Earlier today, I gave myself a near-hernia while lifting a desk out of my room. Now I have a sore back and 8 square feet of extra space, which is being occupied by a dresser. It's been too cold to play with my camera outside, so I've been indoors most of the week. (Juneau, Alaska was warmer yesterday than some southern states. I shudder at the beauty.) I got a flickr account, which I'll eventually get into using. I want to import my old photo albums onto it.
A few of friends and I have been getting together lately, playing video games and having a time. As of the Wii/PS3/XBOX360, I am two generations behind in the video gaming world. (And still broke? This is a travesty!) I had a Nintendo DS at a point, but I gave it up for some money which likely went to a week's supply of gyros and sushi.
Not to segue, but I am in love with torrenting. Again, I'm only about ten years late onto the scene, if it could be called a scene.
Anyway, I've been thinking about video games lately, since they made up the greater part of my childhood. I think, in the wisest words in the plethora of anonymous quotes in my notebooks, "television has changed a child from an irresistible force to an immovable object"
I am not so much worried about myself, but considering how greatly consumerism has driven people in the last decade, I think television (and subsequently, video games) is a big death trap. I'm reminded of a venus fly trap, which just sort of holds the fly in its jaw while its slowly digested. I'm more liable to believe the fly dies from old age before finally being fully digested. It would certainly explain how lethargic this generation seems; I can only worry for future children.
Suffice to say, I'm making a big deal out of cleaning my room. It's been years since I've clearly seen my floor. I might be moving soon, either way, but it's certainly nice knowing my carpet color again.
Showing posts with label quotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quotes. Show all posts
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Monday, December 8, 2008
The Heart of an Arctic Crystal
I'm approximately one-hundred pages into Moby-Dick, and I am having serious issues in putting it down for the evening. Everything about Melville is gripping, and sublimely eloquent.
This great novel is just my first step in a greater task. My professor has given me personal assignment, so to speak; I am to read the Western Canon, to wake my Orphic voice from its blatant sleep-talking. The list is comprehensive, and it will involve delving into other languages to fully complete. Though the prospect of diversifying and enlightening my mind to the entirety of European literature is thrilling, I might be compelled to limit myself to English and the Latinate.
If anyone is interested in a collection of good works to read (I know that reading can't be quite dead yet), then go here.
My social world, on the other hand, is a gripping tale of another level entirely. My institutionalized academic world is waning into dormancy, perhaps even death, my love life is in proverbial shambles, and I'm in a struggle with what my counselor says are traits and symptoms commonly associated with bipolar disorder. My life's throes are synonymous with the rolling snowball.
And now, for non sequitur; my psychology professor, distraught over the poor turnout to the last day of class, entrusted the students who did show up with the answer to a bonus question on our final. The question, the only one not a multiple choice, is to correctly identify and write down her youngest nephew's full name. Respect can be earned in sometimes the most peculiar of manners.
I do enjoy these bitter nights. To quote Melville,
And with that, I bid you adieu.
This great novel is just my first step in a greater task. My professor has given me personal assignment, so to speak; I am to read the Western Canon, to wake my Orphic voice from its blatant sleep-talking. The list is comprehensive, and it will involve delving into other languages to fully complete. Though the prospect of diversifying and enlightening my mind to the entirety of European literature is thrilling, I might be compelled to limit myself to English and the Latinate.
If anyone is interested in a collection of good works to read (I know that reading can't be quite dead yet), then go here.
My social world, on the other hand, is a gripping tale of another level entirely. My institutionalized academic world is waning into dormancy, perhaps even death, my love life is in proverbial shambles, and I'm in a struggle with what my counselor says are traits and symptoms commonly associated with bipolar disorder. My life's throes are synonymous with the rolling snowball.
And now, for non sequitur; my psychology professor, distraught over the poor turnout to the last day of class, entrusted the students who did show up with the answer to a bonus question on our final. The question, the only one not a multiple choice, is to correctly identify and write down her youngest nephew's full name. Respect can be earned in sometimes the most peculiar of manners.
I do enjoy these bitter nights. To quote Melville,
Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so for a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable anymore. [...] For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. There you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
Moby-Dick, Chapter 11
And with that, I bid you adieu.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Building Block Towers
A month is the only time element that is both intrinsically eternal and microcosmic. I was going to say that a lot has happened, and it most likely has, but of what consequence is it? I have a guaranteed F in two classes, a guaranteed A in one, and maybe a B+ to show for my half-assed work in yet another. And I'm dropping out of my school. These days, I feel like Holden Caulfield, I really do.
Then, after writing it, I realize I've given you the Caulfield joke before. This is the monotony of my life, if complete incoherence can be described as monotonous.
My professor of writing suggests that I continue with school, and to read the great literary canon to help dig my niche in the writing world. I enjoy writing, though you could have gathered that. Perhaps, if you're in my first group of followers, I'll give you all signed copies of my first work.
And of course, into the greater scheme of things, I will now extract a quote:
The greater things in our life are the things that tend to take place in our minds, in the great microcosm of neurons. My great things are all quesetions, as it were. And tonight, or today, or whenever it is that you so happen to read this, I would like to develop a more informed understanding of nostalgia.
It's been well established that nostalgia is a depression of varying intensity, over the longing for the past to return. It's the feeling that gives us an excuse to remember ex's, old jobs, places we lived, and all of the etceteras. Our beautiful past, as it were.
At my present age of 20 (going on five-thousand it seems), I have finally hit the surface of reality. To explicate, I have now completed my second decade on Earth, out of a projected 7.8. Sometimes, in my disorientation, I'll earnestly consider what middle school like will be like, or where I put my blocks, before realizing that those days are a part of a different life.
Which leads me to wonder if we were ever what we remember. We can have our memories, and we can the meaning and nostalgia for these memories, but did the past ever actually happen? There are times, occurring sadly more often, that I believe the more grim answer.
But what can you do, you know? I guess complaining is the most that can be done. But hey, if you have an answer, inform me!
À bientôt!
Then, after writing it, I realize I've given you the Caulfield joke before. This is the monotony of my life, if complete incoherence can be described as monotonous.
My professor of writing suggests that I continue with school, and to read the great literary canon to help dig my niche in the writing world. I enjoy writing, though you could have gathered that. Perhaps, if you're in my first group of followers, I'll give you all signed copies of my first work.
And of course, into the greater scheme of things, I will now extract a quote:
Mankind, ignorant of the truths that lie within every human being, looked outward-pushed ever outward. [...] Eventually it flung them out into space, into the colorless, tasteless, weightless sea of outwardness without end. It flung them like stones.
Kurt Vonnegut
The greater things in our life are the things that tend to take place in our minds, in the great microcosm of neurons. My great things are all quesetions, as it were. And tonight, or today, or whenever it is that you so happen to read this, I would like to develop a more informed understanding of nostalgia.
It's been well established that nostalgia is a depression of varying intensity, over the longing for the past to return. It's the feeling that gives us an excuse to remember ex's, old jobs, places we lived, and all of the etceteras. Our beautiful past, as it were.
At my present age of 20 (going on five-thousand it seems), I have finally hit the surface of reality. To explicate, I have now completed my second decade on Earth, out of a projected 7.8. Sometimes, in my disorientation, I'll earnestly consider what middle school like will be like, or where I put my blocks, before realizing that those days are a part of a different life.
Which leads me to wonder if we were ever what we remember. We can have our memories, and we can the meaning and nostalgia for these memories, but did the past ever actually happen? There are times, occurring sadly more often, that I believe the more grim answer.
But what can you do, you know? I guess complaining is the most that can be done. But hey, if you have an answer, inform me!
À bientôt!
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