I went rock climbing last night again with Leif and managed to complete every single route I hit, including a 5-9 that has been tormenting me for the past week. My hands still feel like Jell-O. Afterwards, I had planned on packing and meeting up with the new dating interest for dinner, but due to some miscommunication and bad timing I was left at home with a pizza and Civ3. I'm not complaining.

Cale sent me a link to Colorgenics, where I took a frighteningly accurate personality quiz. I'm normally ambivalent towards these sort of things, because—like horoscopes—they tend to be so ridiculously general they could apply to just about anyone. This quiz churned out some specifics that raised my eyebrows:

"Everyone has to compromise at times.. and circumstances are such, that at this time you are feeling the need to do just that. Put all of your hopes on the back burner and let matters flow...for a time...forgo some of the things you want. The good times are around the corner."

And:

You are a master of demonstrating considerable charm in the hope that this can or will lead to better things... Deep down - you are fearful that this may not work and that you may have to employ other strategies in order to realise all your ambitions.

I'm going to Vegas tomorrow for Derek's 21st birthday and will be back Wednesday. Luck be a Lady (or at the very least a cute, shirtless, Austrailian Rugby player).

What is happiness to you? Is it getting married and living a life of quiet routine? Sometimes I wonder if I need to re-evaluate my priorities in order to find some sort of contentment in life, where the pounding night-life that serves mainly to feed ego and superficiality is only ever explored in the corners of imagination or on the musty pages of a paperbound novel.

It's all perspective. I keep defaulting on the idea that because I get a little bit of enjoyment out of partying, drinking, and drug useage, that it's a viable source of happiness or, at least, some kind of quasi-contentment. Like any repeated exposure, however, it wears on your senses. You grasp frantically at the euphoria of the first year as it speeds over the horizon at an exponential velocity. Everyone becomes bent and faded.

There is happiness. I'm constantly under the impression that it is all around us, we just have to start looking in the right places, open ourselves to it, and let it flow through us but the interview on the radio this morning had me thinking that perhaps happiness isn't something we acquire but rather something that we produce as a reaction to our condition in life. Can we shift our paradigms to fit our condition instead of employing the popular notion that it's the other way around?

Rouse's buttery voice said various things to me this morning, but between all the words there was the sense of satisfaction?a sense that all this extraneous artistry and exposure was merely icing on the cake?and I tossed about images of living on a farm in yellow sunlight fields, and I saw myself inside-out with my self being superfluous to the happiness streaming from between every atom like electricity.

At 8:02p.m. on February 20 this year will be an historic moment in time.

It will not be marked by the chiming of any clocks or the ringing of bells, but at that precise time, on that specific date, something will happen which has not occurred for 1,001 years and will never happen again.

As the clock ticks over from 8:01pm on Wednesday, February 20, time will, for sixty seconds only, read in perfect symmetry 2002, 2002, 2002, or to be more precise - 20:02, 20/02, 2002.

Actually, this particular palindromic phenomenon happened more than once in the past, in the year 1111, and will happen again in the year 2112. Still, it's interesting to think that it will?probably?not occur again in any of our lifetimes. Then again, will any moment, for that matter?

Thanks to Cale and this article for the interesting bit of information.

Backing up a bit, the surprising news of late is the fact that I'm dating a guy who likes computer games. In all my years, I don't think I've ever met another gay guy who's been into computers, let alone computer games, and it's about time I met someone with some similar interests since so much of my life and work seems to revolve around these insipid machines. He even confessed playing AD&D as an angst-ridden teenager. I think I'm in love. Either that, or I've met my doppelganger. Is there a difference?

Half-an-hour later, I was chowing down on a salty, nutty hummus-on-bagel sandwich at Einstein's when I ran across this article detailing Christian Fundamentalists in Tennessee. These types of stories are guilty pleasures for me, not because I'm a closet Fundamentalist, but because I'm always intrigued by the things they say, the activities they participate in. It's a sort of do-people-really-do-that kind of interest.

The accompanying photograph (in the print version) is even better: a thirty-something pastor preaching to a congregation, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up in a lets-get-some-preachin'-done manner, his eyes pinched shut, and his hand reaching out in supplication. I just kept thinking, His eyes are closed. Perhaps he was praying really hard or maybe it was bad timing on the part of the photographer but the idea of a self-imposed blindness kept resounding in my head whenever my eyes would return to the image of those eyes shut like fists.

I wake up every morning to the soothing sounds of my "radio," a device that picks up electromagnetic signals and transforms them into audible sounds. It must sound terribly primitive, but let me assure you that the voices of NPR reporters come in clearly.

I prepare myself for the day with an extensive cleansing ritual that includes activities such as "showering," "shaving," "moisturizing," and "grooming." I can only imagine what advancements mankind has made on these time-consuming, yet undoubtedly necessary, routines. Do you have automatic hair-stylers yet?

After I nourish myself with "break-fast," I get into my "auto-mobile" and transport myself to the office, which is essentially a large building to the north of my city in an area that is not yet developed. It sits among fields and forests and sloping hills, very beautiful. I wonder, have you any undeveloped land in the 22nd century?

I perform the day's tasks with a "computer," which I'm sure you have many of. The machines of my day must be simple and barbaric to you, but they get the job done and are quite efficient when used correctly. I enjoy leaving work at the end of the day, walking out from the towering office building, in which I sit for eight hours every day, and entering a field of blue, for all you can see is sky. It swirls above you, unhindered by buildings or track housing. The hills and fields fall away from the office and suddenly you have the sensation you are flying. Have men discovered how to fly yet without the aid of "air-planes"?

I return home and spend time with my friends and family who all live close-by. Oftentimes, if I cannot see them in person, we communicate via "tele-phone" or "e-mail." I do not ignore my physical health, either, so most nights, I will exercise at a gymnasium or play a game of "basket-ball." We have many activities in which physical engagement is a popular form of entertainment. The day ends with a good "book" or watching sitcoms on television (my favorites are "Twilight Zone" and "The Daily Show"). Afterwards, I fall asleep, ready to start the whole day over again.

I hope that by your day and age, mankind has found a way to improve upon this routine. It may sound unusual and intriguing, but truth be known, it is more often monotonous than either of those.

I am working for you, now. I am working to improve the future. Hopefully by documenting this brief history, I may be able to provide a base point from which to grow. I am writing to save my life. I am writing to save yours.

I went rock climbing last night with Leif and John. It's been almost two months since I've gone, and it felt good to feel the chalk on my hands, the sandy grain of the holds against my palm and fingertips, and the earthy weight of my body tugging at my arms. I've felt weightless for the past week. It was good to know there's still something here, some sort of substance.

In the spirit of regeneration, I finished a new layout after coming home last night and am pretty satisfied with the way it's turned out. That old newspaper layout was starting to grate on my nerves. When I spoke of a loss of focus on Tuesday, I must have triggered something inside my head, for a whole new level of clarity has taken shape. I feel closer to the surface, but in a different way than last week.

Thanks for the emails of concern. Just so you know, I'm in no way depressed or down or upset as my last post may have led you to believe, just a little less there. I told Brent the other night that these swings are natural and expected.

In a way, the cycle of life is a lot like a process in the production of metals known as annealing, in which the metal is heated and then cooled repeatedly. This results in a restructuring of the atoms, producing a more uniform, rigid structure. The metal becomes stronger. The cycles of life are like this, in which we experience enjoyment and pain, clarity and lack of focus, joy and sadness, good times and bad. Exposed to these polar experiences, we become stronger, better people.

Yoga class hasn't been doing as much in the way of helping me refocus, either. I know the idea is to practice it every day and not once a week in class like my habit would suggest, but my body just isn't pushing for it. The urge simply isn't there. The same goes for my diet and exercise routine, which hasn't exactly slacked, but the drive isn't at the same intesity that it was just a month ago.

The search for a side-dish job is like beaming a flashlight into the sky in anticipation of a response from the stars. I've submitted a few applications here and there, but haven't gotten any responses. Everyone seems to have ideas of where I should look and apply, too, and I've followed a few leads, but they all seem to head directly into the black velvet folds of the night sky.

I'm pushing myself through this fog. Like I mentioned yesterday, I vowed to myself that this week would be productive and, so far, I've been surprisingly successful, although I'm no more clear-headed today than I was yesterday. I've unclogged my closet and bathroom, hung a few pictures, finished some laundry, and cooked a few meals today. I know that losing myself in daily routine will help to some extent, but the thing is, that's really all I'm capable of doing right now.

My grandmother on my mom's side is in the hospital with pneumonia and they don't expect her to make it through the week. I'm not really sure how to feel about this, because I've never been terribly close to anyone on my mom's side of the family. At the same time, I feel — under this languid miasma — a vague sense of sadness and guilt for not writing her years of thank-you letters for all the presents she bought me for Christmas and my birthday. Maybe I'll harness some of this determination to punch through the week to write her a final thank you so she will know that her considerations were not useless flashes of light into outer space.

In an effort to refocus, I exercised an hour longer than I usually do. I ran three and a half miles (that is up from two miles at the beginning of the year, so you have an idea of the rate of improvement here) and lifted more. It helped to some extent, and later, when I drove home, I turned off the radio and let the quiet hum from the engine center me. Mostly, it made me simply recount the day, minute-by-minute, and I wrote and rewrote this entry in my head.

This is Mark Farina's autograph. You probably don't know who he is, but he has been a mainstay DJ in my CD player for over four years now. Amazing, amazing stuff. My friend Cale is lucky enough to work at one of the more upscale hotels in the state and runs into a few famous people every now and then. Thanks for the autograph, Cale.

It has been almost eight years since my grandmother passed away, and this was the first time I'd been back to visit since her funeral when I was 16. Today is her birthday. I buried my nose in the single, pink rose I picked up on my way over and inhaled the pungent aroma. She always wore a sort of rose perfume. Amazingly, I didn't have to look for her urn; I walked right to it as though I had been visiting here every day for the past decade and I stood for a while gazing up at her name engraved in gold.

The bench in front of her wall pulled me onto it, and I sat, inhaling more of the rose. It made me sad to think that I probably never gave her a rose while she was alive, and that she probably would have enjoyed it very much. Placing it gently in the holder, I wished her a happy birthday and exited out the back. I didn't want the rest of the people in the mausoleum to see my somber-angry face.

At first, I thought that maybe someone was playing a joke, but later today in the gym, I noticed a bottle of the same stuff in the locker rooms. If you saw the pasty white faces of the people that work alongside me, you'd find this discovery strangely unnerving. I'm wondering if the building managers know something about these flourescant lights we work under that they're just not telling us. Or maybe it's the electromagnetic radiation from our monitors.

And to think, I've been telling everyone this tan is natural.

I visited a few buildings downtown and did a little research online this afternoon, but most of the places that are in my price range are terribly run down. In one building, I was sure I saw a woman shooting up through her open door from the hallway, and another building was festering with homeless like flies on a piece of discarded meat. I did find one apartment in an old mansion that looks pretty cozy. It's a bit out of my price range, but I'm going to try and see if I can fit it into my budget if I take another job on the weekend.

I've had visions of myself as a waiter at an upscale restaraunt, so I called around to see if any positions were available, but the entire city is staffed. Apparently, everyone has decided to quit their jobs and work as waiters. Considering the economy of late, I wouldn't doubt it.

In a few of the restaraunts, I actually felt a little embarassed asking for an application. Sheepishly, I remember saying that I'd never work another blue collar service job ever again, once I got my degree. I suppose I don't really need the money, but it would make things a lot more comfortable, and that's what I'm all about in the end. I'd simply like to be comfortable, not necessarily rich.

What I want to know is how AOL members feel about this. I doubt America Online has queried its subscribers to find out whether they are okay with being isolated from non-AOL contacts who eschew the internet giant for another. An AOL spokesman called the problem a "security breach," but does anyone really believe that? The simple fact is that Trillian users erode AOL's advertising audience, which causes AOL to lose money.

Does the media giant truly need these proceeds to operate? Will they crash and burn if AIM/AOL users choose Trillian to access their network? It's doubtful. Their main revenue seems to stem from regular membership fees (that's not mentioning the Time/Warner revenues). I would say to AOL: Stand up for a higher ideal for once. Do what you claim to do and connect those 20 million+ members to the rest of the world. You will profit more from that in the long run than any meager advertising campaign ever will.

While I was waiting for the drive to format, I picked up an old copy of Thoreau's Walden I had laying around and thought I'd dive through it. I've been wanting to read it for a few years now (one of probably sixty books I have sitting in front of me). Just thought I'd post a few excerps from "Economy":

Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superflously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them... He has no time to be anything but a machine.

That particular idea struck me rather forcefully, maybe due to my mental state at the time I was reading, but I started to feel incredibly friviolous, particularly in regards to my computer habit, which isn't to say anything about sitting eight hours a day in front of a computer in a cubicle. I know I've gone through this line of thought before, and have come to the conclusion that I should, in a way, "pay my dues" in the working world. After all, wasn't Thoreau 30 before he wrote any of his major works? Another excerpt:

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind... But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.

When I read of "games and amusements," the first thing that came to mind was the Superbowl fanatica of yesterday, which has struck me before as an ever-evolving method of self-deception: in that we believe we have found meaning and release through a game. It has taken on a significance and weight of its own. The popularity of football has done nothing for me but reveal the frivolity of our preoccupations — dare I say, out of "desperation."

As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

posted Sunday, February 3, 2002

Deep is Good

Scott and Dave donated a $50 gift certificate to the Virgin Megastore to get my ass some new music (ok, it was a birthday present, thanks guys) and I spent a good four hours last Thursday perusing the music-store-to-end-all-music-stores, looking for some good replacements for my worn out collection. The album you see to your left is probably the best deep house I've heard in a while. Mixed by Timewriter, the CD features intricately syncopated beats over a easy four-four rhythm. A few of the tracks even boast mellow horns and jazzy vocals, but the feature that makes this CD really amazing is by far the groovy, non-stop beat. If you love deep house, or just haven't heard it before, be sure to check this one out.

posted Sunday, February 3, 2002

Monte Cristo with Jelly, Please

This Saturday-night-movie-with-Lindsay ritual is setting a record for me. Three weeks in a row now. Tonight, we saw The Count of Monte Cristo, a fully satisfying film with beautiful actors (per Henry Cavil to your right), gorgeous landscapes, revenge, love, and intrigue. A definite should-see. I had considered going out tonight, but after returning a full two-and-a-half hours later, I'm exhausted and merely looking to catch a few good hours of sleep while the gettin's good. It seems lately all I've wanted to do is sleep. Hopefully, the actors in my dreams will be as "dreamy" as in the movie tonight.

I turned around and was face-to-face with a mustached man and moved to the side, initially annoyed that he was standing so close.

"Whaddaya want?" The question came out of the blue (or from under the mustache, rather) and, for a minute, I didn't think it was intended for me because the man never even glanced at me.

"Oh, I was just going to get some orange juice," I said cautiously.

"I've got it," he said, pulling out his wallet. "How much for the orange juice?"

"One-forty," the girl responded, her smile never fading. He pulled out two, dollar bills and handed them across the glass counter.

I felt a little weird accepting this purchase from a complete stranger in the airport, but at the same time, it was so offhanded and seemed so simply genuine that I accepted more out of speechlessness than being grateful I was being given a handout. I thanked him and returned to my gate a little surprised.

I know it sounds strangely Hollywood, but as I sat there sipping my OJ, I suddenly had an overwhelming desire to perform some similarly random act of kindness.

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