to escape. I'm just further burying myself in a social context. I should be outside, fearless of my body and other people's opinions (as if anyone really cares anyway). I should be exploring myself during these times of independence and yet I sit and squander my time looking for cheap thrills and ways to avoid dealing with reality. 

Moving out to Oregon should be a great opportunity to express who I think I am and learn who I really am, but all I feel is the anxiety of inadequacy every where I go. I'm not clean enough, tough enough, smart enough, free enough, happy enough, sad enough, depressed enough, motivated, premeditated, over-medicated enough. Everywhere I go I am the short end of everything, and what I really realized yesterday, and what I really believe is that I will always feel this way living the way I do. Even if I worked out and gained lots of muscles and lost a bunch of fat I would still feel inferior. I have made no progress, and what's difficult is the ability to understand and accept that I have made no real progress. Of everything I learn about myself, I have to step back and realize what I'm really doing. I'm avoiding exploration of hobbies and skills and events just to avoid dealing with who I am, afraid of what I really might be. 

Unfortunately, it appears there is a rock bottom, or at least a breaking point where we just snap out of these ruts. The hard part is waiting, but the problem is I can't just sit here and wait. I have to take this time and appreciate living. I have to allow myself to be ripped off, take risks, be made fun of, ridiculed, abandoned, loved. If to love myself is to permit a respectable and prideful life, I have to start. 

Basically it has to start here. I have to take what I see as a social deformity as merely a difference. And if I don't like my expectations I have to change them, but the only way to change them is to become acquainted with these different outlooks I respect and expose myself to the other side. Maybe it's ironic I sit here typing this to nobody (you'll notice most of these will be emotional, so please disregard inconsistencies, I am as a human being, inconsistent), but I need to declare these things for myself. This information is on the internet for anybody to see, and some of the information here I'm afraid for people to know about. 

I went to the Oregon Country fair yesterday and I'm about to go again today out in Veneta. It was therapeutic to leave Eugene as well, since I felt like I was exploring a bit. The mentality there made me feel like I grew up in the wrong region of the United States. It's not like a topless women with hands and trees painted on her breasts or a man with a masquerade mask and a green dress is going to call me a faggot for wearing yellow pants or a Cat in the Hat hat. I think I'm a coward because I'm spineless, but it has to be worse if you're afraid of admitting you're spineless. I'm not an overly rude person, I just seem snobby because I'm so uncomfortable with myself I assume other people taking with me have some sort of hostile agenda, or will become extremely displeased at interacting with me. 

Today I'm going to wear shorts and and T-shirt. I'm sick of this long pants and sleeves charade. Who cares if my forearms are ill-developed or if my calves are fat and hairless or even that my skin may be too light? In fact, how would someone with white and pasty skin get a tan? They have to first get into the sun and deal with any criticism or observation. I've spent so much of my life trying to not be observed, but it's impossible and just breeds anxiety. No one cares that I'm fat or have blemishes, and in fact the only way I'll loose weight is if I go out and exercise where somebody might see me. Who cares if I'm listening to music or carrying a camera? I'm respectful enough would be polite if confronted. Why feel guilty if I don't even have intent to do anything to feel guilty about?

I feel stupid. 

..........................................................

White Collard Greens

A marketing moment, a sale of the past winding in the tides of a tawdry and deriding shoreline. The surmounting presence of a moment surpasses the control over the immediate future. Where is my moon?

Brain in a Box: The Wavy Davy Story (Part I)

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. 

Lithiated Lemon

Reality twists and turns to appease fears and discomforts, perhaps physical death represents the mental ability to overcome such solace. Overcome with metal lapse, Ira emptied hys glass into a container never before filled with the partially consumed substance. The overtly literal meaning of looking to the left escaped the ability of electrical impulses once ignorant of sully and overuse. The glance drained Ira's hand much as he drained the vessel. Both compartments had shattered and the contents mixed sluggishly with entire regard for the clandestine constraints of mental capacity.

"Are you going to clean that up?" Stolhm inquired.

Ira replied in terror, "Aeronautical egg putty? Oh no!"

A Well-upholstered Lady Knows Where the Bowl of Cherries Belongs

A dizzying ring around a fortuitous display of constitution sprouts from an decommissioned attempt of abeyance. As the mind replays a card game of spirits, juggling periodically copious employment of apprehension and anxiety with regards to the stakes of oscillating value, the environment speaks a common language, influenced and influencing like vessels of experience. A timid parley and languid expressions sweep across the room following the ebb of air currents and emotional jet streams. The atmosphere lies in a constant plod of a submerged, yet necessary rhythm. 

Colourless Green

A proper description captures a part of whole with arranged letters as opposed to a summation, which may grow larger than the collection of individual parts. The apparent creation of "matter" if you will arises from creative perception. The sudden growth of meaning or subtext implied by consideration.

Of all I don't know, let the truth stray the most from my grasp. I can find the properties of a carrot in a tomato. All within the third person narrative.

Cecil Paints Teal Picnics

Reality is a twine, not fundamental in its intrinsic nature, but a composition of implicit cacophony. As a tawdry prophet once proclaimed to my father of thirty years years, "That which is considered predetermined is determined beforehand." The poor quality of such deceptive information relies not only the nature of transfer, but the inferences regarding spatial arrangement.

Words thrown together like an abstract painting represent a language without proper interpretation. The bases of communication relies on careful approximations and disregards the subtleties carefully placed like subconscious cues.

Cecil enjoyed playing with his family and as he grew older and more distant, permitted himself to enjoy the external nature of other families. If not outgoing in their feelings toward Cecil, Cecil was at least an observer of a life that had once contained him. Afraid to stare, Cecil often picked some tantalizing and intellectual literature from which he could glance at parents reading to their children, pushing little boys and girls on swings at just the right moment as if to balance the force that only death trumped. The force that pushes people onward and upward beneath consciousness under the guise of success and progress.

Cecil had recently discovered books on tape and appreciated that anyone would take time out of his or her day to read to him. Money had no bearings in the world of nostalgia. Cecil drew a potted plant and had placed the illustration aside his bed. Every morning the clatter of the blinds would relentlessly focus sound onto his sensitive ear drums reminding him of the painful delay between one dream and the next.

I write as if there is anything to say. Let the record show scratches and dips in the warping reality of information capture. Let the next listener believe the original contained only these imperfections, and not those that live among the content.

Still Life in Motion

"Warning, spoiler alert!"
-John Timmins (Any time he described "how his day was.")

http://www.mklprc.com/Mormon_masturbation.html

There are words we should never use. Are we simply a cycle of sleep in some being and death another [cycle] or the awakening of an alien that yields to a consciousness beyond the strange creatures?

"I, for one, am glad the answer is an unequivocal 'yes'."
-Ethan Rhine in his book entitled What is the Answer?


Who knew that the fact that stupid ideas are interesting implies that interesting ideas are stupid?


All I know is that I can't infer without implications, which is quite interesting.

What is misfortune but an out of body experience where we connect with ourselves?

Let's cling to what we don't have and what we documented to remember who we didn't confess to, who we didn't admit to. We'll cling to what we think we have in lieu of what we were letting go of. There was no other time I was afraid to die.

Niripsa

An older sugar darling morning to you. I'm just trying to be naughty. 


"So it's been a few years and so what if sexual maturity occurred in those years. What was had in any interval was had regardless."
Fillmore Stroud on the set of "Being Sixteen"


I sat on the counter in my robe and heard the clock ticking in the next room. The phone rang and I walked into the bedroom. I listened to this tone three times before answering. I brushed my teeth and called Yvonne back to discuss her affairs. The babysitter could not watch the kids tonight and Yvonne would drop them off before 7:30 pm. I stood up and walked through the kitchen and dining room before exiting the house and rifling through a box of letters and bills and postcards. 


The car was rusty and loud and the leaves on the ground lie unaffected by the vehicles' passing. The passengers had said few words which equated with a complete thought or two. 


The night was a black light. The events were white t-shirts, felt posters, and colourless dreams. To say the ending was dressed and ready to go out would be overshadowing the shared continuum between the lovers and the friends. The sky was a goodbye as backs were laid on and stars were rain drops of revelation shining on the dark. They never want to do this again.


Is there reason to capture in different light or possible with diminished mental capacity?

"Just feel a different way." Rob said.
"Okay." Bobby replied.
"Do you feel better?" Rob asked.
"Yeah I feel different, but I don't know what it's like."
"What do you mean?"
"Ya know, like going to the bathroom, something to do when my tummy feels funny."
"Let me try."
"Do you feel different?"
"I feel...like I..."