Well, no...not really TOO much. I'm rather enjoying being a light techie/stage manager and I get to watch the show every time it's on. 12-hour workdays are kind of a pain - particularly when you consider that I spend roughly another 2 hours commuting to and from work every day, which leaves about 2 hours left over to do things. If I got Mondays off, though (which I currently don't), I think I could definitely run lights and semi-stage manage for a few months. I feel all nifty going backstage and calling out places and so forth. It's also really quite an experience watching Broadway actors do their jobs every night. Damn, but these guys sound good. I also find it heartening to know how often lines get flubbed even by professional actors.
Unfortunately, long days also leave me tired and sleepy and unable to formulate proper coherent thought to share with the world.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
On hedgehogs
For someone who styles himself a writer, it's interesting how I can dance around the topic so much. Or that so often, I can't seem to express precisely what it is I want to say, and I end up engaging in a huge amount of intellectual waffling before either coming out with an answer or dribbling away into nothingness. It's like my mind is some big metaphysical cow that has to chew an idea for fourteen hours before finally either realizing what it's trying to digest, or just packing it away to become psychic compost. (At least I feed lots of astral flowers.)
Some days...some days I feel positively inhuman, in the sense of being distanced from humanity. In some ways, it's a carryover from my childhood, and on those days I feel like...well, I don't really feel at all. It's like all my emotions are inside this tightly crushed up little piece of paper, surrounded by an utterly impenetrable iron shell. Then I draw a smiley face, tape it to the ball, and it's business as usual. In that way that I do, (and I'm quite aware that it's a way of mine) I say it's all part of being Chinese, when I think it's really just all part of being me. I am exceptionally good at compacting everything into a neat little package that can be locked behind a big metal door (or doors), and then going about as happy and as charming as usual. In spite of everything I write here, I really am quite good at not letting it show when something is bothering me. Or not letting what I'm really thinking surface. Or not letting it show when I'm really completely, utterly indifferent to everything that's going on around me. That's actually a little scary, sometimes - I imagine that serial killers probably do exactly the same thing.
Wow...that sure killed the mood. (Pun intended.)
I always found it kind of funny that to say someone "isn't human," is always meant to imply a certain monstrous aspect, or a lack of emotion or empathy. Yet, when you get right down to it, being human can be being quite monstrous. Humans are by nature egocentric creatures - in fact, child psychology suggests that until a certain age, we are completely incapable of empathy. Isn't that funny? Children are the innocent and the pure, and until they pass that magical age of roughly 4-5 years, they'll happily dissect a family of rabbits simply because they're curious what they look like on the inside. It's a monstrous thing, and yet it's also not, because the child doesn't know any better. Until they're told or otherwise informed that it's wrong, it's simply not wong. But I'm sure that's of little comfort to the family of rabbits. And, of course, there are people who would happily dissect a family of rabbits even though they were told it's wrong, but they really don't care. Or because whatever positives they might derive out of the experience outweigh the negatives. There are monstrous people out there, but they're as human as any of us. Then again, there are some marvelously good people out there, but they're as human as any of us as well. How are such dualistic creatures possible?
That's actually a bit outside the hula hoop, because that's not how I feel today. There's something called the Hedgehog's Dilemma, which in its literal aspect is of course completely malarky, but illustrates a point well enough. The idea is that the hedgehog suffers pangs of loneliness, but two of them trying to come closer will only hurt each other. The hedgehog thus has a choice between remaining lonely, and allowing someone close enough to get hurt. This is a notable point, because in all of New York City there have been exactly two people close enough to me to know what I might be thinking at any given time. One of them is no longer here, and I feel her absence daily.
Of course, she would never allow me to wallow like I'm doing now - she was always exceptionally good at kicking my ass into proper order. What would she say to what I'm writing right now, I wonder?
"G, you're being ridiculous. You're an emotional fucktard sometimes, but you're certainly not inhuman. You're just finding an excuse for waffling around, like you always do. You like things being easy and safe, all packaged up with this neat little bow, and honey, they're just not. You're never going to grow as a person if you stay inside your comfort zone! You know what I think it is? I think you just need to get laid."
Ahhhh...Jiiiiiesus. In front of an audience you say this to me?
"I'm sorry, but it's true! Every time I see you you're like this big...ball of sexual frustration. It drives me boooonkers! Listen, next time I'm in New York, we'll grab Darien and go down to some bars in Chelsea. You can pick someone up and have some wild monkey sex, and you'll feel much better."
Ugh. But I hate casual sex.
"Pish. Pish! We're going, and that's that!"
But-
"Pish!"
Wow. Not even here and she's still managed to hijack the conversation. Well, there you have it, folks. She sure gets right to the point, doesn't she?
Heh. I was hurting when I woke up this morning - I was really feeling the horrendous solitude of living alone in New York City, and I all ready to be gloomy and angsty today. Now...well, now I feel a lot better. Isn't it wonderful to be loved?
Some days...some days I feel positively inhuman, in the sense of being distanced from humanity. In some ways, it's a carryover from my childhood, and on those days I feel like...well, I don't really feel at all. It's like all my emotions are inside this tightly crushed up little piece of paper, surrounded by an utterly impenetrable iron shell. Then I draw a smiley face, tape it to the ball, and it's business as usual. In that way that I do, (and I'm quite aware that it's a way of mine) I say it's all part of being Chinese, when I think it's really just all part of being me. I am exceptionally good at compacting everything into a neat little package that can be locked behind a big metal door (or doors), and then going about as happy and as charming as usual. In spite of everything I write here, I really am quite good at not letting it show when something is bothering me. Or not letting what I'm really thinking surface. Or not letting it show when I'm really completely, utterly indifferent to everything that's going on around me. That's actually a little scary, sometimes - I imagine that serial killers probably do exactly the same thing.
Wow...that sure killed the mood. (Pun intended.)
I always found it kind of funny that to say someone "isn't human," is always meant to imply a certain monstrous aspect, or a lack of emotion or empathy. Yet, when you get right down to it, being human can be being quite monstrous. Humans are by nature egocentric creatures - in fact, child psychology suggests that until a certain age, we are completely incapable of empathy. Isn't that funny? Children are the innocent and the pure, and until they pass that magical age of roughly 4-5 years, they'll happily dissect a family of rabbits simply because they're curious what they look like on the inside. It's a monstrous thing, and yet it's also not, because the child doesn't know any better. Until they're told or otherwise informed that it's wrong, it's simply not wong. But I'm sure that's of little comfort to the family of rabbits. And, of course, there are people who would happily dissect a family of rabbits even though they were told it's wrong, but they really don't care. Or because whatever positives they might derive out of the experience outweigh the negatives. There are monstrous people out there, but they're as human as any of us. Then again, there are some marvelously good people out there, but they're as human as any of us as well. How are such dualistic creatures possible?
That's actually a bit outside the hula hoop, because that's not how I feel today. There's something called the Hedgehog's Dilemma, which in its literal aspect is of course completely malarky, but illustrates a point well enough. The idea is that the hedgehog suffers pangs of loneliness, but two of them trying to come closer will only hurt each other. The hedgehog thus has a choice between remaining lonely, and allowing someone close enough to get hurt. This is a notable point, because in all of New York City there have been exactly two people close enough to me to know what I might be thinking at any given time. One of them is no longer here, and I feel her absence daily.
Of course, she would never allow me to wallow like I'm doing now - she was always exceptionally good at kicking my ass into proper order. What would she say to what I'm writing right now, I wonder?
"G, you're being ridiculous. You're an emotional fucktard sometimes, but you're certainly not inhuman. You're just finding an excuse for waffling around, like you always do. You like things being easy and safe, all packaged up with this neat little bow, and honey, they're just not. You're never going to grow as a person if you stay inside your comfort zone! You know what I think it is? I think you just need to get laid."
Ahhhh...Jiiiiiesus. In front of an audience you say this to me?
"I'm sorry, but it's true! Every time I see you you're like this big...ball of sexual frustration. It drives me boooonkers! Listen, next time I'm in New York, we'll grab Darien and go down to some bars in Chelsea. You can pick someone up and have some wild monkey sex, and you'll feel much better."
Ugh. But I hate casual sex.
"Pish. Pish! We're going, and that's that!"
But-
"Pish!"
Wow. Not even here and she's still managed to hijack the conversation. Well, there you have it, folks. She sure gets right to the point, doesn't she?
Heh. I was hurting when I woke up this morning - I was really feeling the horrendous solitude of living alone in New York City, and I all ready to be gloomy and angsty today. Now...well, now I feel a lot better. Isn't it wonderful to be loved?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
On physics, quantum or otherwise
First off, I'm utterly offended that there isn't an entry under the categories for "Science and Technology." I mean, what the hell? I find it insulting that Myspace assumes nobody here is going to talk about the universe around us. And before anyone says anything, this is most certainly NOT a web or HTML topic. What, am I supposed to classify this under...life? News and politics? (Are there interstellar wars out there? Stars lobbing flares and planets at each other?) Romance and relationships? (Shock! An illicit affair between a quasar and the Large Magellanic Cloud!) Lunacy, I say!
Anyway, I was thinking about the dimensionality of things on the Subway, trying to wrap my mind around the idea of dimensions above the fourth. Really, I was trying to decide whether the concept of a fourth spatial dimension as anything other than time is asinine. I think that it is, because space as a word is very specifically defined as three dimensional, with "physically measurable" components. Tack on a fourth, and you're automatically talking about time. Unless you talk about a fourth dimension that moves along WITH time, but I think that would just end up being a fifth dimension. Weirdness! Or maybe I'm playing with words instead of playing with concepts, which is just ridiculous. Anyway, everything that defines space seems to be derived from space. If an object is defined as three-dimensional, then it is said that it can be moved from one location to another, but the terms "location" and "moved" seem to me themselves entirely dependent upon a definition of space in the first place, thereby rendering the whole thing circular. It seems the mathematicians have it right after all - only math can really define this in a nice, clear-cut way.
What does this have to do with the fifth (and above ) dimension? Well, it's hard to imagine because we can't perceive it in the same way as the other three, but time is just another axis, perpendicular (orthogonal, as we engineers call it) to the other three. We just can't...measure the fourth axis the same way we do the first three. Now, we've established that two objects can't exist in the same place at the same time, which brings me to my first point of speculation. Why can't an object exist in two places at the same time? Of course, we would be completely unable to perceive such an event (I really ought to read up a little more about the discreteness of time, and the relevance of Planck's constant. Quantum mechanics has always been a difficult topic for me to wrap my mind around. I think it's because I'm a very visual person, and quanta are very difficult to properly visualize.) because the object is effectively changing its position in only three dimensions, and not moving along the fourth. Actually...oh, right - that would require said object to be moving at the speed of light. Well, that answers that question.
You know, the more I think about it, the more I want to just talk to a quantum physicist about all this. Reading a book is all well and good, but they can't always answer your questions in a meaningful way. What really brought this whole thing up was a speculation on my part that so-called "psychic" or "telekinetic" powers may actually just be a result of someone capable of picking up cues that exist along a different dimensional axis - one that we can't readily perceive. If we're heading into the realm of disembodiment, it's not necessarily unreasonable for something to exist solely along the axis of time, with no components along the first three. Throw a fifth and a sixth dimension in there, and it would have a fully realized three-dimensional "space" of its own without ever having to touch a "physical" space where we can readily perceive it. Hell, superstring theory (which I don't really understand at all) suggests at the existence of anywhere from 11-26 spatial dimensions, and if we're stuck looking at four, well...that's a lot out there that we just plain can't see. Why should humans necessarily exist in only four dimensions if there really are dozens more floating out there?
Perhaps there could be a nice, scientific explanation for ghosts, telepathy, and all the other pseudoscientific wonders of the world after all.
And maybe this has been much more of a philosophical speculation than a scientific one.
Anyway, I was thinking about the dimensionality of things on the Subway, trying to wrap my mind around the idea of dimensions above the fourth. Really, I was trying to decide whether the concept of a fourth spatial dimension as anything other than time is asinine. I think that it is, because space as a word is very specifically defined as three dimensional, with "physically measurable" components. Tack on a fourth, and you're automatically talking about time. Unless you talk about a fourth dimension that moves along WITH time, but I think that would just end up being a fifth dimension. Weirdness! Or maybe I'm playing with words instead of playing with concepts, which is just ridiculous. Anyway, everything that defines space seems to be derived from space. If an object is defined as three-dimensional, then it is said that it can be moved from one location to another, but the terms "location" and "moved" seem to me themselves entirely dependent upon a definition of space in the first place, thereby rendering the whole thing circular. It seems the mathematicians have it right after all - only math can really define this in a nice, clear-cut way.
What does this have to do with the fifth (and above ) dimension? Well, it's hard to imagine because we can't perceive it in the same way as the other three, but time is just another axis, perpendicular (orthogonal, as we engineers call it) to the other three. We just can't...measure the fourth axis the same way we do the first three. Now, we've established that two objects can't exist in the same place at the same time, which brings me to my first point of speculation. Why can't an object exist in two places at the same time? Of course, we would be completely unable to perceive such an event (I really ought to read up a little more about the discreteness of time, and the relevance of Planck's constant. Quantum mechanics has always been a difficult topic for me to wrap my mind around. I think it's because I'm a very visual person, and quanta are very difficult to properly visualize.) because the object is effectively changing its position in only three dimensions, and not moving along the fourth. Actually...oh, right - that would require said object to be moving at the speed of light. Well, that answers that question.
You know, the more I think about it, the more I want to just talk to a quantum physicist about all this. Reading a book is all well and good, but they can't always answer your questions in a meaningful way. What really brought this whole thing up was a speculation on my part that so-called "psychic" or "telekinetic" powers may actually just be a result of someone capable of picking up cues that exist along a different dimensional axis - one that we can't readily perceive. If we're heading into the realm of disembodiment, it's not necessarily unreasonable for something to exist solely along the axis of time, with no components along the first three. Throw a fifth and a sixth dimension in there, and it would have a fully realized three-dimensional "space" of its own without ever having to touch a "physical" space where we can readily perceive it. Hell, superstring theory (which I don't really understand at all) suggests at the existence of anywhere from 11-26 spatial dimensions, and if we're stuck looking at four, well...that's a lot out there that we just plain can't see. Why should humans necessarily exist in only four dimensions if there really are dozens more floating out there?
Perhaps there could be a nice, scientific explanation for ghosts, telepathy, and all the other pseudoscientific wonders of the world after all.
And maybe this has been much more of a philosophical speculation than a scientific one.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
On iambs
Dance your dance, oh Shiva, dance, dance away my tears.
Sing your song, oh Shiva, sing, sing away my fears.
My heart is cracked, my heart is torn,
for you were there when I was born.
So lay me down to sleep, oh Shiva,
Say that I can rest.
Dance, oh Shiva, dance dance, dance away my tears.
Sing, oh Shiva, sing sing, sing for all who hear.
My love has fled, my heart is dead,
And lonely days are days I dread.
So music me to sleep, oh Shiva,
Play me to my rest.
Dance for me, oh Shiva, dance, dance away my tears.
Sing for me, oh Shiva, sing, sing so I may hear.
There's nothing here, there's nothing left,
Don't say that I should stay bereft.
So gaze into my eyes, oh Shiva,
Look, that I may rest.
No, I'm not actually that angsty. I got an idea of a sort of myth, about someone - a god perhaps. He is a good god...maybe the best of all the gods. Because of this he was betrayed and in the process lost everything he loved. So in the end all he can think to do is ask someone else - a goddess, maybe - who loves him to dance her dance and sing her song.
This dance is called the Dance of Shiva, named after the Hindu God, whose dance is of cosmic significance. It's an ultimately selfish thing to ask of her, but if he's allotted one selfish thing in all eternity, this would be it. And because she loves him, she dances away the world and sings down the heavens, and in the process gives him the rest he asks for.
Then the second world is created, and it is forever missing a certain something, because the god who was betrayed had no hand in making it. But perhaps if that original betrayal was somehow sufficiently atoned for, he'll come out of his rest, and take hand in the world once again.
Yeah, my stories are usually pretty dark. Believe it or not, it helps keep me maintain a positive outlook.
Sing your song, oh Shiva, sing, sing away my fears.
My heart is cracked, my heart is torn,
for you were there when I was born.
So lay me down to sleep, oh Shiva,
Say that I can rest.
Dance, oh Shiva, dance dance, dance away my tears.
Sing, oh Shiva, sing sing, sing for all who hear.
My love has fled, my heart is dead,
And lonely days are days I dread.
So music me to sleep, oh Shiva,
Play me to my rest.
Dance for me, oh Shiva, dance, dance away my tears.
Sing for me, oh Shiva, sing, sing so I may hear.
There's nothing here, there's nothing left,
Don't say that I should stay bereft.
So gaze into my eyes, oh Shiva,
Look, that I may rest.
No, I'm not actually that angsty. I got an idea of a sort of myth, about someone - a god perhaps. He is a good god...maybe the best of all the gods. Because of this he was betrayed and in the process lost everything he loved. So in the end all he can think to do is ask someone else - a goddess, maybe - who loves him to dance her dance and sing her song.
This dance is called the Dance of Shiva, named after the Hindu God, whose dance is of cosmic significance. It's an ultimately selfish thing to ask of her, but if he's allotted one selfish thing in all eternity, this would be it. And because she loves him, she dances away the world and sings down the heavens, and in the process gives him the rest he asks for.
Then the second world is created, and it is forever missing a certain something, because the god who was betrayed had no hand in making it. But perhaps if that original betrayal was somehow sufficiently atoned for, he'll come out of his rest, and take hand in the world once again.
Yeah, my stories are usually pretty dark. Believe it or not, it helps keep me maintain a positive outlook.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
On the perversity of friends
So I was in the Great Wall restaurant underneath my apartment with Darien. Yes, it's a Chinese restaurant, and I'm sure there are hundreds in New York called "Great Wall." We're not, as a whole, terribly creative when it comes to naming things in English. Anyway, I eat there a lot, and I do mean a lot. Their eyes light up when they see me, and even the owners' kids know what I'm going to order when I walk through the door (Hunan shrimp with brown rice, incidentally.)
So yeah, I was in there with Darien, and after a brief discussion about cash we decide that I'll pay for dinner. So she goes, "I'll have the meat dumplings, and he LOVES the cock." And I was all like, "Omgwtfpwned!"
(Pause.)
Okay, no she didn't. We were actually just talking about it after leaving the restaurant because the lady at the desk thought she was my girlfriend. I found the idea, however, hilarious in a manner difficult to fully articulate. I mean, say you've been working in an oily, sticky, dimly-lit, low-brow dive of a kitchen for some seven and a half hours. Your English is spotty, one of your most consistent customers comes in with a gigantic redheaded girl (Darien is six foot, one inch), and while ordering she just casually goes, "Yeah, he LOVES the cock."
How the hell do you respond to that? Do you even understand what she's talking about? Isn't cock a term for a male chicken? You thought he liked shrimp! Should you just ignore the statement? Smile and nod? Oh my god, what do you say? Quick! Need an answer!
"Ohhhh, really! Yeah, me too!"
"Okay! We have lots cock! Best cock!"
"Oh no, the cock no good here."
"Do you like cock too?"
"What kind cock does he like?"
"Whaaaat? He is The Gay?"
The potential for hilarity is spectacular enough that I almost want her to try it out one day, just to see what their response would be. It would probably have to be the day that I move to midtown or something, because I do like eating there and the food's remarkably cheap.
Heeheee...he LOVES the cock!
God, I'm such an artard.
So yeah, I was in there with Darien, and after a brief discussion about cash we decide that I'll pay for dinner. So she goes, "I'll have the meat dumplings, and he LOVES the cock." And I was all like, "Omgwtfpwned!"
(Pause.)
Okay, no she didn't. We were actually just talking about it after leaving the restaurant because the lady at the desk thought she was my girlfriend. I found the idea, however, hilarious in a manner difficult to fully articulate. I mean, say you've been working in an oily, sticky, dimly-lit, low-brow dive of a kitchen for some seven and a half hours. Your English is spotty, one of your most consistent customers comes in with a gigantic redheaded girl (Darien is six foot, one inch), and while ordering she just casually goes, "Yeah, he LOVES the cock."
How the hell do you respond to that? Do you even understand what she's talking about? Isn't cock a term for a male chicken? You thought he liked shrimp! Should you just ignore the statement? Smile and nod? Oh my god, what do you say? Quick! Need an answer!
"Ohhhh, really! Yeah, me too!"
"Okay! We have lots cock! Best cock!"
"Oh no, the cock no good here."
"Do you like cock too?"
"What kind cock does he like?"
"Whaaaat? He is The Gay?"
The potential for hilarity is spectacular enough that I almost want her to try it out one day, just to see what their response would be. It would probably have to be the day that I move to midtown or something, because I do like eating there and the food's remarkably cheap.
Heeheee...he LOVES the cock!
God, I'm such an artard.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
On the mysterious you
Blogging has become a remarkably addictive activity for me, particularly given certain recent events in my life. Part of the reason is that I like to stay up far, far past my bedtime, and inevitably around three or four in the morning I want to talk to someone. Most of my friends would gnaw out my liver if I called them up at 4 am just to shoot the shit (what a bizarre colloquialism. I keep seeing the two guys from Brokeback Mountain, taking pot shots at piles of cow dung), so blogging becomes my proverbial hole in the ground. Unlike Midas' hairdresser, however, I remain keenly aware that there are actually people reading this. Maybe that's why I like it - I kind of feel like I'm actually reaching out and touching someone, except without the molestation charges. Hah! I kid. The only person I've ever molested in public is Chuckles, and I only did that with my eyes. (Didn't know about that, did you Chuckles? I'm going to get that tattoo someday. You know which one I'm talking about...)
Back to the topic at hand. It's curious - if I really only wanted to write about how I feel or otherwise express myself, I could easily just make a word document and spill as much as I want on there. I don't even necessarily have to worry about spelling or punctuation or capitalization or anything like that. I could just unwind, and...talk, about anything at all. (Yes Dave, I can actually write without necessarily capitalizing and punctuating everything. I might even misspell a word or two here and there. Try not to faint.) If all I wanted is a hole in the ground, then I could easily make something totally private, for no other purpose than to let my fingers rattle over the keys. Something to let me relax as the words just dribble out of my fingers. It might be even more therapeutic, in a way.
And yet, here I am, again and again, rattling off words to my unseen, unknown audience hidden in the dark. It's like I'm standing on a stage, flooded in a cold wash, and all I can see is the white projector light reflected off the back of my audience's collective heads. A sea of anonymous faces sitting in the shadows. Well that can't be entirely accurate, can it? I have a supposition about who reads what I write - I assume its people on my friends list. I've already addressed two of my oldest friends, but for all I know they pay no attention whatsoever to what I'm writing. At least one of them, after all, only put up a Myspace page because his brother hacked his computer. It's not simply a matter of talking to my ideal audience member (and the old goat does get rather boring after a while. You can only hear "Hrmmmm" and "I see" so often before you want to whack the guy with a keytar.) It's...knowing that there's someone out there, reading and relating, perhaps. Maybe it satisfies my need to stand on a soapbox and be heard, every now and again (or every twenty hours or so). The internet is undoubtedly one of the best media for such a thing nowadays. (Parentheses are fun! I love parentheses! I can digress and go all sorts of places inside a pair of parentheses! It's like having a totally random subroutine sitting in the middle of otherwise very clean code! It's like, while the program is in the middle of calculating, say, the optimal shape of a low speed wind tunnel contraction, it suddenly comes across a subroutine that screams, "I demand that you output rows and rows of pickles to the screen!" And the program can be all, "WTF?! No!" but it can't resist the power of the subroutine, who can totally bitch-slap it and go, "Ho! Give me pickles!" And voila! In the middle of a wind tunnel contraction you suddenly have rows and rows of pickles. But only briefly, because then the subroutine ends, and you're back to something that makes sense.)
I was tempted...almost tempted, for a moment there, to ask "Who are you people? Who is actually reading this? What is it that brings you back here, if indeed you're a regular reader?" Well, hmmmm...I guess in stating my intent not to ask the question I've actually rather asked the question, haven't I? Aren't I a tricky fellow? Do I really want to know? Should the house lights come up, and reveal just who is sitting in the seats? Part of me says yes, but part of me is going, "What if you end up with an utterly creepy man in, say, a bunny suit?" I have, mind you, no particular onus against bunny suits, excepting possibly the one from Donnie Darko, but...come on, a grown man in a bunny suit? In a dark theatre? Are you telling me that you don't find the idea completely skeezy? But then, maybe that man is actually Ricky, who can pull off such things without being creepy, because he's just that kind of guy. See? I can suppose all I want, but until I have confirmation, my audience remains whoever I think it is. Maybe that's a good thing.
I was feeling rather...sad isn't really the word for it. A sense of longing for something far, far away is probably the best way to describe it. Perhaps it is the sensation that a cow gets when it looks up at the moon, and knows that although music and literature makes it sound terribly simple, it's really a logistical nightmare for an 1,100 pound mammal to clear 238,000 miles of dense atmosphere and hard vacuum, then return to the earth intact. Not only is there a lot of equipment involved, but it doesn't even know how the moon feels about such an endeavor. But that doesn't stop it from wanting to try. God, how it wants to try.
At least the silverware's getting laid tonight.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
On the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Absurdity is what happens when there is a conflict between what you think the universe should be like, and what you encounter tells you the universe should be like. Did I learn that in theatre history, or was it somewhere else?
In a perfect world, everything turns out exactly as it should. Well, in a world with six-odd billion egocentric people, what precisely does that mean? What is justice, or even a fair sense of equality when there are six billion slightly different views on the topic?
I'm good at what I do. There are better people out there, although whether that's because they're naturally gifted, worked hard, or both could be a matter of some discussion. Is it fair that some people were born with greater gifts than I have? Is it fair that I'm more adept at recognizing patterns and solving problems than 99 percent of the population (at least, according to standardized tests. And while I'm on the topic, who the hell decides what is "standard," anyway. What does that mean? Why should a bunch of ultimately inane questions asked under a very specific situation determine someone's capabilities? For example, in spite of everything, I don't deal well with pressure. I crack easily, and I make lots of mistakes when under a time constraint. I don't think quickly, I'm not very clever, and I'm not particularly witty. Understanding and memorization, however, comes as easily to me as a sparrow takes flight. However easily that may be. And I'm a very fast learner, at least on a scale where the base unit is a matter of hours or days. Does that make me smart? Do I get a gold star?) Does fairness even fit into the grand equation of things in a meaningful way? Not everyone can be a rocket scientist, after all. Someone's gotta sweep the factory floor.
I'm not a naïve person. I understand that the world isn't a pretty place. But every now and something rises out of this little bog of complacency I've settled into, and everything just looked skewed. And I start to wonder what it would all mean if it didn't really mean anything. Nobody's out there, nobody's watching over you, and the fact that a pigeon just shat on your head has no cosmological significance whatsoever.
I know exactly what's bothering me. Well...sort of. I'm just doing the philosophy dance again, because it distracts me from what I should be addressing, which I have no intention of going into detail here. Eh. It's 5 am. I'm less than coherent. I just wanted to write.
In a perfect world, everything turns out exactly as it should. Well, in a world with six-odd billion egocentric people, what precisely does that mean? What is justice, or even a fair sense of equality when there are six billion slightly different views on the topic?
I'm good at what I do. There are better people out there, although whether that's because they're naturally gifted, worked hard, or both could be a matter of some discussion. Is it fair that some people were born with greater gifts than I have? Is it fair that I'm more adept at recognizing patterns and solving problems than 99 percent of the population (at least, according to standardized tests. And while I'm on the topic, who the hell decides what is "standard," anyway. What does that mean? Why should a bunch of ultimately inane questions asked under a very specific situation determine someone's capabilities? For example, in spite of everything, I don't deal well with pressure. I crack easily, and I make lots of mistakes when under a time constraint. I don't think quickly, I'm not very clever, and I'm not particularly witty. Understanding and memorization, however, comes as easily to me as a sparrow takes flight. However easily that may be. And I'm a very fast learner, at least on a scale where the base unit is a matter of hours or days. Does that make me smart? Do I get a gold star?) Does fairness even fit into the grand equation of things in a meaningful way? Not everyone can be a rocket scientist, after all. Someone's gotta sweep the factory floor.
I'm not a naïve person. I understand that the world isn't a pretty place. But every now and something rises out of this little bog of complacency I've settled into, and everything just looked skewed. And I start to wonder what it would all mean if it didn't really mean anything. Nobody's out there, nobody's watching over you, and the fact that a pigeon just shat on your head has no cosmological significance whatsoever.
I know exactly what's bothering me. Well...sort of. I'm just doing the philosophy dance again, because it distracts me from what I should be addressing, which I have no intention of going into detail here. Eh. It's 5 am. I'm less than coherent. I just wanted to write.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
On boundless inanity
I really ought to go to sleep, but I procrastinate, as usual, even though my brain feels like it's made of moth balls and cotton candy. Rambling on seems like a decent activity, except that I don't have any alcohol on me and my sleep-deprived ramblings are a lot less interesting than my alcohol-driven ones.
Speaking of sleep deprivation, I think I actually had a bout of microsleep on the phone today while making a phone call. I was asking a question of the noble people over at Delta Airmiles. The actual question escapes me, but when the representative asked me a question in return, I had already fallen into a brief sleep on the phone. I recall being cognizant of the fact that I had been asked a question, and I thought that I had answered it...but in fact I'd only dreamed that I'd given an answer. I realized this and promptly woke up, just in time to hear the representative go, "Hello?"
Speaking of dreams, I had an interesting one last night. It involved several Chinese people putting on a very bad play, in which a girl missed her cue and then promptly knocked over a prop. The odd thing (and there is always an odd thing) was that the play seemed to be taking place in the Virginia Tech War Memorial Gym...which any Hokie will tell you isn't the most optimal place to be staging a play. The prop that had been knocked over was a stack of presents, which had been sitting underneath a rather improbable Christmas tree on the edge of a gym railing. While the cast attempted to push their way to the end of the play through pantomime, I made a hasty retreat downstairs. My father, who lives in Hong Kong, happened to be coming up the stairs at the same time. He patted me on the back, and I could only roll my eyes, thinking, "Well, there goes Dad again, up to watch another god-awful Chinese play." Which, of course, is wrong, because my father has never seen a play in his life, Chinese or otherwise.
And then, for no reason at all, as I headed toward the locker rooms I decided to jump into a ballet point in my sneakers. When I executed it perfectly, feeling as weightless as though I were underwater, I realized that something was wrong. I am quite incapable of doing a ballet point, even in hard-toed boots. I am also about a hundred and sixty pounds too heavy to be weightless. This fact somehow got through to me, and I promptly thought, "You know, I do believe I'm dreaming. I should wake up now."
And I did.
Now I sort of wish I'd done something better with my absolute control of my dream realm. Summoning legions and legions of gorgeous, muscular men comes to mind. Or leveling mountains with a wave of my hand. Either one would've been satisfactory. As in they would have satisfied something. I've always wanted to level a mountain. I've always wanted legions and legions of gorgeous, muscular men. Perhaps I should combine the two, and level a mountain by gesturing to my legions of gorgeous, muscular men.
Ah, does my inanity know no bounds?
Speaking of sleep deprivation, I think I actually had a bout of microsleep on the phone today while making a phone call. I was asking a question of the noble people over at Delta Airmiles. The actual question escapes me, but when the representative asked me a question in return, I had already fallen into a brief sleep on the phone. I recall being cognizant of the fact that I had been asked a question, and I thought that I had answered it...but in fact I'd only dreamed that I'd given an answer. I realized this and promptly woke up, just in time to hear the representative go, "Hello?"
Speaking of dreams, I had an interesting one last night. It involved several Chinese people putting on a very bad play, in which a girl missed her cue and then promptly knocked over a prop. The odd thing (and there is always an odd thing) was that the play seemed to be taking place in the Virginia Tech War Memorial Gym...which any Hokie will tell you isn't the most optimal place to be staging a play. The prop that had been knocked over was a stack of presents, which had been sitting underneath a rather improbable Christmas tree on the edge of a gym railing. While the cast attempted to push their way to the end of the play through pantomime, I made a hasty retreat downstairs. My father, who lives in Hong Kong, happened to be coming up the stairs at the same time. He patted me on the back, and I could only roll my eyes, thinking, "Well, there goes Dad again, up to watch another god-awful Chinese play." Which, of course, is wrong, because my father has never seen a play in his life, Chinese or otherwise.
And then, for no reason at all, as I headed toward the locker rooms I decided to jump into a ballet point in my sneakers. When I executed it perfectly, feeling as weightless as though I were underwater, I realized that something was wrong. I am quite incapable of doing a ballet point, even in hard-toed boots. I am also about a hundred and sixty pounds too heavy to be weightless. This fact somehow got through to me, and I promptly thought, "You know, I do believe I'm dreaming. I should wake up now."
And I did.
Now I sort of wish I'd done something better with my absolute control of my dream realm. Summoning legions and legions of gorgeous, muscular men comes to mind. Or leveling mountains with a wave of my hand. Either one would've been satisfactory. As in they would have satisfied something. I've always wanted to level a mountain. I've always wanted legions and legions of gorgeous, muscular men. Perhaps I should combine the two, and level a mountain by gesturing to my legions of gorgeous, muscular men.
Ah, does my inanity know no bounds?
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