allsortsofvague@gmail.com

... that has now become my login name for everything once i clicked the "yes" box while logging on to gtalk. Every action I seem to do online now is somewhat mandated by google; I sold my (non-existent) soul to Google... a couple of self-made yuppies from Stanford; once a Rushmore of mine.

it's funny, technology... reminds me a lot of Frankenstein.

I'm sure those who read my blog are familiar with Victor's story. He's quite the epitome of mankind; well, for the most part. I don't see myself in him much... at least not conciously.
I had a moment in Costco today, while passing by the plathora of plasma televisions. Each one was telling me to buy one, that redundant, overplayed, monotone, in human voice looping again and again, undoubtedly subliminal, designed to give the full brainwash effect... "Yes, damn it I will buy one".

Just in case you're wondering, of coures no I did not buy an idiot box. It seems so illogical, frankly a waste of money. Money to be spent changing the world. Like buying coffee to make Cuban tycoons even fatter and richer while the poor malnourished kids (field workers) have even less to eat. Screw it, I love coffee beans. There is only so much you can do. Let's not start changing the world with boycotting coffee beans. Avoid at all cost -_-.


Conundrum.

Wes Anderson is the man. If you think otherwise, I think we are unproclaimed enemies.

Someone told me they hated "The Royal Tenenbaums" today... I feel defeated.

Dear Life, Merry Christmas

For once, the year ends on a genuinely good note.

I've always promised myself that "life begins at 18", and so far it has overcome any expectations I've ever had about what "life" is. Perhaps I could have started what I call "real life" before, but I guess I needed that false sense of aspiration and mind-set... aka being 18, an adult. I don't feel like an adult, I feel like me. Whatever me is, whatever me becomes.


Well, anyway... that's too much of a tangent.

Really, all I want to say is that I am lucky. I've been lucky all along.

I have my parents, I have Alex, I have friends (extraordinary ones)... that's how great acceptance can get.

Pocket Journal

... Hemingway would be proud.


Sitting at a French institution writing about the woes of life on napkins, paper, and pocket journals.


Mr. Hemingway, you're my inspiration.


p.s. I can almost excuse your alcohol abuse and wife-beating.

The What-Ifs of Life...

"So What"...

What if the boy you used to like hadn't been interested in men? Would it have worked out? Would anything have happened at all?

Actually, how this post was inspired was kind of comical.

Logged in to myspace to be greeted by a new message from an old friend. A friend who I always thought would someday grow up to be interested in men. Not to exude feelings of stereotypicalities (I know, not a word. Oh well). I remember liking him. You know adolescent infatuations. Then I wondered "what if". What if he hadn't been gay. Would my life be different? Simple. Yeah. To what extent?

... I turned on my iTunes, shuffle of course. "So What"-Miles Davis came on. Coincidental? I think that is the answer. The answer to these so-called "what-ifs" is a "so what".

There's also other sorts of what-ifs that go on and on towards tangents. It's disgustingly enough a lot like calculus... What ifs are the functions and answers or estimated answers are the so-called limits that it approaches. Yeah, I think I've mentioned this to someone before... I hate how it keeps coming up. It just really does. It makes sense.

MAH

mission accomplished.

haha... i love myamericanheart.

man at coffee shop

a bearded man sits on a wooden chair,carefully analyzing each bite of a muffin.his features are rough; bearded, salt and pepper hair and a face that reflects the passing of time. he sits with legs crossed, looking out the door as if waiting for someone or something to arrive... only to be bothered by dipping his muffin into coffee every now and then. he chews so silently, patiently, a distant look upon his face. he brushes crumbs off his dirt brown slacks as he takes another sip of his caffeine addiction. one hand crossed, placed on top of the other drawing attention to his opaque noir and white plaid shirt; almost flannel. he taps his finger lightly on his lap; another arm crossing action. his gazes are longer now, each moment becoming more and more about him; his life, his emptyness, the beauty of his undefinable dillema. oh a sudden rush of laughter, almost a cry for attention tucked neatly in between desperation and loneliness. oh how this man fills my heart with unfounded emotions. he's a stranger, i am a stranger. he sits there longingly... waiting for something, someone. am i that someone? his coffee is cold now, cold as his heart has gotten; hopeless yet full of wonder. his smile lingers now, ready to fade at any second. his presence is most palpable now as he glances at the reflections of a glass window. he holds conversations with himself, laughing, joking, mocking his own misery. alas, his saga is an endless one. how long will he sit there, that is an unknown truth.

15 mins Lunch Break

finals are feeling a lot like this...

metric said it best...

"... i fought the war, but the war won!"

last final today in 3 hours -_-

Dear Friedlander,

In a way I felt connected to you. Despite the unavoidable fact I have only gone to your lectures twice maybe thrice this year... you left an impression on me. Sure, the last time I ever decided to attend your lecture ended up in a slightly comedic, failure. I got to Solis, literally sat on one of the plathora of seats for a second and got up to leave, which of course turned many heads and some asshole in the crowd said it best; "are you kidding?". To which I replied, "yeah, seriously". Good times.

On a more serious note though, thank you for being so caring. Thank you for catching my mistake of tucking in my scantron inside my essay packet and being so kind about it. Thanks for smiling and caring to know what my name was when I came to see you during office hours. You'll probably never see my face again; you rarely saw it to begin with even though I was in your class. Oh, well. Most of all though, thanks for making your midterms easy and breezy... although, I'm not too sure about that final you made just yet. -__- yes, this is a face of bitterness. But it's ok, I think I can still overlook that slight slide on your part. Au revoir, Friedlander.

I Exist.

It's a funny thing, but sometimes my roommates don't realize that I'm in the room. Sometimes the lights get turned off on me or I give out the occasional awkward moments where it kinda goes like this... "oh, oops i'm scratching my leg... i didn't know you were here" where I respond with "Oh, were you scratching your butt too? Oops, wait sorry" Why? Is it my intense concentration as I read about The Iliad... Film History... or am I too sucked in to the virtual world at times? Whatever the reason, I just want the world to know that I exist. I live a quiet existence, that is all.

Wow... extremely poor use of grammar and vocabulary. I guess I can excuse myself for now; I wrote 8 essays in 2 hours last night.


... now back to self-destruct study mode.

P.S. Finals can suck it... and so can Emile Hirsche -_-

allinyourhead.

"all in your head". I never really once believed it before. Sure, I'd comfort myself with that idea whenever something seemed impossible. Then maybe sometimes everything would just fall into place and I succeed just by chance, by accident. Today was different. I'm experiencing this whole "sub-reality" of life more and more.

My agenda for the day was to successfully ride a skateboard. Yeah, I did it. How surreal, sub-real. I can do it. No fear, no hesitation, I can just do it. Imagine if the rest of life were to happen this way. It'd be 5000 dimensions of chaos, no control, just impulse.


... now all there is left to do is to apply it.

"Finals, they're not hard. It's all in your head."

psht.

Kubrick Part Deux

"... any piece of reality can be manipulated to become a fiction."

I think I've figured it out. It's not so much fiction that results from manipulation, it's more like surrealism, which I guess is a form of fiction when it comes down to it... but just an attainable sort of fiction, one that you can grasp, one that exists, one that you can be sure of.

The weather I think is the epitome of such a manipulation. It alters the mood of the world around you, affecting the way you feel, react, or don't react. The weather has this distinct ability to strike the "unreal" chord in you, one that you cannot ignore. All of a sudden you find yourself not really existing at all, but at the same time you've never felt so real in your life. You're put into a daze, co-existing with time as it slows down, slows you down, making everything clear to you. Just like that, you've realized something that you hadn't before, maybe you haven't even noticed it before. Whatever "it" is. It'll hit you at that moment. What do you feel? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. All that remains is the gushing of all the endless thoughts you've once made in your head... unraveling, becoming completely untrue, yet the most honest it's been for the first time. And so the weather has done what it set out to do. It hoped to do, knew it would do. It has challenged your deepest insecurities, washed it away for you. In that sense, is my heart really still made of diamonds? Am I becoming more human? I'm challenging myself.

This weather, this so-called manipulation has reached an intangible fiction.

Screen Test #1

People-watching, I'm sure you or her or him or someone over there who has no idea who they are has done it. Has any of us really experienced this in the purest, most honest reality? No. I have...Watch Screen Test #1 and #2 by Andy Warhol, if you ever do get the chance. I feel as if only a few are lucky enough. Many will ignore this not knowing what it will/can do for them.There you are, you sit in a dark room... as tiny as you'd like to make the experience that much more intimate. A 60's icon stares right back at you... could be Lou Reed could be John Ashbury, meeting you eye to eye allowing you to see through the depths of their soul. You sit there, 2 whole minutes of connecting... apprehensive, creeped out, perversion, an intense eye-staring contest, discomfort, honesty, puked out honesty... and most of all. desire. the desire to connect, at some level, in some way. could it ever be fulfilled? at the end you are left with "..." that, and exactly just that. your mind is in auto-pilot mode, dispersed, racing at the speed of light ready to go at any second.then it gives, so tired so weary so accomplished yet left with the biggest gap of all... the feeling of desiring even more. to feel, to hear, to watch... it's simply not enough. honesty sometimes feeds you the very lie that you don't wish to know. or maybe lies are just truths that have no answers when asked about. p.s. thanks andy.

Kubrick

"... any piece of reality can be manipulated to become a fiction."

Silent

... so a failed attempt at napping has occurred. Why this rare occurrence? There seems to be an odd noise outside as I type this. The sound of inconsiderate pricks who sound like dying cats thinking they're funny.Hmm, I think I'm officially angry. So now I lay on my bed, silent. What can I do?