| Journal & Weblog | Write to Save Your Life | August 24, 2003 |
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posted Wednesday, May 30, 2001 Creative Compulsion When I was 12, I remember doggedly teaching myself assembler and BASIC in an attempt to program my own computer games. At 13, I taught myself hexadecimal and binary mathematics using a book from the local library. I got my first computer at 14, and by the time I was 15, I had accumulated a wealth of knowledge in the form of computer books, software, and fellow geeks. At 16, however, the motivation disappeared. I left the world of geekdom ? of computers, RPGs, and programming ? for hobbies more suited to the socially complex world of high school. Now, here I am, ten years later doing the same thing I started out doing. I sit in front of a computer and write computer programs day in and day out. I remember how zealously I absorbed every bit of information I could get on computer programming. I couldn't learn enough. Now, I am full-up, and wish that I could go back in time with my current knowledge. Maybe I could actually finish those computer games that were started, but never finished due to a lack of understanding. I suppose that could be said for many things in life. I'd want to take that idea and put it to use now that I have the know-how. I just don't have the motivation or desire I did back then. I guess that's what I really miss ? the intrigue of the unknown, the curiosity that came so naturally with youth, the exhilaration of a new discovery. We become so numb to these things with time. If only I could find some way to recapture that without artificially creating it.
Blustery Change The past week has gone by in such a whir of activity. Spending time with Jeff, camping, gym time, work, and getting life in order has proven to be more strenuous than school, since nothing is run by a set schedule. Gotta do this on my own. The house search is not going as well as I had planned, and I'm getting more frustrated by the week. The winds are picking up and the urge for change is blowing in with it. Something drastic is about to happen. I sensed doubt or preoccupation in Jeff's voice tonight. I'm not really sure how to take it, but am going to let it slide. The weekend camping trip, the dinners, and the sex have been really great. On top of that, we get along really well, and seem to be able to communicate effectively. Despite all of this, I need to take a step back and evaluate this from an objective point of view. We have something going, but ultimately, we have nothing yet. I hate the expectation that develops in any new relationship I begin ? expected success, perfection, and fulfillment of hopes. It's too much to place on someone. I've managed to delay the onset of these expectations, but they are developing in the back of my mind, one by one, silently. I only hope the distance doesn't cause us to lose sight of who the other really is or what we have learned about one another. I know that is a common problem with long distance relationships. Perhaps I should back off for a while. The winds of change are blustery, indeed, and I've found the best way to weather them is to go with the flow, so to speak.
Sunday Snapshots The smell of grass and hamburgers on the grill. Sun on my shoulders. Vertigo on the trampoline. Cool indoors. A hand on my waist. The grass and sky unfold before me, running for miles to meet, unseen, behind mountains. I'm sitting on the sidelines, the grass cool between my toes. Jeff turns his attention from the game and glances my way. I smile and he sticks out his tongue. Clouds roll overhead. He fills his soccer uniform nicely, I think. I imagine putting my face between his furry legs and watch him kick the ball to the other side of the field. Wind and rain that turns to snow. Riding in the open jeep in Jeff's sweatshirt. It's so cold. Jeff puts a towel over my legs while working the traffic. Rushing to the warmth of each other in the darkened house. Arms around my shoulders. Arms around his shoulders. He's sitting in his underwear, pushing buttons on the keyboard. The right instrument is gold treasure to be found, the pitch an emerald, the perfect volume a ruby. He pounds out chords that fill the room. They are melodies that have come from his head. I feel like I'm evesdropping on his thoughts.
Retrospect Graduation went smoothly. Four hours in a sweltering black cap and gown, and the culmination of my college career was over. Nothing in particular stood out in my mind when I look back on the event ? simply because it was a ceremony designed to process a mass quantity of students in a short period of time ? but, like most things in life, it wasn't any particular event but the people I was with that I remember the most. I came late to the organizational pre-ceremony and was placed near the end of the engineering line. Viola Lee and Adam Davis were at the end of the line with me, and later Henrietta joined us. The hour we spent waiting for the exercises to begin was filled with smiles, anxious small-talk and playful banter. Waiting is great when you have people to spend it with. The time slipped past us relatively unnoticed, and we finally began filing into the large auditorium to my high school's rendition of "Pomp and Circumstance." Although there were thousands of students, I felt as though I were on the spot. I had made the mistake of wearing my glasses, forgetting that I couldn't see more than 500 feet in front of me, and blindly gazed into the crowds above me futily searching for friends and family. The thousands of students were directed on stage, one-by-one, and before long the entire graduating class had received empty frames. I vaguely remember walking across stage. Mostly, I remember anxiously looking for my family right before I walked up. Chancellor Bunnel-Shade, who was handing out handshakes and frames, cocked her head at me as though she recognized me ? which she should have considering I've been introduced to her on four seperate occasions ? and smiled congratulations. Taking my "diploma," I quickly left the stage (I was the last one called, besides Viola), and waited patiently as the rest of the ceremony played out. The auditorium quickly dissolved into a sticky mass of people. Navigating crowds in a cap and gown is harder than it looks; the tassel getting caught in your mouth and eyes, gown getting caught on other people. Swimming slowly through the crowds, I managed to make it outside where I met up with Daniel, Lindsay, Mom, Derek, Dad, and Kay. It was a relief to see everyone. Pictures were taken and we slowly headed out for the remaining day's festivities. The weather was beautiful, and we could not have asked for a better day. Lunch with the office at Jose's. Nap. Dinner with the fam at the Cliff House. Gifts. From Mom, Mikasa flatware. From Lindsay, tickets to Moby. From Dad, an antique, leather-bound book collection:
Admissions and Emissions Damnit. I should know not to take a full serving of that horrid TwinLabs RippedFuel before building a tolerance. They even say on the box to take half a serving before consuming regularly. Needless to say, I've felt off all day. It began as an energy high, quickly becoming nervously excited, chatting online at work, voraciously attacking whatever work requests I was given. After about an hour, I started bugging out. I began getting snappy and aggravated, the pent up energy sparking off like a geek's science fair project gone awry. I ran from work, ran to my car, ran into the gym, and continued running for the next half-hour. After a good hour of sweating, I left feeling relatively human. My sporadic gym routine has been haunting me as I've tried to work in a relatively normal schedule without disrupting other responsibilities. I've actually been quite successful. For a while there, I was taking the RippedFuel on a regular basis, and it was doing my body good, packing a wallop of energy, and good source of protein. I stopped taking the stuff for a week due to finals, but absentmindedly took a large serving today. This is my problem. I'm pissed because I'm unable to maintain a regular schedule that includes: a) eating regularly, b) exercising enough, and c) sleeping enough ? the three keys to building strong bones and big muscles. Somehow, one or the other slips through the cracks. I miss a meal. I miss a workout. I stay up too late. Missing one brings down the whole showboat, so it really is imperative that I keep all three on track. I've asked myself hundreds of times why I put myself through such a strict regimen. Most of the time, I'll tell myself it's a means of staying healthy. But deep down, I know the truth is I want to be an Abercrombie boy. There. I said it. And as they say, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.
Forging Onward Ever have one of those weeks that moves like a 28.8 download? Graduation is this Friday, and I'm trying to savor the days, but my health is in decline and I'm dealing with a feeling that slightly resembles stress, at work. I'm not stressed, per se, but the daily grind is repelling me like a 60Hz refresh rate. I keep telling myself that the rest of life won't be like this. I'll pick it back up. Books have kept me company in the interim, Neale Donald Walsch being my current author and mentor (thank you, John). The clarity of thought that I gain from his writing is good for my head, being cluttered for so long with dusty, jumbled thoughts and disheveled stacks of dreams. I push aside piles and blow clean surfaces to make room for new, shiny ideas. Many of them are ideas of my own that I've spit-shined after rediscovery. Besides reading, I've revisited a bad habit ? the PlayStation. On a whim at the local exchange the other day, I purchased a copy of Final Fantasy IX and Lunar 2. I am sad to say that I am the classic sequel addict. This is bad if I follow past playing patterns (9 hours in one sitting), but so far I have been able to monitor my time pretty well. And to think I was almost free of the habit. I had been PlayStation-celibate for almost a year. Most likely, I'll have to return to that self-imposed celibacy once again, as Aunt Kay arrived this morning from Illinois for my graduation. It's good to see her, and she looks good for her age. Despite old memories of her tendency to talk (I cringed when my father told me she was staying for a week), I'm actually appreciating her presence and look forward to the break from the normal crowd. Speaking of which, there hasn't been much of lately. Lindsay is off in her own world with Matt, Ricky is doing godknowswhat, and my other random friends are off playing without me. Therefore I suppose my preoccupations at the moment are fitting. Perhaps that's why this week seems to have sludged onward; I am too consciously anticipating its passage by pretending to be in the waiting room, reading, playing games, mindlessly passing time. Ingrained responsibility causes me to hesitantly approach these activities because I've been raised to avoid wasting time. I'm not worried, though. I have an entire eternity to live, create, and play.
Concert The sweet skunk funk of marijuana dances with the noise of people in the evening air. I feel oddly out of place at this concert, surrounded by mostly boomers trying to reclaim a piece of their lost past in the music of Mark Knopfler. I turn my attention from them to the skyline, which is beginning to shimmer over the amphitheater (Red Rocks has an amazing view of the city). The heartbeating bass bats at the fabric of my jeans, and I close my eyes to hear the music resonate in my head. Cale is standing next to me, bobbing his head to the music. As the sun drifts to sleep behind the mountains behind us, the music slows. The crowds relax. The air cools. The city awakens on the horizon. I smile because life is so amazingly beautiful.
Three's Company Nauseauted, I gulp water down in two's and three's. My body doesn't deal well with a night of binge drinking, but for that matter, who's does? Lindsay, Nicole and I went out partying last night in our usual, pre-celebratory fashion to pay tribute to my graduation that's not until next week. Any excuse to get me out of the house and into a bar. Not to mention, both girls have new boyfriends they wanted me to evaluate for them. It's amazing how alcohol changes you. Normally, I have trouble making small talk. Sober, I simply refuse to talk about pointless subjects, but give me a few beers, and it's amazing to hear the stream of banality that surges forth. Conversation seemed so easy. Both girls had picked some beautiful men and I did get to know them fairly well, although, autopiloting the conversation with alcohol wouldn't be my chosen method to do so. I'd much rather be talking over dinner or lunch in the park with a bottle of lemonade, rather than in a bar over beers. Drinking alcohol in large quantities always results in the "I'm never drinking again" morning after. Memory loss isn't a great thing, either. Why don't we listen to our bodies? Seeing as I'm still hung over and late for work, I should probably get my ass in gear. It would seem the only way to prevent hangovers is to stay drunk. Now, where did I put that bloody mary mix?
Parents Dad: Nightly walks have become routine, or rather, dad has tried to make them routine by joining me every night when I take Sumo out into the fields. We walk in silence, the cool air gutting our sinuses from a winter of disconsolate torpor. I love him, but I cannot live with him. He is too dependent on my presence. Perhaps it's my ultra sensitivity to situations like this, but I feel his attachment to me like the grip of a drowning man to a plank of wood. I am strangely repelled by his loneliness, perhaps because it echoes so much of my own. Occasionally, quips of conversation would assault the night air. I would discuss my days with a cynicism that is so ill fitting, but reflexive to my annoyance. His laugh would come easily, too quickly, as though he were feasting on every word, ravenous for more. His elementary sense of humor -- ignited by jokes of bodily functions, sexist remarks, and human stupidity -- has quickly become a nuisance rather than a welcome addition to conversation. By spending less time with him, I maintain my arm's-length distance from bitterness. Unfortunately, this only seems to feed the cycle. Mom: Dinner last night with alcohol. After nineteen years, I think I've come to understand her, since raising me has deeply ingrained her thought process in the bowels of my mind. Both of my parents are complex people, however, my mother is the most difficult to describe. Then again, maybe it's not necessary to explain the people we love. She worries constantly. I doubt it's out of true, heartfelt concern, but more out of the idea of motherly responsibility. These past few years have been especially hard on her with my brother and I going away to college. Financially, she's also struggling, and last night I confronted her about paying for a loan she had given me a few years back for a car I bought. The idea of me giving her money caused her to break down into tears. When she gets upset, however, she has reverts to a childlike state, giggling and bouncing around, so you never know if she's joking or seriously upset. It's hard sometime not to laugh. I think it's her natural reaction to upsetting situations that has taught me to laugh in the face of adversity.
Finale I sit here before finals, the future wide open. I'm on the brink of the end. As it's said, however, the end of one thing is merely the beginning of something else: my pitfall into real life. I suppose I really can't say I'm done yet, since I haven't even taken the tests yet or passed. But I'm not worried about failing. No, what I'm truly worried about right now is failing life. I decided to postpone graduate school until the fall. Going directly into classes two weeks after graduation wouldn't be long enough of a break. I deserve a break. I haven't had one in four years, having taking classes every summer and ever winter break, instead. I need some time to sort things out, work a little, maybe save up some money. Why does a voice in the back of my mind keep nagging me to jump ship, here? I know I've written about this countless times, but topics as persistent as this should be revisited. Here's my dilemma: my life feels wrong. Sure, everything in my life is working, but it just feels like something's not right. I hate that, because again it's this terrible battle between my heart and my head. Knowing I should stay and work for sake of stability and security, but unsure whether I should. I know this sounds overly dramatic, but I honestly feel like something is dying inside of me. Maybe it's something I want to let go of, something I should let go of. But as I said before, the thing that worries me the most is that I could just give up right now, turn a blind eye to this whole mess, and by ignoring the voice in the back of my head I'd stay here and finish this to the end. That is the problem. I don't want ignorant numbness, no matter how blissful it may be. Sure, if I stay here, I'll amass large quantities of money, read many books, continue life here at this one stagnation. But the image that thought conjures is one of a river that has been dammed up. Granted, it grows into this massively majestic lake, but it's ultimate purpose was to run free to the ocean. I've lived so many places, experienced so many things that you'd think I'd be able to settle down now and concentrate on life, instead of actually "living." But I don't want just comfort. I want pain and toil and strife. I haven't cried in so long, and I miss my friends. I want the possibility of wrecking my life; riding the edge with the possibility of falling over. I don't want to live life with only the possibility of not failing.
Foreigner The familiar hi-fi thump and acrid smell welcomed me as I walked into the bar. I said hello to a few familiar faces, exchanged hugs, pecks on cheeks, and graciously accepted a drink offer. Despite all the familiarity, I felt oddly out of place. It had been a few months since I had ventured to our city's only gay bar. It's a fairly large complex, hidden in the back alley of a neighborhood forgotten by everyone except its residents. History has taught its patrons to keep to the back alleys, and yet despite efforts to break stereotypes, the gay community here will never escape this one. We are the outcasts that must meet in the secret of night. It's quasi-romantic, really. After a few minutes, I walked to the entrance to meet my friends who were just coming in. We toured the bar with a newcomer, describing various locations where various cliques would congregate, guided him through the lesbian bar, the leather bar, the country-western bar, and finally ended back in the lesbian room. Everyone is impressed with the place their first time. I requested a song from the hispanic girl in the DJ booth, and she nodded, her green jersey flailing wildly as she juggled vinyl. Dancing came ackwardly in the half-empty room, even when my song began to play. Try as I might, the feeling just wasn't there. I felt like a foreigner, discretely trying to fit in, but necessarily (and obviously) failing. Instead, I gave up trying to get into the groove and watched the people. A good-looking guy who had hit on me earlier was drunkenly making out with another guy. I looked away. As we danced, a boyish drifter wandered in from the other bar and stood on the outskirts of the floor. He appeared out of place, too, and I looked away. A guy dancing with us smiled at me and came a little closer. I tried looked away, but there was no where left to look. I made my exit silently, quickly saying goodbye to my friends. As I walked to my car in the light rain, I couldn't help but feel strangely sterile, as though my visit to the bar was nothing more than professional. It was quick and impersonal, which is unusual for me. Normally, I feel right at home, but the mood I've been in lately seems to have estranged me from my friends and routine. I stare at a collection of phone numbers I've accumulated over the past week, and blush at the bravado I initially displayed, only to collapse under my inability to use them now. I have nothing to say to these people. Instead, I spend hours grooming myself ? showering, shaving, moisturizing, preening ? and even more hours studying and reading. I yearn for the days when club life came so naturally and sparked even a bit of emotion. Instead, I curl up with a good book, my dog at my feet, and sleep soundly at night.
On God and Trucks I had to follow the truck. After all, it was emblazoned with my name, "Chris," in big, block letters. I sped onto and along the highway, ten cars behind, and managed to keep it in sight. It was fairly easy. The truck was white and very large. I had been considering taking the backroads home from work, but as I looked to the highway, I spotted the truck and decided against it. I've always been one to follow signs, or at least what I've thought to be signs. They're coincidences that are just a little out of the ordinary ? but then again, I suppose that's the definition of coincidence. I, on the other hand, have made signs out of everyday events, coin tosses, phone calls, television shows, words on trucks. Taking these events, I would twist them around to make them fit a given scenario. While driving, my mind began to wander. Somehow, I followed a line of thought that led me to ponder abortion activists that sometimes line our street corners with signs. Why were they so adamant? Was removing a fetus from a woman really murdering another human, or was it simply eliminating a dependence that would ultimately give opportunity to life? Why did they always have to bring god into the picture? Who are they to claim they know what god wants? As a biology student for several years of my life, I've come to look at life and death as more of a continuum, rather than a discrete "alive-or-dead" situation. It also is the basis of my disbelief in the Christian god, and many other religions. I began to debate with myself, as I drove along. Since I had never been confronted on my beliefs, I had never considered how I would support my arguments or beliefs. Methodically, I began to think it out. At several points during my drive, I even reached over with a pencil to jot ideas down. The whole concept of worshipping a deity is ludicrous to me. Because my father is a devout Christian, I began my imaginary debate with the topic of Christianity and the belief in the prophet, Jesus, as the "Son of God." First, I asked myself why this belief exists. The first answer would be to teach people to love one another unconditionally, which is Jesus' main message as the Bible explains. As I feel this lesson can be learned with common sense ("I wouldn't want this to happen to me, therefore, I won't do it to someone else") and without all the allegorical claptrap the Bible entails ? not to discount the many fascinating fables and other valuable lessons therein ? I disregarded this answer. A second answer to the belief, is to ensure one's place in the kingdom of heaven for all eternity. This is because we are all "sinners" and in order to be absolved of these sins, we must believe that Jesus died for them. It also represents Gods proof to humans that he has power over death. Most religions agree on the fact that God can raise one into paradise to live for eternity after death, however many differ on what happens otherwise. The belief of an existence in heaven necessarily creates the belief of a hell, or anti-heaven. Again, as I was driving along one day, it suddenly occurred to me that the idea of hell is not only ridiculous but also contradictory to the Christian view of a creator. Why would an omnipotent, omnibenevolent, omniscient deity do a wrathful, vindictive act like sentence someone to an eternity of pain/seclusion/misery? Because we don't do what God wants? I cannot imagine this "good" creator being so gratuitously destructive when what he wants is constantly debated and differs from region to region. Even in the assumption that this god would do such a thing, one assumes that s/he would make a matter such as eternal, personal salvation more obvious than word of mouth or blind faith. I'm thinking a blinking, neon sign in the sky would do the trick. Because I do not believe in the existence of a "hell," I also discount the existence of a "heaven." Logically the two must co-exist to support the belief in this contradictory, Christian god as a savior of the "good" and judge of those that are "evil." Taking that point a bit further, I examined the underlying reason for the belief in an everlasting life after death. This is a belief that is fundamental to the Christian faith. Instinctually, all life strives to sustain itself. Each individual organism is genetically programmed to sustain itself and/or others it interacts with. As living organisms, ourselves, we also strive to overcome death, but have looked beyond the natural method ? namely, genetic recombination in sexual reproduction to ensure our genes live on after we have died ? and extended the idea, philosophically, to the ego. We want our personalities, not only our bodies, to live forever. In nature, all things have a purpose or place. Plants feed on the earth and energy from the sun. Animals feed on plants and other animals. The earth feeds on the animals and plants, and the cycle regenerates. Personality, or the human ego, has no place in this natural cycle. It is simply the engine that drives our bodies to take part in this system and interact with each other, but as it has developed over the centuries, it has become self-important and destructive. In the grand scheme of things, the human personality ? or more specifically, individual personality ? is irrelevant and defeating. If you were raised to believe in your self-importance, this may come as a rather hopeless, drab theory of life. On the contrary, it indicates that we are part of something much larger than ourselves. We are part of creation on a colossal scale, so immense we cannot easily comprehend it. In time, I believe that humans will evolve, socially, to accept and understand this. We will let go of our ego, acknowledging our individuality in respect to one another, but also recognizing our part in a larger system of life that continually renews itself. In a sense, we will all live forever as long as there is life, existence, and matter. This is not to say that I don't believe in a creator. Rather, I do not believe in the intricacies and undue, complex ceremony religion entails. There are several reasons for this. The first is that many Christians claim the prayers and ceremony are required to worship god. I do not believe that the creator of life needs to be worshipped. Logically speaking, if god created life, it would seem that simply living is all that is expected. How we live is subjective, and I will cover that in a moment. Secondly, the Bible ? the founding text of most sects of Christianity ? was written by men thousands of years ago to reflect the values of society thousands of years ago. It has been edited thousands of times, and translated even more. Basing modern social values on it may have some merit, but using it to judge life and existence does not hold water with me. I do not believe that we are required to live by morals or rules. That being said, I do believe we should live by them, but the fundamental "ought-to's" are simply common sense, and boil down to treating others as you would like to be treated, and do not require religion as a basis (which cause most to follow out of fear or ignorance or both). Hundreds of thousands of years ago, warring tribes in the Middle East fought over land and resources for survival. Many such tribes began teaching stories of a creator. This creator went by many names, but was most always powerful, wrathful, and on the side of the given tribe. The others were "outsiders" and guided by forces which sought to wreak havoc and own what was rightfully the others tribe's. From these stories grew great gods, battling each other as the tribes clashed with one another. This was the first theorized appearance of what we now know as "evil." Today, most still believe in this force. I do not. The idea of "evil," is simply a subjective judgment. It is not a universal truth, nor is it a physical presence or power, as many Christians claim to be manifested in an opposing persona, oftentimes known as "satan" or the "devil" (interestingly enough, the word "satan" comes from a Hebrew word for "accuser" or "adversary"). When it comes down to it, modern concepts of evil can be used to describe three things: death, pain, or the cause of either -- nothing more, nothing less. If it were a universal truth, as some Christian faiths proclaim, evil would affect every lifeform on earth, similarly. In reality, an evil act to a human would probably make no difference to say, a rabbit, and vice versa. Granted, this is a complete conjecture, but as the death or pain of humans does not seem to affect other animals (besides those that dependent for survival), and considering we slaughter millions of animals a day without a second thought, I feel there is a pretty strong basis for this. The idea of "evil" is simply an event that one does not want to happen. Our egos do not want to end and we do not want to endure pain. In this context, evil is simply a projection of our most base fear, and a concept that reinforces the self-important individual. The question of evil is one that has been debated for hundreds of years, and not one I want to readily delve into as I'm quickly running out of space, energy, and time. In short conclusion, however, as I do not believe in evil, the existence of heaven/hell, or the need for my personality to live indefinitely, I also do not believe in Christian gods or dogmas. My thoughts extended much farther than this during my short trip on the freeway. Eventually, the truck carrying my name turned off the highway, and I was left to travel it on my own. It was a sign, I thought. I would be traveling life unguided by religion. But I had a good idea where the road lead, and I had full faculty at my command. I would follow hard, dispassionate truth. One last thought I had, before turning off the freeway towards home, was the sound of my father's voice telling me, "It's better to be safe than sorry." Over the course of years, I have heard the excuse that one should believe in god by default, "just in case he really exists." Either way, whether he exists or not, you have nothing to lose. I thought to myself, that's like holding an unwrapped candy bar in your hand. You don't want the extra calories, so you think to yourself, I'll throw it away. But then you realize, it could be a Healthy Choice snack bar with only one calorie. You finally conclude that you might as well toss it, and not eat it, because that way you have nothing to lose. I say that's a crock of bull. If god really existed and personal salvation meant anything to him, he would have put a wrapper on the damn candy bar to tell you what it was. I say fuck that shit and eat the candy bar.
Empty Space "As a child, I played in the gaps between buildings, ruins of buildings, fallow land, abandoned industrial areas, gravel pits and sand mines. Formed through misplanning, they were our empire, the empire of children. Ours was a dirty, unused place, with snakes, lizards, insects of every category and wild vegetation. Every city needs places without external laws. Empty spaces have their own laws.
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