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?

selective memory

why are some memories more vivid than others?

the good and the bad are often what prevail and everything in between remains lost and forgotten somewhere just floating around... floating till its magnitude dawns and hits us in the face one day when we least expect it. like playing on a playground one day when you were little. i'm sure a memory like that doesn't come up much in someone's world, but there are times when that minute moment becomes inevitably significant. it's subtle. a sense of subtlety that over-powers the obvious. so i guess in conclusion the good and bad that are vivid in some way really are just insignificant memories. they merely serve as melodrama that keeps life moving... those subtle memories though, that's where the real substance of the plot is. there are the good and bad and then there's the in-between that define who we are.

... i have so much on my mind today.

... so the past transcends

i suddenly miss the past. to be honest, i never really have before. i've always been the kind to look forward to the future; oblivious of the present and forgetful of the past. there's something about this point in time, this moment in my life that makes me want to go back, almost enough to relive it all. who wants to do that? i'm blogging right now almost in a state of panic... almost as if i want some sort of time travel to be real. i want to go back to a time where just being yourself ensured genuine friendships, love, appreciation, affection, a shoulder to cry on, someone to push you on the swing, hold hands, sing songs, having good memories, a good time, satisfaction... where being yourself was enough. i think i'm approaching that so-called limit more and more; i'm beginning to find an approximate answer to why i'm still in san diego... why i've been denied of my dreams of grandeur. i think i need to reconnect. perhaps the past has a bigger role than the now and what's to come. in this way, i don't think living in the past is such a bad thing. living in the past ensures something real, something that can't be changed; permanence.

wishful thinking

*christmas list*
-an A in college
-new digital camera
-red french beret (as seen on Rushmore worn by Jason Schwartzman)
-green le tigre pea coat
-Rushmore, Criterion Collection release on DVD
-kissing zebra bracelet from day-lab (www.day-lab.com)
-1 year subscription to death+taxes magazine
-dark wash yanuk jeans
-cell phone key chain
-journal to write simple thoughts in
-a pack of polaroid film
-holga camera by lomo
-team zissou: unpaid intern shirt
-japanese novelties

the wheels on the bus really do seem to go... well, round and round...

i know, there's been so many posts about buses and bus rides lately... but it seems inevitable that i have to write about it again this time. i dont know, bus rides seem to strike a chord in me sometimes; i feel so anonymous, distant, and free to be observant.
today it kinda dawned on me, bus rides and life have a great resemblance. how far that resemblance goes, i don't know. people come and go, coincidences are often fulfilled when you see a familiar or recurring face or when you catalyze a moment with another person with just a single look, change in pace of environment, different destinations and stops that mark a different part of your journey home... wherever home may be. the thing is when you do get there, to your stop that is... is that really home? what is the true significance of where you get off? just like in life, what is the significance of the place you go back to everyday? is it really home? sure, it's love and comfort that makes a home but why there? is it necessary to have an established destination for home?

Bitch on the Bus

... so another Monday, another interesting bus ride to Center Hall.

At first I was bummed, angry, and unappreciative of the fact that the only legit UC I had gotten into was UCSD. Sure, it's third in the system but who wants bronze? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've become fond of this place and it bothers me when I meet the occasional Debbie Downer who hates on the institution. No one asked you to go here, trust me UCSD could care less. There's seriously other deserving individuals out there who would love to occupy your useless space. Please shut the fuck up and transfer to Irvine. It's not the school that's great, it's the attitude and efforts of the student body that can even begin to make a university great in the first place. I especially can't stand those who complain every waking minute about how socially dead this place is; hello, you're not here to get fucked up and vomit your liver out from excessive drinking. It's sad how there's so many out there reliant on the shit, vapid aspect of life to have a good time. Yeah, I think I'm done ranting. I seriously hope that I'll never have to see that bitch on the bus again who resembled the appearance of a butt-ugly horse.


Good Day.

Waking Up in the Bathroom

in some way or another it's a form of a metaphor and in some other way it hits reality far too close. today was one of those days where you realize there's something missing... effort, aspiration, inspiration, even a symphony playing in the background that serves as the soundtrack to your rebirth.

life is a never-ending turning wheel; one day you're at the bottom of this wheel and the next you're on top. now, somewhere in between the top and the bottom you see everything all too clearly... you know where you'll end up next; the top or the bottom. currently, i'm at the bottom unable to see anything... but the wheel is slowly turning and soon enough i'll be in between again. i know where i'll end up again soon enough. the top.

Waiting for the Bus

today i'm a walking curse,
with a bright neon purse.
i sit, i wait...;
a catatonic state.

strangers so absent-minded;
they hardly notice.
thoughts to myself,
i am engulfed by the frigid embrace of a meaningless existence.

i sit, i wait...
moments pass by;
there goes a glance that can never be understood.
there goes a a smile unnoticed.

What Would you Name Your Penguin? A Real Philosophical Question.

First off, I'd name my Penguin Pele... maybe Gangrene or Chode.

College is a funny thing. You pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to get what out of it? What exactly? I didn't know before, but I do now... You pay for it to get questions like "What would you name your Penguin?" on midterms. Why? Because it's a reflection of life; every detail that we associate ourselves with... like naming your penguin for example... is a reflection of who you are, what you're about, and what you'll end up dying for.

Inflatable Rafts

... if only life had some sort of floating device to hold you up when your head is about to go under water because it's all too much to handle. Like an inflatable raft.

The Cliches of Home

Why do we often miss where we come from?
Why do we always miss the little things we never really once appreciated before?

We can say right at this very moment that we don't care about anything or anyone. Right now.

Across the galaxy and some passage of time later... it's almost a guarantee that you'll be reduced into the most human of forms. Homesick, irrelevant, and desperate to get back the doldrums of familiarity.

... Then again, I've thought this out. Just for myself.

How will I ever show my appreciation for where I've come from?