The Wayback Machine - http://web.archive.org/web/20040128080733/http://www.livejournal.com:80/users/cobalt999/
Cobalt's Journal

> recent entries
> calendar
> friends
> profile
> previous 20 entries

Saturday, January 24th, 2004
5:57 am

I wish it were raining

It almost never rains here

I find solace in the rain

Not in this desert

Empty and cold

(9 comments | comment on this)

Wednesday, January 21st, 2004
4:20 pm - Sweeping Up Shards
A bright flame burns out the fastest. So it seems to have gone with Matt. In addition to citing incompatibilities, he claims to have formed the relationship in rebound from his previous involvement with Aaron. This was said in brief but polite reply to the email I sent asking why he had been out of contact with me since I returned. So it goes. I'm disappointed. I wanted it to work, despite difficulties, simply because he's a nice and sensible guy who I happened to be attracted to. But it's not devastating, and I suspected this would be the end result when I realized he wasn't able to accept some of my traits and unwilling to compromise around them.

To keep things in perspective, this breakup is pie compared to the soul-shredding I endured over Andy. Speaking of which, I think I'm finally over him, though I'm not completely sure. If I am, it took fucking long enough.

In a cynical way, both the end of my relationship with Matt and the fading into memory of Andy leave me with a sense of freedom. I should probably capitalize the opportunity to focus on my work at Mudd, my writing, and my friends, but I'm not willing to give up just yet. Perhaps that's my biology speaking, to a certain degree, but I would prefer to think it is my will.

One lesson among those learned is that I shall not trust words without reason, without understanding the justification behind them. Reason rules the universe, relationships included. Love, faith, affection, and the rest; they are all part of rational action. They can all be challenged for explanation and are not free from analysis. To except them is a dangerous path.

I also idly wonder if, in part, Matt's discovery of my journal led him to pull away from me a bit. There's quite a chronicle of my life contained here, and I can imagine that much of it has the potential to be taken out of context or to push away people who don't know me well enough.

current mood: mild

(5 comments | comment on this)

Tuesday, January 20th, 2004
8:43 pm - Unnatural Response
"Well Tom Daschle is a scumbag, but hey, Nancy Pelosi is responding too," I thought.

The screen was then suddenly filled with a face I can only describe as viscerally disturbing; either Pelosi was on some strong uppers or she's had quite a face lift from the last time I saw her. An unnaturally white smile was perpetually stretched across her face as far as it could go, encased in a lining of bright red, straining to retain shape around each word. Her eyebrows drew up like two cannonball arcs, fixed in position independent of emotion. But those parabolic eyebrows merely highlighted the most chilling aspect of all: her eyes, lids peeled back so as to expose the white full round, pinning me to the couch like two invisible beams of telekinetic force. Her words faded away aside the shrill voice of that eternal gaze, screaming in a thousand cries of the dead, "submit to my will, mortal!" I could not escape the hypnotic paralysis of her icy, glazed, lidless vision. It grated upon my very soul.

Aside from an occasional mechanical quiver, she scarcely allowed her body to move, and with the strain of her face appeared much like an android in the slow collapse of malfunction, about to erupt in a spray of sparks and synthesized babble. I expected her to catch on a word at any moment, and helplessly repeat it in an increasingly distorted imitation of human speech before crumbling in unnatural convulsions to expose the machine beneath. Truly terrifying.

My brain felt as though it were about to split in two by the time the camera shifted from the sorceress, providing but marginal relief in its new target. Daschle sat with an expression so smug not even Bush could hope to match on a good day, speaking in a tone so affected that it dripped pretension almost to the point of comedy. Had he expressed even the most obvious statement in such a manner, such as "my fellow Americans, the sky is, indeed, blue," I would have found it difficult to accept. Did he train to be so revoltingly disingenuous?

Truly, these are dark days for the Democratic Party.

current mood: unsettled

(12 comments | comment on this)

Wednesday, January 14th, 2004
4:15 am
I will forever be overwhelmed by what I have not done. I cannot hope to accomplish a fraction of what is possible in my lifespan. Therefore I must concede to myself that any perceived condition of worthlessness will be the standard until my dying day, not the exception. In order to cope with existence on a basic level, I must recognize and reconcile with this idea, or else I shall be hopelessly devastated by the passage of every moment.

I will never read as quickly, process as efficiently, or think as fully as countless others. There is no hope in acquiring matched ability, for some of those others will have already progressed at an increased rate in the elapsed time, or I shall be biologically incapable. Thus I will forever be mastered in every way by another. Recognition, then, will always fail as a criteria for my happiness. I must free myself from the human search for recognition, for it will always lead to my own destruction. Universal individuality is an illusion which leads to ruin. One can forever expand the local confines of comparison until ultimately devalued.

My happiness must come from the active process of understanding. Paying any heed to recognition, or any measurable end at all will leave me nothing but bitter until death. It is pleasure of an active condition which alone counts.

Gah, and now I've lost my train of thought; my mind is now grasping at thin air where the rest of this entry used to be. But I do know this was a vitally important thought. Vitally important only to myself, to rephrase in agreement with what I've written. For holding my thoughts as relevant to anyone at all but myself is a path to ruin.

(9 comments | comment on this)

Monday, January 12th, 2004
4:57 am - The Democratic Lot
Time for my rankings of the Democratic presidential candidates, be those opinions baseless or not.

1. Howard Dean

In a way it's rather sad that Dean is still my top candidate, and speaks of the lack of cohesive Democratic direction and spirit. Despite tying himself in knots to explain and retract impulsive statements, I still think Dean holds the most promise for energizing action in this country against its rightward movement. He manages to fire up the base without sounding wildly left-wing, and continues to hide away a relatively moderate record as Vermont governor that I think will serve him well in the general election.

The primary reason I'm so forgiving of Dean is that he's trying to form a Democratic consciousness separate from that of Republicans, which inspires those who follow him. Dean has attracted an enormous number of supporters who have never participated in campaign work before, a significantly different demographic from other candidates, from young voters who see a message they understand to older citizens who became disillusioned with the party differences years ago.

I follow his tendencies for decentralization, I generally agree with his perspective on foreign policy, I tend to support his unpopular full repeal of the tax cuts, and I think he's capable of more forward domestic policy once in the White House, since it is those policies which tend to brand candidates as radically left-wing and exclude them from the debate.

Washington needs to be shaken up, and I think Dean is one of the few candidates who actually would. The difference is there is at least a chance he can be elected.

2. Wesley Clark

As reprehensible as this may sound, Wes Clark is pretty much this high up in the ranking because I don't know enough about him. I feel I'm close to his foreign policy perspective, and haven't heard a bad thing about his domestic agenda, but that's based only on what little I know. He's been absent from recent debates because he opted out of Iowa, so I don't know the common criticisms. And most primary platforms sound appealing before you dig a bit deeper into the substance of their proposals, or unearth unsavory records of the candidate's past. But as of yet, I have not seen any significant reason to drop Clark from consideration. If I like what I find, and Dean continues to be reckless with his mouth, Clark might even bump to first, but I find the idea unlikely.

I am a bit troubled by his supposed party flip-flopping; it makes me question the commitment to his platform. But as it stands I support it. And, of course, the Average Joe voter loves a general running for office.

3. Joe Lieberman

Yes, yes, I may joke about "Senator Palpatine," but the truth is that he probably has more integrity than anyone else in the running, and that trait gets a ton of weight given the position of leadership involved. Despite the fact that I disagree with more of his policies than others on this list, at least he's clear in his convictions, and I think that's important when the presidency is concerned.

Lefties often ostracize him due to his strong position on foreign policy, but he's one of the most environmentally friendly and socially liberal senators out there. I think I can overlook the neocon streak for the positives involved.

4. Carol Moseley Braun

Braun is one smart woman. I would put her at number two or three were it not for her somewhat sketchy history of questionable scandals as a senator. I nod along to most of her opinions, and she communicates them in a comprehensible and articulate manner, rather than the bombastic style of Dean or Gephardt. She's a perfect example of why I think we need a female president, like a left-leaning Madeline Albright and Aunt Jemima rolled into one.

She advocates some popular über-liberal policies such as single-payer healthcare, but tends to use actual evidence to support her position and doesn't take the whole ultra-left ham with her à la Kucinich.

5. John Edwards

I think John Edwards probably has the best healthcare proposal of all the candidates, short of a full-out single-payer plan; it's an excellent example of his efficient and practical style. Unfortunately I think he just doesn't have enough experience for the presidency, and his youthful appearance doesn't help his case in the public courtroom. He appears far more of a bureaucrat than a leader, though he may become more of the latter as time goes on. He's got a great foundation to work from, but not the motivational "oomph" to make it to the presidency.

6. John Kerry

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Maybe Windy Kerry's supporters began falling asleep listening to his essay responses to interview questions, and that accounts for his dive in the polls. Gore was a feisty rabble-rouser compared to Kerry's nonexistent charisma. It's not that I dislike his policies, I just think Dean is far and away the better "New England" candidate. I also like staying awake during presidential addresses.

7. Dick Gephardt

I'm tempted to put Gephardt beneath Kucinich, but I think that would be an injustice even to Dick. Protectionism is so last century, Missouri man; labor is going overseas because they need the jobs more than Americans do. It's globalization. Get over it. And could he make healthcare cost any more? Is it a competition or something? I think a Communist bureaucracy would administer it with greater efficiency than Gephardt's bloated proposal. It looks like one vast "throw money" solution to me, and someone like Edwards shows how an approximation can be done for a fraction of the cost. Maybe he's been in politics just a bit too long.

8. Dennis Kucinich

Now Kucinich has definitely been in politics too long. In fact, he appears to have been involved in public office so long that he lacks any real-world experience at all. While I agree with him that the ridiculously large Pentagon budget needs to be slashed, and I think the Department of Peace is pretty good idea, the rest of his platform operates in a vacuum away from political reality. As much as the Natural Law Party and spiritual Greenies want us to commune for world peace, it just isn't going to happen, no matter how much they want it to. I'm not too keen on the track record of criminalizing abortion, either, despite his last-minute "change of mind" just in time for the race.

He's fringe even by third party standards.

9. Al Sharpton

Sharpton doesn't know what the hell he's talking about half the time, plain and simple.

current mood: curious

(22 comments | comment on this)

Sunday, January 11th, 2004
3:58 am - Combining Drugs and Passing Out
Going under was surprisingly simple. I remember talking to the oral surgeon just after he walked in at one moment, and being told everything went well the next. As far as I could tell there was no perceived passage of time such as occurs after sleep, even though the surgery lasted only about an hour. I was so nervous beforehand, with the oxygen mask, IV, and general fear of the unknown pulsing through my mind, that the staff claimed I passed out before anesthesia was even administered. I slept most of the way home, though because of my late bedtime before the eight a.m. operation or the residual anesthesia I do not know.

The aftermath isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be, perhaps because my mother has assiduously followed the recovery directions and medication schedule. I appear to have avoided the usual chipmunk-esque swelling, probably due to a regimen of ice packs over the first forty-eight hours. I've been taking regular quantities of hydrocodene and amoxicillin, along with a gradually decreasing dose of small white pills called methylprednisolene whose purpose I cannot ascertain. Friday went by in flash, mostly due to sleep. Today I've been laying low and resting, taking occasional short naps interspersed with reading and television. I will, thankfully, be able to see two Mandarin Chinese films in Naples tomorrow I was hoping to be well enough to go to, Men's River and Roaring Across The Horizon.

But I have to be careful not to overload myself. Throughout today I would get up, feeling normal, and then feel a few waves of fatigue flash over after about ten minutes. I think, though, that by tomorrow I will be near full capacities again. Now hopefully I can avoid any possible complications with the sockets. Apparently there are degrees to which they measure impaction of wisdom teeth, and mine were at the worst possible level.

And that prospect of the next semester continues to spook me over the horizon. At least I will have a day or two of unbridled reunion with my turntables before the slaughter begins.

current mood: somewhat drained

(15 comments | comment on this)

Thursday, January 8th, 2004
11:11 pm - Mirage
It's just not enough that I'm gay, is it? It's just not enough. No, the world has to punish me further. I'm an intellectual, too. But wait, it gets better. He's interested in politics and the sciences! What a cosmic laugh riot! Why not just give me cerebral palsy too? No, no, no. Then he really would have enough justification to off himself. The key is to give him just enough to be unhappy and lonely about so as to suffer to the very end.

Things with Matt appear to be falling apart. I don't want them to, but it seems that I'm just too different from him. I guess that shouldn't be a surprise, since I'm just too damn different from most everyone on the planet. I care about him, and like being near him, but his needs in a relationship appear to be different from mine. I am a cerebral recluse who enjoys coffeeshops; he is a social person who enjoys hanging out with friends and sometimes drinking. I correspond with others on an infrequent basis with long, detailed letters; he desires regular contact about day-to-day activities. I like thinking about things; he likes doing things.

He's justified in feeling shunned or offended by my relative lack of communication. This, I gather, is because he has different standards of communication in a relationship, both in content and frequency. I can't help it if he is hurt by who I am. I cannot change who I am.

If only I could. If only I could.


I'm having my three remaining wisdom teeth taken out tomorrow morning, two of which are impacted, meaning I will be laid up for a few days. I will catch up on comments I haven't answered when I am able.

Yes, Paul, I know you warned me to be careful about entering a relationship. I can get through this if it falls apart. But it means that now I can't even trust myself when something feels healthy.

current mood: defeated

(18 comments | comment on this)

Wednesday, January 7th, 2004
9:24 pm - Misgivings
Always just as think things are getting better.

She feels it's perfectly okay to insult me and scream at me without reason.

She feels it's perfectly okay to yell painful words and then walk away to another part of the house, to intentionally avoid my complaint that it is wrong.

When I try to explain why I feel hurt she says I'm trying to draw her into an argument. She ignores any attempt to explain or talk, saying discussion is unproductive and that she doesn't want to argue. If she didn't want to argue, why would she throw baseless insults at me in the first place? Am I supposed to not be offended?

Then she always musters up the most hurtful last word before locking a door behind her. It's so irrational and infantile, but apparently I'm the problem.

Apparently I have no respect for her whatsoever. Apparently I have no respect for her property. Apparently I don't care about her feelings at all. Apparently I'm like my sister. Apparently I'm not productive in the least.

Instead of addressing my concern that she is throwing insults that are not true, she spits at me in an angry tone, "oh, go watch some political thing." Apparently I "live in a fantasy world" for wanting to resolve conflict through discussion, despite the fact that she is the one who thinks it's okay to scream and insult for no reason, and not apologize at all.

It's wrong. It's very wrong. And she won't admit being incorrect about any of her words or actions.

It makes me feel so frustrated that someone would only resort to more insults to "resolve" a conflict rather than talk about it. It makes me feel so frustrated that she thinks the way to "resolve" my hurt is for me to just go away and shut up about it. Does she have no sense of morals? No sense of ethics? Why else would she feel justified in accusing me of disrespectful actions, as if intentionally malicious, when I did no such thing? Why does she refuse to just listen to reason, resorting to volume and vitriol instead? It makes no sense to me. Can she not see that such actions only seed more conflict? It's plain as day.

I feel like crying, because there's nothing I can do. I stay calm and try my best to explain to her how I see situations unfolding, but she will hear none of it, and instead proceeds to throw gasoline on the fire. She refuses to use her reason. Why would anyone ever do such a thing? I feel so trapped. What else can I do?

current mood: hurt

(19 comments | comment on this)

3:30 am - Dangers of Thought
I was disturbed this evening by the latest, and apparently last entry of a recent LiveJournal friend: the highly philosophical [info]jena_kirsi.

I do not know if the references to suicide in her profile are merely figurative of her ended journal, but if they are of a more real nature, I feel the world has encountered the loss a promising thinker.

If you are out there and alive, please email me with a simple note that you have not robbed the world of your possibilities.

current mood: concerned

(1 comment | comment on this)

2:35 am - The Gnarled Tree
"Thanks for telling me he was here, Chris," my mother muttered from the front door.

Our computer room stands adjacent to the entryway, with a window facing the street. Mom had asked me to holler if I saw the truck pull up, but apparently I had missed it; the man had already knocked at the door. I took off my headphones when I heard her comment, looking back just as she walked out the door. I swiveled around to the window to see a large, ugly gray truck with a rounded tank, on which was printed "Monty Sanitation." Our septic tank, after seven years of accumulated excrement, needed to be emptied for the first time.

Soon after, Mom knocked on the window, motioning for me to come out.

"I want you to see the septic tank!" she said excitedly once I was outside. A circle had been cut out of one of the planting beds, exposing a hole into a murky cesspool not more than a few inches beneath. The concrete lid to the buried tank, which had previously been covered over with soil, lay to the side of the opening. A certain fragrance was in the air.

I nodded, expressing some mild interest, and retreated back inside to continue typing. A few minutes later she knocked again.

"What?" I said with some slight annoyance, once again among the vapors.

Now, instead of a surface of putrid brown liquid beneath the opening, there was an emptied concrete chamber, extending a few feet beneath the ground. Foamy, polluted water poured in from a pipe near the top. I'd never seen the inside of a septic tank, so I guess it was educational in a sense, but I wasn't exactly captivated, and so again returned to my twice-interrupted task on the computer.

A few minutes later I heard her voice saying, "let me get my son." I got outside before she knocked, and found her peering in the computer room window.

"He needs you to shoot water into the other tank." When I reached the hole I saw that a small part of the nearest inner concrete wall had been knocked in with a mallet, exposing the brown surface of a second chamber. Apparently the one that had been drained first was actually the second step in the septic tank system, before the leech field, and solid waste accumulated instead in the tank that had now been exposed. Since its contents were tougher and greasier, I was to fire water from our garden hose to loosen material while a long pipe from the truck sucked away.

Mom dug through a bed of entangled roots nearby, but the worker advised her to give up. Apparently there was a second lid for the other tank, but it was covered in dense plantings; to save time he had knocked out part of the dividing concrete through the first opening in order to reach it. But looking at my mother's work, I saw that she was clearly making progress. This was when I first realized something was wrong, because he had taken the quicker route rather than the correct one.

My mother also began to look distraught at what the hasty work had done to her meticulous gardening. Plants were torn and ripped to the wayside, covered with dirt from the uncovering of the septic tank lid, or flattened by the truck hose. Railings for young plants stood askew to the ground, their charges bent.

He interrupted with a Cuban accent, appearing in a rush: "I can't pump no more from here. I don't have the time to get that other top off. I got four more jobs to do." The light was already fading. The truck was originally scheduled to come at 10:30am, but didn't show up until past four in the afternoon. Something was definitely wrong. "But hey, I got prob'ly eighty-five percent." What's more is that he had used our shovel, our hose, and our flashlight. Both the situation and the items smelled of shit, but my mother and I were too caught up to realize.

My mother negotiated. "Can't you come back tomorrow? I can dig out the lid in the meantime," she said.

"They're gonna charge you again. It's the policy."

"How much?"

"Full price. Maybe half."

The exchange went on a few seconds more, in hurried fragments. He was apparently in no position to dictate company policy, and had to finish four more pumpings before going home. It seemed, at the time, an administrative failure, because they never told my mother to find the lids, and didn't seem to give him enough time to dig them out himself. Or seem to give him enough time for pumpings, period.

He then claimed to need a check before leaving, when the company had said my mother could simply be billed. She considered refusing, an opinion I agreed with, but she decided to write it out anyway. As he pulled out, Mom looked increasingly defeated and upset, eventually appearing on the brink of tears.

People cry when they feel they have no other options, so I started telling her that she needed to stand up to this because she was getting screwed. I also wasn't going to be a source of sympathy if she didn't.

"What can I do?" she replied in a weak tone.

"Mom, you paid them to take out one hundred percent, not eighty-five percent. You're being taken advantage of."

She snapped, and began screaming. "I know I'm getting taken advantage of! Stop bitching and plowing into me! You think I don't feel bad enough? God dammit!" I expected something might be thrown at me, but instead she stomped over to the neighbors to return the mallet he had used to break the concrete, slamming the door in her wake.

It's that sort of emotional unpredictability, lack of stress management, and lack of reason that I dislike in my family, a condition that seems to affect everyone in it but myself. My sister, for example, abruptly refuses to talk to anyone who disagrees with her in an argument, rather than attempting to explain her position or trying to listen to the other person. What's more is that her opinion is often propped up by pathological lies she has internalized, leading inevitably to conflict. Then, if anyone refuses to accept her view or calls out her dishonesty through evidence, she sometimes gains revenge through passive-aggressive means such as theft or slander.

My aunt, on the other hand, is much more like my mother, breaking at certain points rather than resolving conflict in a rational manner. We've stopped gathering at her quaint country home on holidays because every visit we find ourselves walking on eggshells. She will often take great offense at minor oversights of others, such as a late thank-you card -- nevermind a missed one -- usually suspending communication for months, if not years, as a result. When we stayed at her home after the death of my grandmother, she threw my mother, sister, and I out of the house because my mother had eaten earlier in the evening and did not call to say she would pass on dinner. Upon learning of my mother's lack of hunger, my aunt waved a knife in her face about how inconsiderate she was. When my mother landed a knife in the cutting board in frustration -- the equivalent of her fist striking the board, or so she argues -- my aunt's husband put his hand over my mother's and calmly intoned, "we will have no violence in this house." The wife immediately commanded, knife in hand as if a baton, that we were to leave immediately, despite the fact that we had no car and nowhere else to go on the cold Connecticut winter night. My mother calmed herself and instead suggested that everyone needed some space, that we should just disperse within the house and discuss the matter once tempers had cooled. But my aunt would not budge on the decision; the knife continued to motion with her voice, "out of my house!" The tiff lasted well through the funeral, despite my mother's efforts at reconciliation; my aunt refused to speak with her for years.

My uncle, on the other hand, is the opposite extreme: he just doesn't care. He never answers the phone, seldom returns phone calls, never sends letters, never responds to cards or gifts (which we gave up on years ago as a result), and stows his life away on his self-built Nantucket home. Both when my mother had breast cancer and the numerous times my aunt was landed in the hospital from a degenerative disease, he never so much as lifted a finger to stay in touch. This is, in a different way than the explosions of my aunt or mother, a type of poor stress management. He's always been a placid, contemplative person. He escapes the necessary concerns of life and family by watching the ocean or meditating. His wife is a yoga instructor. You might think he's very good at this whole relaxation thing, you know, putting stress in its proper place. Until you find out that he has to take sleeping pills and muscle relaxants every single night. I think that speaks of deeper personal difficulties.

Five people, including myself; that's the entirety of my family, not counting my uncle and aunt's respective spouses (neither have children). And what a motley crew we are.

Going back to my mother's fit over the septic tank, I could see it maybe being justified if she was still working, or if she was concerned about money. But that's not the case; she has a regular pension, adequate savings, and ample free time. She gardens and visits friends. There are virtually no stressors in her life. This is something more fundamental.

The good news is that outbursts such as this one have been the exception rather than the standard during this visit home. I attribute the change, which allows the two of us to coexist, almost exclusively to the shocking development that she no longer drinks wine. She still drinks beer, and occasionally a single glass of marsala while cooking or taking a bath, but that's nothing compared to the whole bottle or more of merlot she used to consume on a near-nightly basis. Plus, wine seems to affect her much differently than any other form of alcohol. She can drink bottles and bottles of beer, even gin, and have nowhere near the stupefying reaction she has to wine. I'm sure the volumes and alcohol percentages work out to make sense of this, but it remains true that wine is the most expedient vehicle by which she can trash herself. I am duly thankful, and have told her as much, that I no longer have to deal with it. Even today, she fails to understand why it is so significant to me that this has changed, because all the instances I had to defend myself from her drunken behavior she doesn't appear to remember.

I suppose the reasons my mother no longer drinks are that, first, she no longer has to put up with a job she hates, and second, she now lives alone, without any intellectually critical son to argue with. She claims to have stopped because wine congests her sinuses, and there may in fact be truth to this claim as she continued to drink for some time after I had left for college.

Yet that base inability to cope with stress still exists, now invisible because she lacks the normal pressures of life that bring them to the surface. She's far less volatile, but that's merely because she has nothing else taxing her low emotional resources.

However, the instabilities of my mother and sister explode catastrophically when mixed and incubated for a short period of time. Their history of conflict is so extended and deep, their respective conflict resolution skills so poor, that all the horrors of the past come to surface again once a critical mass is achieved. Just when I think both have buried all their daggers, I realize they've each marked where, so all the weapons can be unearthed when needed. This is especially true of my sister, who nourishes such gross delusions of her childhood, amplified to such emotional intensity, that I feel "sick" may be the best description. My sister's past of foster homes, lies, accusations, manipulations, anorexia, bulimia, and theft is far too long to even be sketched here, though I hope to write about it sometime in the future. So for now one will have to take my word that my mother has been unbelievably forgiving of her faults over the years, and now simply snaps if my sister is found to be maintaining one of them. The young woman has followed my mother ever since leaving social services in a long, troubling pattern of manipulative use. After countless cycles of living with my mother, working, covertly quitting, and then using her, my sister no long gives my mother any reason to have patience with her. Although I have my own misgivings about my mother, she is justified in taking a hard position with her daughter.

But there are limits. It was only the day after my mother's septic tank frustrations that the two went from civility to physical blows in less than five minutes. My sister was in the process of moving into a new apartment -- she's thankfully been living on her own for a bit over a year now -- and had been allowed by my mother to place her boxes in the garage, along with her two cats, for an unanticipated interim period of a day. In the meantime, my mother noticed missing sheets and down pillows among the items, and confronted her later that evening about the stolen goods.

My sister, as she always does, insisted to the bitter end that she had bought the pillows herself, but that is how her internalized lies function. She will not admit theft or deceit, no matter the cost. My mother lost control when it became clear my sister would not admit the theft, and screamed for her to immediately leave the house and take all of her stuff with her, proceeding to open the garage and cart the items into the driveway. My sister followed, and began tossing insults including "bitch" and "fucking cunt" once my mother's purpose was discovered. The two briefly argued until my mother hit her cleanly across the face; it was not until then that I entered the garage to see the two tugging at eachother's clothing, and restrained my mother. However right she was in opinion, I refused to see violence come of the conflict, and it was clear that my sister was cooperating, albeit not at my mother's desired pace. As soon as I let go, she moved to aggressively cart more of the items onto the pavement.

And they wonder why I don't like my family? I can only shake my head in wonder. It makes my desire of a reasonable world seem impossibly distant.

These days I feel no significant connection to my biological kin, save my mother. My relationship with her has improved since the incident with my sister, which occurred on New Year's Eve. That evening I was worried all the change I thought had happened in her, in truth, had not. I was thankfully scheduled to leave with friends fifteen minutes after the argument flared, allowing me to exit the situation at the same time as my sister. I didn't want to deal with any possible fallout directed toward me, and was concerned about the remainder of my winter break. But to my surprise, my mother was reasonable and willing to talk about the incident the next day. I expected her to take the classic position of insisting she was correct in every detail of her actions, physical blows and all. Instead she listened to me, and explained her feelings and thoughts. I suppose only the conditions of retirement have allowed such a luxury.

I'm still wary. The past weeks have given me far less reason to fear my mother's instability, but I still worry that some situation may trigger her. At the very least we can now live in the same house for longer than two weeks.

My mother's occasional rage, however, is far more superficial and harmless than the seething hatred my sister appears to cultivate in the deepest recesses of her soul. While my mother can have transitory phases of anger, they are ultimately fueled by her own frustration. At heart she is a good person capable of good actions and a peaceful life. But my sister appears to draw conflict towards herself as a result of ingrained behaviors. She has a hidden side of pure, burning hatred that is frankly frightening. So much so that my mother honestly worries from time to time that her daughter will murder her in her old age for money. She is convinced the job would be done flawlessly, without evidence, because that is how Lisa operates. She would act the part of the surprised and traumatized child without a hitch. My sister appeared to learn from a very early age how to manipulate, dressing in her finest while dispersing completely false, yet detailed, accusations to psychologists to judges. And they believed every word. Oh, the stories that could be told.

We are a gnarled little family tree; a few twisted branches, with little healthy growth. I'd rather escape to seed my own, or graft onto another. The family name ends with me, as my sister bears the name of her father, who is different from mine, and I inherited that of my mother, who raised me alone. Thus I hold the ability to formally end this lineage, and I intend on doing so.


Oh, I forgot to mention that the septic tank situation was cleanly resolved the next day by a visit to the office. Apparently the worker had previous record of complaints, and the charges he claimed would be levied for another visit were a fabrication to discourage complaint from my mother. They finished the job properly with a different driver, the same day, free of charge.

current mood: pensive

(15 comments | comment on this)

Sunday, December 28th, 2003
8:55 pm - One Path
This evening I caught the tail end of an In Depth interview with Camille Paglia, an author and public intellectual who I had never heard of before. While I did not agree with everything she had to say, what struck me was how seamlessly she fused humor and expression with educated references and clear speech, so as to be both engaging and informative. Too many authors and intellectuals are bound up in concrete stoicism, avoiding creative rhetoric, as if the two are mutually exclusive. Dr. Paglia offered a stunning example of how informal speaking and high subject material, when used in conjunction effectively, can enhance each other. Her thick New Yorker accent and wide gestures (the latter which she attributed to Italian heritage) brought concise words to life. This is a model I feel I should strive towards, because it's all too easy, particularly as one enters the college years and beyond, to allow one's writing and oration to collapse under its own weight. Clarity is a key ideal that I feel is crucial to the entire intellectual endeavor.

I should add, at this point, that Book TV rocks. It is one of the few slices of television left that I feel is worth watching.

As I continue to unearth public figures such as Camille Paglia, I become increasingly aware of how alone I am among those in my family and life regarding this curiosity toward thinkers. I aim to be such a thinker myself someday, but believe that doing so will create an inseparable wall between myself and the remaining fragments of my family. My mother got me started on this path of curiosity, but I had to leave her behind several years ago. My sister is hopelessly isolated from my world, with virtually no capacity to discuss anything outside of everyday life. I sadly see my mother receding toward the same, though she does have her occasional flashes of insight. My aunt and uncle have communicated with me less and less as time goes on, so I'm inclined to throw their potential input to the dustbin. What about my peers in the technical world? How interested will they be in subjects beyond their work, and beyond their life? I suppose only time will supply me with that answer. In the meantime I think I need to read, so that all this complaining doesn't ultimately amount to hot air.

I have no choice now but to become the master of my own education. I have no path but ruthless self-improvement of mind. Deviations will merely become detours.

current mood: reflective

(21 comments | comment on this)

Friday, December 26th, 2003
10:19 am - Winter Calm
By the time I turned in my Biodiversity Policy final last Friday night -- an essay due by ten through email, which I sent at nine fifty-three -- I was just about ready to collapse into a small heap on the floor. True, by Mudd standards my finals week wasn't exceptional, perhaps even below average, but I was exhausted from it all the same. Sleep had fallen into the spaces between study and test-taking, only loosely following the diurnal cycle, and both my body and mind felt taxed.

I'd planned on leaving for Florida the next morning, since the deadline for eviction was Saturday at 0800, but still had laundry and packing to do by the time eleven rolled around. The washers and dryers had, predictably, been tied up all day. I considered simply packing dirty clothes in order to sleep a bit more, even though I didn't even have anything clean to wear the next day (whatever I wore on the plane didn't necessarily have to be clean either given the filthy condition of most airliners), but my hygiene and fatigue eventually won out. Clean clothes pack better, make better pillows in case of a standby travel stranding, and I did in fact have interest in wearing something washed while traveling. I also had little interest, after already draining myself of sleep throughout the week, in waking up at five in the morning for a seven flight.

Before the laundry issue intervened, Matt had offered to let me spend the night at his apartment Friday night and then drive me to the airport the following morning. He called after my email final was turned in to evaluate the progress in packing. Nowhere close to done, dirty clothes still hampered, I told him it might be a better idea that I fly out Sunday morning instead. Washing my clothes, I explained, would prevent me from spending the night with him since I would be up till two at least and have to be at the airport by six. He didn't mind the change in plans, or the fact that I would have to bum around with him Saturday after getting kicked out of my dorm in the morning. "The only thing is that I have a party to go to Saturday night, and I feel bad just dropping you off somewhere." Matt is not out to some of his friends, so he wasn't hot on the idea of bringing me along to a gathering of people who know his life pretty well and probably wouldn't buy some fictional explanation of who I was.

With academic burdens finally off my mind, I immediately pleaded that he leave me at the nearest bookstore. It had been too long since I'd sat down to browse without another care in my mind. Matt seemed a bit confused at my enthusiasm. "Are you sure? It's going to be several hours." I tried to explain that a few hours probably wouldn't be enough. A few hours never are, in a bookstore. And with the unholy fusion of espresso into large stores which typically close as late as midnight, such as Barns & Noble, there's no hope of saving me once I've fallen in.

Eventually the washers opened up, and eventually the packing (a single suitcase; I travel light) was done. After a couple hours I dragged myself out of bed, closed up my room, and waited in the chilly morning air until Matt came by to pick me up. Tired from the late packing, I crashed at his place until past noon. That afternoon we took a visit to the nearby Kellogg House, the former winter residence of the cereal company's founder, which was having an open house. It was an interesting fusion of Art Nouveau, Spanish, and Islamic architecture.

Matt dropped me at the local Borders, and informed me how long he would be gone. It really didn't make that much of a difference; I could stay in those places for days if given the chance. I started with some light magazine browsing before sitting down with The Economist and a copy of The Los Angeles Times. Mudd doesn't give me much time to keep current with the news or other items of public interest, at least not with the depth I'd like to be informed, so I carefully processed through the contents of both; this took me two hours or so given my slow reading speed. From there I migrated to the stacks, and found myself drawn to the philosophy section. After the Hegel fiasco of my recent class I was interested in what others had to say about him, and sat down for some digestions and second opinions. I believe one author said his writings are difficult to understand because they are "written in obtuse Hegelian terminology." Yeah, no shit. You might say they're written in an arcane Hegelian dialect. Yes, that was a lame attempt at a philosophy joke.

Before long I'd spread out in to Foucault (who I didn't know was gay) and Kant, making constant mental notes of other texts I needed to refer to and read. The rusty machinery of my mind began slowly turning again, fueled by new curiosity. Whenever I get into an intellectual rut, a good library or bookstore visit inevitably digs me out. The last few weeks of the semester had me feeling jaded and exhausted about learning in general, particularly of the philosophical kind. Reading on the floor of Borders gave me the perfect kind of mental jumpstart one needs at the opening of a vacation.

To give a piece of what's been on my mind, I've realized that I desperately need to define rationality. Paul thwarts me in debate every time with that simple question: "What is rational?" My entire philosophical base rests on this amorphous concept of "rationality" in understanding, but while I can distinguish what I deem rational from what I deem irrational, I realize I have no concrete definition to point to of what exactly rational is. The closest I can come is acting toward and believing in what one has the best evidence for. In most cases that seems to work for me, but there are complications: how do we decide what evidence is most convincing? What if evidence in question is inherently subjective? I need to sit down and sort out some of these grey areas, and I think a good place to start would be Kant, who seems to be a prominent figure in the history of outlining the nature of scientific knowledge. This question has also made me curious about some of the postmodern philosophers. Why do many postmodernists claim that rationality is dead, treating objective truth much like some idealistic childhood dream? This, among other questions, I want answered.

Matt kicked my foot with his as I sat on the floor. "After all that complaining I find you in the philosophy section?"

"Of course. I complained about Hegel because I like philosophy. Otherwise I wouldn't much care."

I have a goal of finishing three books this Winter Break, one of which I was reminded of by the bookstore visit: Gödel, Escher, Bach. The other two are Atlas Shrugged and Fukuyama's Our Posthuman Future. Hopefully that goal will fend off a bit of my laziness.

Matt was apprehensive of his gestures toward me as I got off at the terminal. I feel a bit bad for him, feeling so uncomfortable with me when around other people, but he'll get over it.

I manged to get across the country in a single day, unusual for flying standby on the weekend before Christmas. It was close though; I waited through three flights until I got out of Ontario, and narrowly made it on the last flight out of Dallas to Fort Myers. I'd started Siddhartha that morning, and nearly finished it by the time Mom picked me up at the Southwest Florida airport that evening. Since I was low on money I'd abstained from food most of the day, aside from stewardess-distributed scraps, so she'd brought me spaghetti and a pear in the car.

I've been unproductive thus far, doing little else than watching C-Span (a luxury of home), baking cookies, drinking coffee, and sleeping. The reading has been sporadic, but I think I'm going to start in earnest now that all the holiday crap is out of the way. This Christmas was the least eventful, especially in terms of gifts, that I've had thus far, and I prefer it that way. I become increasingly sickened by the holiday with each passing year. If I turn on the television (itself a bad idea) and see one more talking cartoon animal in a Santa hat, I may just have to slit my throat on the spot. The pseudo-religious capitalist frenzy disgusts me. No one in my family wants anything, and no one much wants to buy gifts. Well, the only thing I want is vinyl -- meaning money since no one is familiar with my music -- but no one wants to give money, and I feel a bit undeserving of it in any case. Sure, we sometimes buy a tree, and sure, we get together with family friends, but the spirit of it isn't there for me. New Year's Eve holds much more importance to me, as it gives me a reason to reflect on time and think.

I swear, when I live on my own, I will not own a single shred of Chriskwanzikah crap.

current mood: calm

(45 comments | comment on this)

Monday, December 15th, 2003
4:55 pm - Ghosts
When the room is quiet
And the daylight's almost gone
It seems there's something I should know

Well I ought to leave,
But the rain, it never stops
With no particular place to go

Just when I think I'm winning
When I've broken every door
The ghosts of my life, they're wilder than before

Just when I thought I could not be stopped
When my chance came to begin
The ghosts of my life, they're wilder than the wind

But I'm feeling nervous
Now I find myself alone
The simple life's no longer there
Once I was so sure
Now the doubt inside my mind
Comes and goes but leads nowhere

Just when I think I'm winning
When I've broken every door
The ghosts of my life, they're wilder than before

Just when I thought I could not be stopped
When my chance came to begin
The ghosts of my life, they're wilder than the wind


current mood: dismal
current music: Tenth Planet - Ghosts

(2 comments | comment on this)

1:58 pm - The Dialectical Being of Truly Being True in the Essence of Being within History, Time, and Eternity
I find it a bit difficult to convey in words how repulsed I am by my philosophy class at this moment. Having spoken shortly with my professor over a few of my concerns from the semester, I feel that Hegel and his followers are perhaps some of the most delusional, disconnected human beings alive. Kojeve blithers on with capitalized versions of important-sounding words for over eighty pages with no recognizable argument or logical thought process whatsoever and declares it rational; we are then summarily told that it is. Hegel fills an entire book with nonsensical garbage, and we are told that philosophical objection is not only unlikely, but impossible, so long as we are to remain rational. What a marvelous way to prove an argument: define rationality, assert a claim, defend the claim by saying that any possible argument against it cannot be rational. And I am to believe that a text of hundreds of pages of total intellectual sewage, with no pattern of sense that I can even begin to recognize, is 'rational'? It's the equivalent of taking a class from the Cheshire Cat. The up-is-downism of Stalinism, the Bush Administration, or Oceania pales in comparison. Worse yet, this hopelessly isolated intelligentsia is paid to continue spouting such insanity.

Yes, I believe I have found a group that I hate disagree with more than theists: metaphysicians.

current mood: livid

(9 comments | comment on this)

Sunday, December 7th, 2003
8:45 pm - And The Rain Falls
I actually wrote an entry a few days ago, but accidentally hit the enter key just before posting it, causing my browser to skip back and erase the entire thing. It was cause for much sudden anger and frustration in a week where overdue assignments had already beat down my emotional defenses. I almost always copy my entries to the clipboard before posting them and, after losing them from explorer crashing a few times, which erases the clipboard, I copy them to a text file as well. Naturally, this occurred on one of the few instances where I had not done either. Anywho.

Last night was both fantastic and worrisome. I was given the chance to play at the Motley, our local counter-culture coffeeshop, for a party jointly thrown between the Pomona-based Queer Resource Center and Mudd's Prism. I expected my offer to be passed over from fear to deviate from the tried-and-tired hip-hop norm, so was pleasantly surprised when told I would be spinning all three hours. Perhaps the decision was made under duress in the absence of other DJs, but I don't particularly care if that was the case or not; I had a fantastic time, and plenty of other people seemed to as well.

I was quite surprised at the quality of their installed sound system, which appeared to consist of merely two large, ceiling-mounted speakers, although there may have been supplementary units I was unaware of. The sound came through so strongly and clearly that I would be surprised if there were not. The mixing itself was satisfactory, but could have been better. Last-minute technical issues prevented me from having a monitor, which put me at a slight disadvantage, but I managed. There were a couple mild trainwrecks, but I ducked out with the ever-so-useful bass kill switch. Must learn to avoid that being such a tempting and skilless trick.

There weren't as many people as I'd hoped for -- virtually no one until 11:30, in fact -- but I attribute this to poor advertising, several parties held the previous night, and that the semester is in its final stretch, causing people to be busier than usual. There were a fair number of people sitting outside, likely because they weren't used to dancing to electronic dance music, but I took this as a necessary casualty. What truly shocked me was the positive feedback I got, despite the small crowd. I expected the small turnout to be a deathblow to my chances of playing at mainstream parties on the colleges, but instead was told that quite a few people enjoyed the event. I even gave my number to someone. Uh, for DJing, that is.

Speaking of giving out numbers, there were some guy issues that muddied the rest of the evening. Halfway through the set in walked Matt, who I hadn't heard from in days, and Aaron, his recent ex and and a mutual friend of ours. Er, former mutual friend, now, but we'll get to that. Anyhow, seeing them together, along with the fact that Matt suddenly appeared to drop from communication a few days earlier, got my gears working.

Yes, I left this part out. Hooboy. So here's how it goes: Matt was involved with Aaron, and I met the former via the latter several weeks ago, when they were just about to formally break up. Matt had been pulling away, and Aaron was unsatisfied with the relationship but emotionally attached to Matt in a very serious way. Matt, planning on ending things with Aaron, then asks me if I'd be interested in getting to know each other. I accept, conscious of the fact that Aaron would be hurt, for the sake of entering something I feel is right. We decide that not telling Aaron for a short period of time would be the best course of action. So we become involved outside of Aaron's knowledge, who is still trying to remain friends with Matt.

About a week ago Matt and I encountered the first roadbump, regarding the frequency and nature of telephone calls. He started out on the relationship by calling me every day for no other reason than to say hello. I appreciated it, but told him honestly that that is not what I typically use the telephone for, and that it made me feel a bit uncomfortable. He immediately sunk, appearing to believe that my desire not to have fleeting daily calls somehow indicated that I wasn't as interested, or didn't want the same thing he did. For most anyone else I would dismiss this concern with a simple "well, that's unfortunate you think so." But I was worried by how much he was hurt and refused to let him sulk away to conjure my emotions on his own, when that's not how I felt at all. So we sat down -- over the telephone -- and had a nice two-hour long conversation in which I attempted to explain that I use the telephone for extended conversations, and typically like being called with a specific purpose in mind. Most of all I attempted to impress that the issue had no bearing on how much I cared about him, and that I merely operate in a different way. Still, no matter how much I tried, he sounded sullen. I eventually decided that I had done all I could to explain myself and my affection, and he appeared level enough to think on the issue himself without inventing how I felt.

I didn't realize how much this must have hurt him, as I was only attempting to be open and honest with my feelings. He spoke to me several more times over the next couple days, and visited, but it felt like he had a shadow over him. It worried me. I was told on Tuesday of this week that we might be able to get together on Thursday, then heard nothing onward. I sent an email. I called, and left a message. I became more worried. This was not something I was going to lose. Not this, when it was clearly just a minor misunderstanding that had disturbed it.

This was the frame of mind I was in when he arrived with Aaron at the Motley Saturday night, and hence the reason warning lights immediately triggered in the back of my mind. After the affection we had shown for each other, all the words and gestures, was I being quietly dumped? Was my horrid pessimism to win out once again? I squelched the noisy voice and told myself that he was simply out with him as a friend, and that he had not been able to talk to me or visit because he had been busy. In truth, it was the more plausible explanation. The two visited the turntables, and Matt stooped next to me while I shuffled through a milk crate of records. We exchanged a smile and a few words about the music, which made me optimistic of what the situation was. Still, being in the dark was uncomfortable, and I still had lingering doubts.

"I think you're pretty low." The first line of Aaron's instant message later that night crumpled my stomach. It was going to happen sooner or later. I suppose later happened. I should have told him first. I was certain that Matt had taken the brunt of it instead, which he didn't deserve. The conversation was short and bitter, in which I explained that I didn't want to hurt him, and thus avoided telling him of the relationship, but didn't want to throw away the chance at something I felt was healthy with Matt. Aaron largely ignored what I had to say, inserted a few more lines such as "it's all about you, isn't it," promptly threw down a vitriolic last word, and signed off before I could respond.

I emailed Matt asking for a heads up. I couldn't judge from Aaron's comments whether he and Matt were together again; it could have theoretically been either. I had tolerated being in the dark through now, but I needed to know what was going on. He signed online soon after I'd sent the letter, and indicated to me that it was a "long story," that he was "tired" and "numb," and that "we need to talk." "You don't need to worry," he added. I swallowed my concern and decided to put faith in that statement.

He called this afternoon and delivered a more complete story. Apparently Aaron had invited Matt over both Friday and Saturday nights, and attempted to initiate something again despite the fact that Matt had, to my knowledge, formally broken up with him. The trigger was the party, at which Aaron asked to hold his hand, but he refused given that I was a few feet away and had not spoken to him in a few days. I appreciate this concern in retrospect, but the fact that I hadn't been informed of him even trying to get together with Aaron again bothers me. After they left, apparently Matt explained what had happened between him and I, Aaron went nuclear, and said that he didn't want to speak to him.

After Matt had finished the account, I said that it was okay, and that we all make mistakes, but that he would have to choose one or the other or else a lot of people would get hurt. What troubles me is that I still care just as much about him, but for some reason I don't understand he seems to be withdrawing from me. Those are just doubts, of course; I'm constantly telling myself that he's simply jarred, tired, and exhausted from not just this ordeal, but tough academics as well. I can understand how he would be. But I don't want to lose this. I have an intense fear of losing things I emotionally invest myself in, especially without reason I can understand. I don't want to lose this. I'm a bit worried.

It's been raining all day. The damp and icy air is cleansing. I enjoy sitting in the rain. I always have.


Addendum:
I found out later this evening that Matt has two finals tomorrow, and another later in the week. With the addition of this situation landing on him at such an inopportune time, I can see how I would get the impression that he has been withdrawing. In truth he has probably been worried to death over classes and simply been preoccupied with that stress. We'll see how things go the week after, then my finals week, but I'm pretty sure that his recent silence is attributable to work alone. I honestly wish I had the focus he does when it comes to classes, so I find it a very convincing reason for his relative lack of communication.

current mood: concerned

(3 comments | comment on this)

Monday, December 1st, 2003
2:37 am
Dear Dorm,

In the interest of preventing dangerous creatures from spawning, I have
dispatched with the twin Lasagna of Doom in the trash can below our Dorm's
copper name, which will hopefully be emptied by campus personnel come
morning. Hopefully the Lasagna will be destroyed in the most efficient way
possible so as to prevent CDC involvement.

I suggest that the old refridgerator be incinerated in a stream of molten
hellfire to prevent any possible side effects to health via its other
contents. Strict codes of culinary decency, handed down from on high, will
be enforced on the new dorm fridge, so that evil of this magnitude shall
never again find root in the chilled leftovers of East. Your future
cooperation in these measures will be necessary and appreciated.

Chris "Mold Paladin" K

(3 comments | comment on this)

Saturday, November 29th, 2003
4:51 pm - Parallel Sun
This morning, er, afternoon I tumbled out of bed in attempt to make it to Platt before brunch closed. The main doors were locked, but I managed to sneak in the exit and scavenge a few of the items that hadn't been taken back. Taking a lonely seat, I noticed Jacquelyn, my best friend from high school, now attending Claremont McKenna, at a table across the room, flailing her arms as if in argument. I seldom see her eating at Mudd, but over the Thanksgiving break our dining hall has been the only one open for all five-college students. I moved to see what the commotion was about.

Four were seated at the table, two of which were engaged in hot debate, a third occasionally chiming in. Jacquelyn paused for a fraction of a second, turning her head in a quick "hey, Chris," before snapping back toward her match.

"...they're still going to appeal to their constituencies! And just because there's an evolution of opinion doesn't mean there's a homogenization of opinion--" She was cut off at the tail end of her sentence, in a way that doesn't deserve a period.

"When you have the media guiding politicians, they're going to gear themselves toward those instant polls. The Democrats and the Republicans..."

They were apparently having a debate over whether the two parties were moving toward each other over time, in practice if not in ideology, and the role the media has in that process. I listened intently for a period of time before peppering in some comments, a bit apprehensive from not knowing any of the four but JB. But watching her flush with words and occasionally pound the table, the energy of her small frame contrasting against the large forms of the three young men, was entertainment enough in the meantime.

The point of this story is not to segue into political discussion, but to point out that this scene is one I never find at Mudd. I mentioned this to the four CMCers as they returned their trays; the one who had been trashing it out with Jacquelyn let out a small laugh and said, "Really? We have way too many discussions." I thought that my perception of Mudd as an intellectual wasteland was my own fabrication, but now I'm calling that into question again. Rarely does anyone ever talk about subjects outside of science and math, and never with the rigor I saw at brunch today. Yet that is standard fare by their measure? It makes me feel suffocated not to have access to that in a college setting.

I just have to make an effort to take more off-campus classes, because there's nothing I can do about it now. I've flirted with the idea of going to grad school for something other than biology, but it's a silly and unrealistic idea. I think my best chance lies with something called the Watson Fellowship, which grants a graduating senior a huge sum of money to travel the world for study of a particular topic -- and doesn't allow you back in the country for a year. There's precedent for it at Mudd, and due to the distribution of what schools are eligible, a good chance I can get it. I have a well-developed idea of what I want to study, why I need to travel to study it, and where, plus experience in travel. The topic? Comparative perceptions of socialism and communism. The possibilities are fantastic.

I just wish that Mudd was the science-intensive liberal arts college it pretends to be, rather than the technical school it actually is.

current mood: contemplative

(4 comments | comment on this)

Sunday, November 23rd, 2003
11:20 pm - Orchids over an Icy Plain
This morning I woke up next to a guy named Matt. I shifted my weight and wrapped my arms around his torso, to which he woke and turned to me with a smile. I smiled back.

I feel this is the healthiest relationship I've been in. My previous experiences appear now like mere friendships with sex, and nothing more. There's something here that I've never felt before, a sense of genuine affection and reciprocation. He looks me in the eyes, and I see a person. No one I've been intimate with has ever done that before, simply returned my gaze without appearing to hide something.

Granted, we aren't as compatible as we could be. There are rifts in interests and temperament, but not drastic enough to divide what we have. In fact, our differences have seemed to work well as resistance to moving too quickly.

I have no great expectations, and I tend to prepare for the worst in life; I may very well lose this as soon as I've built it. The relationship isn't especially old, and still forming. But I see no indication from him of breaking away, and I'm not thinking of it either.

I realized this afternoon that for the first time in what seems ages, I am happy, and not simply because of this.

current mood: calm
current music: Sunday Club - Etarna's Flight

(15 comments | comment on this)

5:00 pm - Summer's End
Back in July I mentioned that I would be attempting a detour through New York on the way back to California for a performance by Paul van Dyk in Central Park. Despite flying standby on Labor Day weekend, I managed to make the event, but not without earning a story to tell of the journey involved. And no LJ-cut for you; deal with it.

I bought my ticket online ahead of time -- all I had to do was print it out -- but being out of money I had to appeal to the Bank of Mom for funds. She agreed on the purchase as a birthday gift so long as I completed my overdue spring semester classwork before leaving, a condition I would have ideally enforced upon myself, but knew I probably wouldn't. She hid the ticket as a precaution.

It was under these circumstances that I found myself working on my final paper for Contemporary Moral Problems the night before I was to fly out. Mom went to sleep, wagging her finger at my procrastination. As the hours passed I realized that I would at least finish, but that sleep would not be on the agenda. That's what flights are for, right? Of course it was also true that I would have to make my way to Manhattan that afternoon, followed by four hours of dancing, followed by a return to the airport to sleep in some random location, but, well, we have to make sacrifices. I tied up the paper around five in the morning -- I think it turned out well; you can read it here -- and proceeded to brew coffee for the hours ahead. I finished packing at roughly the time my mother's alarm sounded for her to get up and drive me to the airport; the plan was to have my suitcase shipped, and to merely take a backpack of supplies through New York for the days between. After handing her a copy of the text I'd churned out overnight, she retrieved the ticket from its hiding spot.

She stood for a time watching me go through the long line of security at the airport, but apparently not long enough to actually see me go through; one minute I looked back through the winding line and saw her, the next I didn't.

As a standby passenger I had only listed my seat the day before, but I'd kept an eye on the passenger loads to judge my chances of getting to New York in time. By the time the twenty-eighth rolled around, it appeared likely that I would snag a seat across to Miami, but that some unusual convergence of chance would be necessary to make it to New York. Given that I had bought a ticket already and desperately wanted to see my favorite DJ in the world for one of his rare performances outside of 21+ venues, I figured it was at least worth a shot. But if I didn't make it out of Miami on one of two flights I would miss my window and arrive after Paul had finished at 10pm.

The pilot interrupted with a distracted drawl -- the same kind almost all commercial airline pilots seem to use; I think it might be a job qualification -- "Hi folks, this is your captain speaking. They're, uh, having some thunderstorms around the Miami area, so, uhh, we're going to be, uh, banking through some, uh, clouds here, so be prepared for some... uhh... turbulence, and, ahh," he continued to ramble over the intercom. Sure enough, out the window I could see us heading into billowy, white thunderheads over the Everglades, swamping whatever lay beneath. I always find it exciting to fly through storms; the unanticipated dips in altitude that make your stomach lurch upward never cease to give me a thrill, and I never tire of all the different cloud formations I see on the way. The show provided by lightning is an added bonus.

It was only on the bus to the main terminal from the local prop-engine flights that I realized this was working to my advantage. We had been late in parking since the ground personnel were temporarily kept inside to avoid lightning, and the bus from our plane now stood stuck behind other, apparently empty buses occupying the overhang of the gate entrance as rain poured. I impatiently tapped my foot with the knowledge that the New York flight was leaving in under an hour, and I had no idea how far I would have to trek through Miami International to get there. As we finally moved within a few feet of the overhang the driver opened the door; most passengers remained inside until another bus made room for a dry exit, but I merely dashed out into the downpour in the interest of time. Although it was only a few feet, my shirt was soaked. Time actually wasn't a very big factor, I would soon find out, but I was nervous and worried about making the connection.

As I stepped into the terminal and looked at the arrival screens a smile grew across my face. The flight status column was a pattern of color, as opposed to its usual uniform green of On Time; I quietly counted to myself how many flights were delayed and reached the double-digits. I found my flight, listed without a delay, and scurried to the moving walkways.

After a long hike, I shuffled with short breath towards the ticket counter for New York JFK. The agent was almost lackadaisical in her manner of reply, "oh, there's plenty of room, you'll probably get on." Mind you, this flight had been overbooked by ten people the night before. I was downright giddy.

My excitement dimmed a bit when it was announced that the flight would be delayed; each second we waited was a second more for connecting passengers to reach the gate. Despite being delayed twice more, the agent at last called my name. By then I was hovering over the counter like a vulture, and I swooped onto the boarding pass like carrion. She seemed baffled by my profuse thanks for the slip of paper.

I took my aisle seat next to a homely looking old black woman by the window, who greeted me with a smile. I seem to recall her rousing me once or twice to go to the lavatory; I felt sort of bad for trapping her, but she waved her hand at my saying so with a dismissive laugh. I woke for landing; as we taxied into the gate she looked out the window and quietly sang what sounded like a slave hymn, keeping measure with the slow pat of her hand on her thigh. It was strangely fitting for my arrival, echoing the mood of some sort of pilgrimage.

The hushed anticipation of that moment contrasted sharply with the chaos I was plunged into upon leaving the terminal. People of all appearances busily rushed down the sidewalk or across the street to bus stops or parking, like an anthill perpetually disturbed. The drivers had the least care for pedestrians I'd ever seen, and edged forward impatiently at crosswalks like hungry animals. I suppose this is New York, I told myself while glancing at the cars, striding among the crossing throng.

From JFK I took a free bus to the subway and deciphered what route to take to Central Park (it ended up being a single line). After all the walking and rushing I rested my head back for a moment while the dark walls streamed by. Two young women sat across from me conversing, and I lifted my head to focus on the watch one was wearing. Its hands seemed to read 5:15, but that didn't seem possible; my flight had come in no later than four. Watchless, I came to the realization that that much time had passed in travel and changing clothes. Paul's set started at six. I again began to tap my foot impatiently.

Halfway through the subway trip, somewhere in Brooklyn, an elderly Asian woman in a pale green gown took a seat across from me and to the right. She appeared somehow regal yet so frail. I seem to remember some simple embroidery down the strip of fabric covering a seam running vertically down the front, but the gown was clearly cheap material. It was as if she was holding on to something dear against this stark, city surrounding. She stared to the floor at an angle, though due to age or state of mind I could not tell. A middle-aged black man glanced to others seated and then crouched to her ear when her stop approached. He helped her out without actually leaving himself. But somehow there seemed no real sense familiarity between the two; it appeared much more like a stranger helping out someone in need, as if they encountered each other on the metro alone.

I got off at Columbus Circle. Emerging from the artificial light of the underground into daylight, I was stunned by sudden immersion in a landscape of skyscrapers, more extensive than anything I'd seen before. Even in downtown Miami there was a visible limit to the skyline wherever you stood. Not so here; it extended indefinitely in every direction.

With the help of some directions I rounded to Merchants' Gate, the southwest entrance of Central Park, but before entering needed to find a place for my backpack, which I was still hauling around. I figured that, like other dance music events I'd been to, bags would not be permitted inside. I'd tried to find storage lockers at the airport, but thanks to new security precautions all lockers in the terminal had been removed. The clock was ticking. The nearest building I could spot that might offer storage was Trump International Hotel, so I set out toward its metal globe.

Rather than opening to a lobby as I expected, behind the main door was a small atrium with three finely dressed young women behind a shallow counter. Presumably because I was dressed in clothes suitable for dancing and hauling a somewhat overstuffed backpack, they looked at me with curiosity; I guess that's not their usual clientele. Unfortunately they didn't have any way I could stash my bag either.

With no other apparent options, I took the chance of finding a locker somewhere in Central Park. With less than five minutes to six, though, I certainly didn't have much time to search one out. My pace became as fast as would still qualify as walking. (Some of you might be wondering why arriving on time to a four-hour event was such a driving priority in my mind, but keep in mind that electronic dance music is my most important hobby, this was a rare chance to see my favorite performer, and that the entire purpose of the trip was to attend this event.) Back at Merchants' Gate a circular crowd had formed around breakdancers and a boombox; it seemed such a stereotypically urban scene, to see this beneath the surrounding skyscrapers. I hurried past into the tree cover. After a short and fruitless search for storage I decided to see if any options existed at the Summerstage entrance itself.

Oh, but where was the entrance? I'd taken along a map of Central Park that my mom obtained on a previous visit, and marked out the location of Summerstage, but I didn't quite realize the scale. It became painfully obvious after a period of hiking that I'd underestimated the size of the place; at past six, and I had blocks to go. I cast quick glances at my surroundings while slogging my way. New Yorkers were lying about the greens on towels, playing frisbee, or jogging, among other activities. It was a perfect late-summer afternoon and the park was alive with recreation.

Thump, thump, thump. Bass. I heard bass. Pausing, I examined my map for the tenth time. Judging from the surroundings I should have been right on top of it. Catching view of fences and security personnel to both sides of an outcropping, I realized I was on the wrong side. As I trudged around the site groups of people appeared and thickened. The backpack was weighing on me by the time the actual entrance came into view from behind trees, a shallow upward path surrounded by fences.

What struck me was that people were bringing bags in! Nothing like my backpack, of course, and requiring inspection from personnel, but the typical policy with these sorts of events is all-or-nothing. Rushed, anxious, and obsessed, I headed up to give it a shot. I landed my pack on the ground in front of a large, orange-jacketed black man, effectively prostrating myself. I babbled my situation with short breath while unzipping compartments. When it became apparent that I was much more interested in getting in for the music than for smuggling alcohol or narcotics, he gave up on dissecting the contents and waved me in. I fumbled out my printed ticket for the next man, who held a barcode scanner in hand, and was allowed through. Finally! My body tingled with the fact I was finally there, finally in, finally done with the unlikely journey to the heart of this great city. I took a moment to look at my surroundings and confirm the reality of it.


I'd seen Paul live once before, at Ultra 5 in Miami last March, but only for an hour. Here the milling attendees on route to drink booths or bathrooms revealed a makeshift dancefoor of astroturf bordered at a short distance by bleachers, and there he was at the front of it all, doing his thing. Summerstage was smaller than I expected; the amphitheater I'd last seen him at was filled by thousands. This was hundreds at most. The mix was just heading into Motorcycle's As The Rush Comes, which I recognized by intro bassline alone. Yes, I'm a geek, I know.

If you know me at all, you'll know I get completely lost in the music. I'm not the sort to sit back and nod my head to the beat. I dance and I dance strong. So my first priority became finding somewhere for my backpack. I eventually decided to take the risk of dropping it with a random encampment of people who had already formed a cluster of baggage. They agreed I could leave it there so long as they held no responsibility for it, which was fine by me. I just wanted the appearance that it was being watched, not necessarily that it actually was. And I wasn't extremely worried about the safety of the contents anyhow; electronic music events tend to be anonymous zones with a general mood of respect for others. Thefts aren't a hallmark.

I can't quite describe the happiness of the hours that followed and the collective energy I experienced. In all honesty, it was probably the best night of my life. The only thing that could have made it better would have been friends who shared that passion with me. The temperature was marvelous, and dropped in concert with the rising heat of the crowd. As dusk made its final gestures Paul turned the set to a harder, darker edge. Unleashing the sinister, imperial beat of Traffic, even he was taken by surprise as lasers came to life from the stage and danced in patterns across the trees opposite.

I kept a mental tracklist and heard a number of tracks for the first time. Hearing familiar productions live added a new dimension to many of them, as is often the case with electronic dance music. It was a priceless experience. Much of what he played was his own work, be it original production or remixing. Shirts with PvD or Vandit -- Paul's record label -- across them were in full force. Everyone was here to see him and him alone.

The next to last track of the set was his own classic production For An Angel, my personal favorite out of all electronic dance music; I literally know hundreds of productions by heart, so take a moment and understand how important a title that is to me. It was the first time I had ever heard it live. Taken with the energetic reaction of everyone around me, a full four hours of dancing through, I can only describe the moment as personally euphoric and spiritual. It is one of those snapshots of time I hold onto in memory as evidence of the joy I am capable of.

I retrieved my backpack, right where I left it, and headed to the top of one of the bleachers while the final track of the set played -- his anthem Time of our Lives -- to catch an overview of the scene. I knew one more was to come, because Paul inevitably plays an encore track, and by deduction I knew what it was. The beat slowly died, and after a moment of silence the emotional vocal of Nothing But You emerged through the speakers, a wordless, pristine female intonation. As the song developed, this chant flowed seamlessly into the Norwegian "jeg har ingenting men jeg har alt nar jeg har deg" -- "I have nothing but I have everything when I have you." I think it was at this point that my emotions bubbled over helplessly into laughter and tears. In a sick way it reminds me of the soma riot-control of Brave New World, with the speakers crooning "goodbye, dear friends." But I don't really care. It brought me joy all the same. I told you, I can't really explain this in words. Few people understand it.


I left as soon as Nothing But You began to die out, in attempt to avoid exit with a shuffling crowd. The masses quickly dispersed into the night as one drew further away from the venue, and soon I was alone among the streetlamps and trees, save a few others and a homeless or two on benches. My joints lightly ached from the relentless movement, and were soothed by the cool night air. It was a peaceful and appropriate aftermath to the intensity that had come before. Skyscrapers twinkled between branches. A horse-drawn carriage with a couple passed by. But aside from the hushed murmur of passing friends or the distant clomp of horse hooves, the park was silent. That a lively city surrounded on all sides was difficult to believe.

I reached the southern edge of the Park and proceeded westward back toward Columbus Circle, but as I walked something suddenly caught the corner of my left eye. I turned to see a distant array of pulsating light down the avenue; it took me a moment to realize that I was looking at Times Square from several blocks away. Seeing something with your own eyes that you know in a mythical way from television alone is an exciting experience, especially when you don't expect it. I had no idea where Times Square was, much less that I would cross an avenue providing me a direct line of sight.

Naturally, I changed course. I was a bit hungry as well, so I figured I could find something there, of all places. The closer I came to the Square the busier the street became. I caught the strain of a saxophone player, and spotted him diagonally opposite me across an intersection, case open for donations. Pedestrians bustled by in all directions. At 11pm, the city was clearly vibrant and full of activity. I stopped a few blocks short of the flashy lightboards to get a meal, deciding on the classy yet affordable Europa Café, and bought a turkey sandwich, Snapple tea, and a fresh café latte. I pulled out my cell phone and attempted to call Erica and Mom to share the excitement of where I was, but neither answered.

Times Square itself overwhelmed me. I had simply never been in an environment so alive and electric. I couldn't imagine the place being any more busy in the day; street breakdancers were again present, drivers honked and swore at eachother mercilessly in the traffic, and throngs of people wove across the streetsides and crosswalks. It was as bright as broad daylight due to the countless billboards of video advertisements. I don't think I'd ever been in a place that busy even during daylight hours. As a night owl, I'm not used to a city that doesn't sleep.

After browsing vinyl at the Virgin Megastore -- I was rather disappointed by the selection; Claremont's record store has better electronica -- I decided it was time to leave. I'd been waiting for things to die down before heading out, but they simply didn't. It was past one in the morning by then, but the traffic and crowds were as dense as when I'd arrived.

At the entrance of the subway a man offered to slide me through with what he claimed was an extra ticket, in order to bypass the booth line. I accepted, and he went through with his own, after which he extended an open hand for payment. I could have easily said no, but all he asked for was the cost I would have normally paid, so I gave it to him anyhow. As I proceeded down the stairs I looked back and saw him pass out the exit adjacent to the entrances, to attempt the scam on another victim. I suppose he had a monthly pass and was profiting off of it. Only in New York.

A violinist played in one of the underground passages, with no case or container for donations. She was simply playing.

The subway was as full as when I arrived around five, if not moreso, which surprised me. It thinned out considerably as we passed through Brooklyn, where the train became above-ground, and only one other person sat in the car by the time I got off at the JFK stop. A night bus was idling outside the subway exit; the driver was somewhat puzzled why someone would be going to the airport at two in the morning.

I spent the night atop a carpeted luggage carousel, using some clothes as a pillow. The ubiquitous CNN babbled on over television screens like some 1984 invention. I fell in and out of sleep uncomfortably, and eventually had some coffee at Au Bon Pain when they opened, before the first flight out to Dallas.

I arrived back at Mudd that evening, two days earlier than I was allowed to enter my room, so I slept on the lounge couches. Ah, the sacrifices I make to attend 18+ events. The day after next I moved into my room for the semester to commence.

I hope to return to New York for a day trip sometime soon. I only caught a slice of what there is to explore, and I was excited to see that alone. And perhaps someone will come with me next time.

current mood: content

(11 comments | comment on this)

Thursday, November 20th, 2003
7:38 am - Arc of Time


I'm due for a few large entries soon; some I've been meaning to write for months, others of more recent nature.

current mood: tired, happy, worried

(2 comments | comment on this)


> previous 20 entries
> top of page
LiveJournal.com