within

The problem is not environment. It is not the situation; it is me. But I can't distinguish between what is inherent and what can be unlearned. I find my dolor not replaced with courage but with apathy, a hostile though oddly motivating apathy. I once again continue not because I want to, but because I know not what else to do. Perhaps the faster I work, the quicker time will have seem to pass and things may once again become livable. What an outlook!

This mentality has obviously subverted my emotional capacities, which are too volatile to be relied on anyway. I now carry with me a numbness which takes in so little. Normally I feel (and not think) everything, but living my routine this other way around is more like going through the motions, collecting data and not really absorbing anything into my core. I don't know how anyone could function like this - everything is so dry. As dangerously unstable as my extremes are, they are my habit and this new sedated state feels equally unbearable, wherein I am just as upset as before except that instead of succumbing to it in spurts, it's now washed faintly over me, ever constant and inescapable. Constant. Inescapable. Constant.

flop

push me over.

i'm a cliche

"with my tender head / with my easy heart" [loop]

those were the days

pththththththththth

This introspection is becoming increasingly impotent.

observation [in varying tangents]

If I'm such a misanthrope, then why do I surround myself with the words and images of other people? Wouldn't it be more characteristic to sequester myself in some abandoned cabin in the woods, completely alone with my own thoughts? But I have no desire to do that, nor any inclination to rid myself completely of human interaction. So instead I choose to sequester myself with books and films, interacting with others without really having to, well, interact. Such passive efforts satisfy my desires to connect with people more often than the attempts I make in my actual life. But occasionally I question why I develop affinities for characters in films so easily but have such difficulty finding people I can tolerate in life.

I know part of it is that I've surrounded myself with professionals who care so much about putting up boasting fronts and fixate on propriety rather than naturalness. Like at work, I find it so much easier to joke around with the technicians, who lack the falseness of character that my fellow engineers carry. There's a looming and crippling sadness I feel towards them, maybe because I'm afraid that if I stick around too long I'll end up just the same. I was teamed up with one co-worker for awhile and to make the situation more bearable I'd make these cliche (safe) jokes which I found so dull and really disliked myself for even sputtering out, but would make him laugh, sometimes to the point where he'd even pause after laughing for awhile and then start to chuckle again to himself thinking about it; I'd just sit there getting more depressed because 1) in the ease of his laughter I felt his desire to be entertained by life sincerely unsatisfied, and 2) the censorship of my true sense humor, which would appall more so than it would ever amuse, was a falseness of character in the making.

I know it's the company I surround myself with that makes people as a whole seem so unbearable. But even amid people with similar interests I still sense the same falseness and fronts, except in these cases it's more that they're trying to look cool, name dropping and flaunting pop personalities than just being for being's sake. I wonder how false my own persona comes across, despite my obvious criticalness of such.

I think part of the problem is that all I ever seem to meet are extroverts, as I'm too shy myself to ever approach anyone and as (the friends I have and) the people I seem to connect best with are those that prefer sitting at home or amongst pre-established groups. Still, instead of making any effort to interact outside of the occasional forced situations, I prefer such one-way forms of communication as watching films. I don't want to make it sound like I'm fooling myself too much, thinking that other people are the problem and not myself. The choice is quite conscious and innate.

So where is this perfect solitude that I so crave? From watching films to reading books, even preferring to write in a cafe, as I am now, instead of being inside my own empty apartment, they all demonstrate the same contradiction: they are all passive forms of interaction, expressing my propensity for observation over confrontation. In this regard, film suits me best because I can absorb people and situations openly without any expectation to give back to the source; I can consume endlessly without pressure to share my observations or give anything of myself in exchange. In other words, it's safe: there's no risk of trust and minimal vulnerability. My curiosity with people in real life is the same: I enjoy watching how they act and listening to what they say, with me always trying to influence the situations themselves as little as possible. I like learning about people, dissecting every observation into infinitely little pieces, gaining new and unique perspectives on life and learning all sorts of new and wondrous things about myself. I am just as interested in why people choose a particular conversation topic over others as I am in the topics themselves, but if I ask questions or talk too much myself then that steers the conversation and I lose such observations. Of course these slightly more interactive scenarios leave me more vulnerable, but trust is minimized. Perhaps this attitude towards life spawns from my underlying desire to not exist, ghostly almost.

My interests have always been in dissecting the problem, never in determining a solution. Perhaps my failing to see the problem in this way of living is the problem itself. Perhaps not.

I even treat my more personal relationships with other people in a similar fashion, only sharing what's asked of me and rarely anything more. I let people be who they are, indifferent to how the relationship will affect me, so long as my curiosity is entertained. Sometimes this method yields dangerous consequences as it offers me the passive opportunity to exploit my more self-deprecating urges. Maybe I succumb to such circumstances in the hopes that surviving them will toughen me, though I've yet to see that as the outcome. Most obviously this can be seen in my relationship with my father though lately my curiosity in this regard has wained. Well perhaps it hasn't wained so much as I've just finally cracked. Either way, I have other sources. Recently I started communicating again with two people who mistreated me to varying degrees years and years ago. Just as before, I seem to be playing myself right into their hands just to see how far they'll go. I do this all the time and can't seem to resist my own wonderment. I cling to films and books for interaction because I know that otherwise I am drawn to such social self-destruction.

Passive interests, passive life, I can't seem to wake myself up.

shhh

This lack of need offers freedom; I hesitate.

shove it

When I did my weekly call this weekend, my father made sure to remind me in a belittling lecture that his wife's birthday was approaching. I really think I loathe all holidays because of him. Christmas has been a dreaded and unspeakable event ever since my grandmother died when I was sixteen (she had always hosted (and had also forbidden my father to remarry until after she died) and after that my father's wife took over). Father's Day has gotten exponentially worse ever since my grandfather passed away about three years ago (again, no more going to visit him in the assisted living home meant we were expected to attend my father's wife's hosting of all her extended family), culminating last year with my sister and I having our invitations revoked and then being verbally beaten for four months straight. And now most recently, the wife's birthday is becoming increasingly feared!

Actually I was only expected to call her but it's the attitude my father gives me that makes it such a demeaning and dreaded chore, one in fact that I just plain didn't do because I was so irritable yesterday. Well, I only seemed to remember the chore when I was unavailable to do it, putting it off further and further until it was too late. But then my father called my cell phone around noon today, which struck me as odd since he never calls in the midday. Like always, I didn't answer, but checked the voicemail afterwards only to hear that the purpose of his call was solely to know if I had called his wife or not, since she had not mentioned anything. Is it really driving him that crazy, like this looming cloud ready to pour down on him (and then subsequently me) at any minute? She's all niceness to my face but then my father unwittingly paints her as this gossipy nag that gets all bent out when people botch on social etiquette. Still in a grump mood, I didn't bother calling him back, nor answering the phone when he called again later in the evening. I think I've finally had enough.

I don't mind the niceties to a point because like it or not, we're stuck with each other. But I really think I'm through with my father's heavy-handed meddling. I plan on politely telling him off if he mentions it whenever we do speak next. And by so, I mean I just want him to stay out of it. (Actually the last time we spoke, I was giving him some attitude on two things he brought up. I don't think I've ever done before. Perhaps my crap mood of late will yield something fruitful after all!)

In my defense I did send her a card, which probably arrived a day late. I don't think I call any of my friends on their birthdays, nor do I expect/want them to do so for me. Of course such things aren't taken into account, as etiquette expects me to treat others with formality and not as how I want to be treaded.


(Yes, I had more important things I wanted to write about, but I'm too tired right now to think with the depth I wanted to put into them.)

Projections (continued)

Type 2. I am exhausted from acting out all these false personas! I have been trying to amalgamate them into a single, true self but the process has been slow-going. Perhaps if I started over completely it would be easier because I'm realizing more and more how arduous it is going to be to open up to my family and existing friends. They will be more judgmental of the changes in my persona not because they are highly critical people but because of the contradiction it will create: I am not battling them directly, but rather the pre-established projections I've given them. Many of those personas were developed out of laziness and an avoidance of confrontation.

My trouble with interaction is only partially fear-driven, as much of the difficulty comes in actually releasing my own thoughts from my own mind. There is this sort of autistic dilemma in which I 1) don't realize that I'm not speaking what I'm thinking, or 2) seem unable to open my mouth and say what I'm thinking even though I want to. It's an odd feeling that even awkward silence seems unable to loosen. And I really don't think it has all that much to do with worry of how people will react. The hindrance feels more physical. I'm also a compulsive liar, that is true, but I tend to lie about the most trivial and unnecessary things. My responses are flinches and sometimes I can barely believe what I'm saying even as the cliches are spewing out, lazily. I need to learn how to pause before responding to people in the hope that I can stop such horridly automated retorts. As for my existing relationships, I guess I will just meld pieces in slowly. For some, the difference may not even be discernible. But in all cases, they will make all the difference to me.

Another curious point is how out of character would all this seem to people who know me? By accident of chance, I recently shared my writing with a someone who I've felt myself to be honest with, but he seemed quite surprised by the thoughts I presented here. And by the same token, I never anticipated his reaction. I think much of my falsities come from not even realizing the images I'm giving off. But then that part of it isn't as much of my current concern.

no cure

Only in articulating her symptoms does she find a breath's worth of relief.

Projections

Type 1. I am consumed in frustrated self-hate lately and I have been desperately trying to discover its source in the hopes of healing it before it’s too late. This search has led to a haunting, though by no means surprising, discovery. Contrary to what I assumed, the trigger, known, did not cause a ripple effect or awake some underlying, pre-existing condition, but instead it is the trigger itself still bearing its full-weight and control upon my esteem that makes this state so inescapable. I realize now how completely powerless I am in the determination of my own worth, how incapable I am of casting isolated self-judgment. It’s almost ironic in way, that as self-obsessed as I am, I am only capable of seeing myself through other people’s eyes and never my own. (Is this my sorry excuse for interaction?) I see now how this is the source of my instability and moodiness; even my most inner emotions are 100% reactionary. But although they are reactions they are by no means dulled by their own passivity. In fact the only emotion I seem to wield myself is a seething suspicion of everything, heightening any influence into a potentially destructive force. I take nothing at face value, and probe every word and look with skepticism and disdain. But it’s not a matter of being liked or disliked, but rather reading beneath those banalities. I am not looking for their opinion of me, but rather their perception of me. And I take that perception and judge it not by their standards but by my own, and quite harshly. Is this why I need people, because I cannot gauge myself without them? I require a critical eye but rarely find anyone who takes but a momentary notice. Why can't I walk away from those who cast such callous predilections? Would no one else take me in? There is an honesty in cruelty that I have never found in kindness, and it is that honesty, however fleeting, that I find solace in: I'd rather be disliked than fooled (i.e., it's a defense mechanism). I don’t know if this is something I can overcome or if it’s something I need to learn to accept and work around. In any case, the danger it presents is formidable.

[If only I could transform all these realizations into something less blunt and more creative, or even artistic. But forcing them out is a start and more of an awakening of personal thought than I’ve had in a long time. My mind only seems to awaken when suffering, lazily, only putting forth the effort when at its end.]

readjustment, ever listing

My aloofness is lethargic. I keep trying to combat it, but my flailing attempts have been desperate and haphazard, and hence only obtaining transient success. So now the regimentation beings! (Of course there's no point in going through the motions for quota's sake, but I will do my best to adhere with probity.)

Reading. Finish reading Ulysses, then a couple books on film related topics/people (including Bergman's autobiography, maybe a Leigh book, and then one of a couple broader film books), then on to Proust. If I survive that, then more film books. (I'm compiling lists of them.)

Film. One film every other day. Using one slot of my Netflix rentals, I'll pick one director at a time and watch five or so his/her films in a row, then move on to another director in the same manner and so on. (Current director being Bergman, followed by Fassbinder, Ozu, Leigh, Kurosawa, Rivette, Rohmer, Akerman.) Second slot could be theme related (e.g., certain period in time, documentaries, certain type of humor, etc.). Third slot will be mood-based.

Blog. ONE FILM RELATED BLOG PER WEEK! I say this all the time but never follow through, but this time I'm serious. Also I need to start working my way though the vast number of topics I have in a saved list. Writing about any one of them would be more fruitful for my brain than what I usually spend my time here doing.

Miscellaneous. Less time wasted on the internet by adhering to the look-up lists I create. Social experimentation - destruction of projected persona. Learn to speak.


Why do I write these out? Because thinking about them gets me motivated, and I actually do look back at them and try to follow through with what I say.

fundamental love

Succinctly...

I haven't the ego to sustain solitude. And never will.

note

I cannot speak here at length in honesty. I have once again started a private journal and there I am unleashing freely. Anything put here will be elusive, otherwise formal.

My mind descends sour stairs but its depths have been dulled by delusions. I am frustrated and trying to write my way out of it, but not here. I don't know why I bother to say so. Perhaps only to justify my worry that my efforts here will be meek and secondary, but then again, writing more in one form might just beget writing in all other forms. I find myself typing without saying anything, trying to remember what it is to trust myself enough to let the text flow freely. My hands are beginning to remember the motions but my brain still has much to catch up on.

I can feel my own mental apprehension and it is nauseating.

a lurch

Distractions, all are but distractions!

Passions forcefully diverted for safekeeping, my desperate leeches. I deny them their most desired cravings. A great feat! A stoic success! But abstinence is impossible. They hunger, my passions. Clinging, clinging. Sucking, clinging. Vile and starved. Oozing, my humiliation requires justification - subconscious urges, I cannot overcome. Protective, I am. Attempted control, diversion my plan. They are safe here in texts. They are safe here on screens. Diverted! They are safe here sucking the dead and distant. I am safe. I am fooled. How they thirst; I grow faint and dizzy. I have starved myself; I have been deceived. They are patient and cunning. They slither, lasciviously, for sources more voluptuous, for blood thick with malice. I am weak. I am dizzy. My fingers tremble in disgust and sudden frailty; I cannot peel them off their host, together in silent embrace. Too late! Their once sodden bodies, excited, turn a bile hue, baked in their indulgence. Dried up, cracked, and crusted, too late, I am hollowed! And the host, most snidely, remains unaffected. I am weak.

what they neglect

But in the temptation of any possible new life, there is the defeating knowledge that I'd still be trapped inside myself. The scenery would change, but no escape would be made.

no more masks

Reasoning impedes. Instincts take over. Flawed but resilient. The possibility: aspired, unfettered freedom.

A new form of indifference.

the morose skeptic

I can't buy into anything, not even the things/people/whatever that I want to.

tasks

In an attempt to force myself to write more, I'm going to buy a separate and new notebook and start free writing with a pen, forcing myself to write a page a day even if its complete drivel. Right now I blog randomly and keep a small notebook for thoughts but neither are used as much as they should be. I suddenly feel a desire to be more versatile in my writing, trying out new styles and forms and giving myself new and specific writing tasks. These work efforts definitely wouldn't be worth posting, nor do I want to clutter my random thought journal with them. I have forgotten how to write by hand, to be restricted by the absoluteness of paper and unable to jump around fixing and moving things as I please. I feel that practice under such restrictions will help me maintain concentration and linearize my thought process because currently I am hopelessly scattered.

I am finally feeling motivated again and I need to keep coming up with different tasks to maintain it (heh, which knowing me, might not be very long). I also think I need to readjust my goals as many unexpected things have happened and are still happening. For better or for worse, by mid-year I shall know much better than I have in years where I stand in life.

( )

I have realized that I am not the least bit inquisitive (as I once thought). I am observant, passive.

gender acceptance

About a week ago I read an interview between Tarkovsky and a female journalist that has been troubling me ever since. In it Tarkovsky expresses what my initial defensive instincts told me was a chauvinistic, dated form of sexism, but at the same time I couldn't help in part feeling some truth to it on a more personal and vulnerable level. He and the interviewer argued about his belief that the main purpose and inherent nature of women is self-sacrifice and that "they only find their dignity in a male-female relationship in total devotion to the man." He continued on about the unnaturalness of an independent, solitary woman and the lack of satisfaction she will feel trying to live as men do.

The arguments struck a chord with me as I have been struggling to break free into my own independence, finally finding the courage to reject the comfort of the relationship I was in and make my own way. Surprisingly, I have not had a single regretful thought about doing so. On the contrary, the battle has been in defending and justifying my actions to my peers, in which I've only had partial success.

I have always related better to predominantly male perspectives in life and my interests and passions have always had more male than female followers. In my youth I often felt misogynistic because I was constantly struggling to just be, but was unable to cater to gender expectations. One of my girl friends, who likes to typify people, especially into their prospective male and female roles, has a way of unintentionally making me feel freakish, like a male mind walking around with female genitalia. Numerous times in conversation she'll begin a sentence with "all women" but then realizing her audience, she'll stutter and change her phasing to "most women" instead. But her generalizations rarely reflect the true inner differences between genders, but instead precipitate themselves in a more materialistic form. As so, I'm considered the oddball exception because I don't like shopping or dressing up, because I've never owned more than ten pairs of shoes, because I refuse to be swooned, wined, or dined in or by cliches, etc., etc.

But something I've noticed in her, and other women, is a self-subjugation to cliche, materialistic gender definitions (i.e., chick-flicks, make-up, first dates) while ostentatiously rejecting their more sacrificial roles (i.e., housewives, soccer moms, nurturers) out of fear of being pigeonholed into second-class citizen stereotypes. I listen to her tell me about how much she wants both a family and career, and how opposed she is to becoming just a housewife, with the sole subservient job of taking care of her husband and children, but at the same time she's one of the most maternal and selfless people I have know, to the point of admirability in my opinion. So why does she shun this, especially with the illusions of a "career"? She's a passionate reader and before she was in her relationship, told me multiple times how much she'd love to write. But her "career" isn't as a writer, which would be a step towards independence, but as an engineer, working in the mostly male, highly competitive world of selling and manufacturing large scale technology. This sort of career doesn't give her anymore independence, but on the contrary just makes her more subservient. She struggles to amalgamate her (very girly) personality into such an environment, so she's reading a book written by a woman, which gives pointers, helping to teach women how to survive in the male-dominated business world. I read the back of the book and was repulsed by how forced it sounded and how it seemed unnatural (for both sexes actually). Tarkovsky is quite right in this regard, that in trying for equality she's denying her true self.

So how do I see myself fitting into all of this? I have always thought of myself as independent and a loner, but at the same time, always aspiring for contact and connection. I do not see my passions as those of a woman trying to prove herself in a male world, but as whole-heartedly my own interests trying to find a place to root themselves. But I am struggling with my newfound solidarity and it is this confused apprehension that makes me vulnerable to the rigidness of Tarkovsky's views on women. But after much thought, I have come to some realizations...

I cannot live without feeling needed. A life lived in complete solitude in and of itself would mean nothing to me. This is my nature; I have to accept it. I was able to leave the relationship I was in because I suddenly felt that I was needed elsewhere. But now that that outreach is lost too, a void has swept over me and I now feel vacant and purposeless. I can absorb myself as much in my writing, reading, or film studying as I want, but in the end they will never be enough. But as I said before, I have no regret about leaving the relationship I was in, because that too would never have been enough, as increasingly, his need for me felt as impersonal as box of chocolate and flowers would. Impersonal in the sense that his unconditional acceptance of me gave me no challenge, no desire to be anything more than what little I felt I was. I remember offering him the link to my blog, and him shrugging it off saying it didn't interest him, that he "didn't like to read that kind of stuff." As so, my desire to feel needed is not a mere craving of company but a desire to have worth and purpose. There, I could have been anyone and so my contributions to the relationship were minimal; since so little was asked of me, I got lazy and did nothing.

However I hope my desire to have worth is not merely limited to being in a relationship. I feel that I could find just as much dignity in a family or friendship bond, though lately I feel a lacking in those regards as well.

The last time I returned home to my family, I was laying in bed having just woken up, and I could hear my family all together in the nearby kitchen. I laid there for some time listening to their banter and suddenly felt that I wasn't in my bed at all or even in the house, but rather like a ghostly presence I was spying on the daily routine which goes on when I'm not there. I know both my mother and sister have asked with hope, if I would move back to Chicago now that I broke up with my boyfriend, but at that moment, I was suddenly struck sad as I realized how I wasn't needed at home either. My sister's boyfriend moved in right before I moved out nine years ago and quickly assumed my role in the family as the moderator and pacifier between my mother and sister. My company is enjoyed there (heh, sometimes) but not needed.

And as for my friends, as much as I may care about them or they about me, I feel no two-way deep affinities or can't-live-without connections. There are bonds and there are affections but they have always felt fragmented and slightly awkward.

But do my needs have to be so attached to humans? I want to answer no, but I'm not sure if that's being completely honest. I often attribute my struggles to communicate not as a desire to share but more as a desire to learn how to express myself, to create. Could these creations be enough in and of themselves? I'm not sure yet. The emptiness I've felt these past weeks from these realizations has led me to thoroughly contemplate the point in continuing my existence. There would be no better time than now to end it; no life would significantly be affected by my departure; there would be a pause but soon they would resume in exactly the same manner as they do now. But yet I stall and with surprise find myself once again picking up books, watching films, learning, and desiring to express myself. My life is empty now, no one can convince me otherwise, but something is still puzzling me, something unsettled.

I feel that so easily I could devote myself to one person or one task, wholly, and not regret it, and that I have absolutely not aspiration or need to prove my worth to the world. This is very much in line with what Tarkovsky said was the difference between the genders (males have something to prove, women need someone to nurture). All I'm saying is that my role as a nurturer is not tied to a desperate hunt for marriage, but rather more broadly and yet fastidiously, that I refuse to settle and that any love I have for anything or anyone has to be whole and absolute. In other words, I'm an idealist, the kind of idealism that dooms me to be miserable eternally and perceived as insatiable and sometimes cruel.

an attempt at compassion

"He suffers, more generally, because of his character, unadjusted for modern life. He cannot be happy in the face of the misery of the world. He takes on this collective misery, and wants to live out of step with the world. His problem is strongly related to compassion. His entire suffering stems from there: he cannot incarnate completely this feeling of compassion. He wants to suffer along with the rest of mankind, but he doesn't totally succeed at it."

<<<<<<

I am throwing away my former selves, not to start anew, but to erase the evidence of my existence.

self-maintenance

I have no energy!!! My sulking has ceased for the most part, but as my interests and passions once again begin to rejuvenate, I still find myself physically dormant, trapped and frustrated in a nearly autistic state of inexpressible mental excitement. I sit here, numerous topics in mind, multiple tabs open and waiting, but unable to phrase them discernibly. I also have a stack of books within arms reach, all started and enjoyed, but none anywhere near finished. Maybe I'm just being too critical, expecting too much so early back in. But is it really so early? I will constantly suffer from these highs and lows and if I don't learn how to pick myself back up again quicker, I'll always drop before I ever peak. What's stopping me? Mentally, I seem fine lately. Maybe the issues are more physical than I want to admit. I dislike forcing myself to be physically active but I fear it's just another thing I'm going to have to start regimenting... not to mention my self-inflicted undernourishment, but I have been trying to correct that recently. Forgetfully, I'm too lost in thought to realize these things most of the time.

pick

I don't know what medium to express myself through. If I continue lightly dabbling among the various choices, I will remain stagnant and withdrawn. I aspire beyond my means. I lack focus. I get nowhere.

You're not making any choices.

awareness

I don't utilize the resources I have. It's easier to maintain a looming sense of hopelessness when I feel like I'm completely on my own. Plus it avoids the burden of expectations. Of course this is complete foolishness.

artistic purpose

"What then is the purpose of this activity? It seems to me that the purpose of art is to prepare the human soul for the perception of good. The soul opens up under the influence of an artistic image, and it is for this reason that we say it helps us to communicate - but it is communication in the highest sense of the word. I could not imagine a work of art that would prompt a person to do something bad." AT

Tarkovsky's films and words have been a great solace for me these past few weeks. They're both uplifting and wondrously complex. Too many have suggested that I should evade such thoughts and questions and do something "fun" instead, at least until I'm feeling less dispirited. I find that escapist and unhelpful. Delayed.

"Everybody asks me what things mean in my films. This is terrible! An artist doesn't have to answer for his meanings. I don't think so deeply about my work - I don't know what my symbols may represent. What matters to me is that they arouse feelings, any feelings you like, based on whatever your inner response might be. If you look for meaning, you'll miss everything that happens. Thinking during a film interferes with your experience of it. Take a watch to pieces, it doesn't work. Similarly with a work of art, there's no way it can be analyzed without destroying it." AT

Thinking is overrated. Judging situations based on feelings is considered weakness. If something can't be rationalized, it can't be accepted. I think this is part of our culture's de-humanizing nature, where it's more acceptable to evaluate a dilemma in terms of financial impact than moral. This is obvious in government and corporate decision making, but I don't think we realize how much it burrows subconsciously into our personal and daily choices. It shouldn't be acceptable on any level. Maybe we're at a point where we think we understand too much of the world around us. Too much science is infiltrating our everyday rationalities. (I think the higher up scientists realize the ambiguity of their formalizations, but only the succinct answers seem to flow down to the common level.) We're bombarded with too much analysis, too many statistics giving us false security, allowing us think that our positions are more predictable and explicable than they really are. In fact this over-simplification is self-demeaning. We do this in our daily lives. We do this to our art.

Being better at sciences but always more drawn to the ambiguities of art, I find myself trying too often to apply formalistic techniques to the latter, which still isn't that much. Well, I mean I do in my descriptions of them, in the sense that I'm always insecurely looking for the right interpretation instead of just enjoying the film for what I take out of it. I still struggle to adequately express feeling; I think too much. I am still too rigid. I try to apply meanings to the works themselves instead of allowing them to apply their feelings onto me. ...if that makes sense.


[Uck, this tea I'm drinking tastes like boiled peach cobbler, which can sound good in theory but actually isn't.]

an e-mail from parental unit (f)

From: Judy Smith

Subject: lost bear in the woods

guess what skank...found purple tshirt under your bed while vaccuming along with panties...did you miss them...lol mom


[My asocial mother never ever contacts me via phone, e-mail, or anything. I have to go weeks without taking the initiative myself before she checks in to see if I'm still alive, which makes the fact that she would e-mail me this that much more absurd. Note: Mother used to think my typing "lol" meant "lots of love" and even though I have since corrected her wrong assumption, she persists in using it to mean so.]

small strives

Step 1: I will teach my eyes not to cower.

Once again she opens her doors

Okay, sufficient time has passed that statement can be safely made: I'm done sulking.