Happy Late Night Meditations: .posted by ben on Sep 8 at 01:07
I think I like to hear myself talk (or write). I must be really boring to other people. What must be truly frightening is me blathering on at Andres, and Andres blathering back, both trying to beat the other into submission with words.
Which brings this diatribe to the internet. The internet is very boring. Very very boring. It was supposed to be this great "let's all get connected" sort of thing, but we all know that's a lie. Instead a bunch of horny bald men are relentlessly searching for the perfect porn picture, and a bunch of young people (I don't think I'm young enough to be with it anymore) run around posting various places, hoping to earn name recognition. It's pathetic. Even if I had a web log people actually read, would it make a difference? What would a real online presence get me? I guess I could beat my good buddy Steve Herlacher into submission, beyond that I'm not sure.
I think the chance of actually meeting someone interesing online is virtually nil. People are up surfing at 2am not because they're ready to find a friend, but because they're socially disfunctional. And believe me, I have no illusions that I'm an expception. But, even if I'm insufferable, I am physically fit, which is one thing I have on the average netizen. So, I can feel superior about something. That's what being human is afterall... feeling superior, even if the act of feeling superior makes any notion of superiority a lie.
The more I talk to random people, the more it becomes apparent, I am not like them. I have a firm feeling now that is not a good thing. If I were content to be drinking with Alex (the writer, not the blogger) down at Jax right now, I think things would be better... but that doesn't sound entertaining... at all.
Is this weblog for my benefit? Or, am I supposed to entertain the reader? If I fail in that duty because I blather on about how I feel and such, does that make me a bad blogger? And should I care? I do care. I suspect that's a bad thing.
What really bothers me though is that thousands of people have been through this same angst. You can probably find a post just like this on most any blog. And I say I'm different? Even the act of analyzing this is stereotypical. How do I escape it? How do I do something original? Writing unpublished novels certainly isn't it. I think that's what I want, some vindication that I am a person like no other. That's what all my things are for... bikes.. computers, the car, the books... it's all to convince myself I'm original, and I know it's a lie. Damnit.
It'd also be nice to curl up and not think about it. That's the nice part about sleeping, unless I dream... Last night the dreams were not relaxing. Biking is the worst for relaxing. I just pedal and think... Thinking does not lead to happiness, though I continue to maintain it leads to a greater depth of emotion. Thinking makes me bipolar. And thinking is supposed to be a good thing? I'm almost ready to side with Graham and wish to be a jellyfish... maybe a biopolymer jellyfish... they think even less than the organic variety.
What makes me so undesirable anyway? Is it the constant analysis, the morbid fear that my next action will lead to my last (something I know for a fact)?
I'm sure that the only thing people can do that means anything is to interact with other people... something I am constantly proving myself terrible at. New theory: The meaning of life is to interact with other human beings in the real world and experience real and wonderful things with them.
My favorite sap is maple syrup.
I have two trains of thought going at once right now. One is on IM, and then there's this one for posterity.. I wouldn't be surprised if it should be the other way around. I want to sit at Prufrock's, drink my mocha, and talk to someone who isn't a dismal failure. That shouldn't be too hard.
Someone tried to strike up a conversation with me today while I was up there. I think I scared her away with incredible efficiency. It's been a while since I've blessed the world with this much formless drivel.
I searched for "god was a monkey," hoping for something funny, and ended up with a bunch of animal vivisection pics that are making me shiver right now. The damn monkey is looking straight at the camera... straight at me. I don't like fucking people. Now I'm going to have nightmares... wonderful. The pictures are bad. So bad I'm not going to post them. And what were the experiments for you ask? Neurological experiments. What the fuck have I gotten myself into. Buddy Christ came up when I searched for "something happy." The picture makes me feel better somehow.
My IM conversation ended without so much as a bye. I have alienated another one of the humans it is my purpose to interact with. Fucking wonderful.
deadheading until the heat death of the universe: .posted by ben on Sep 7 at 22:42
I'm wearing an absurd amount of clothing, sitting in the computer room (which has 10 or so computers to heat it) and I'm cold. I have goose bumps. I'm wearing wool socks. I don't think I'm ill either. And I keep losing at chess. I can't concentrate. I should be doing my sockets assignment, but I can't concentrate on that either, or James Baldwin, or even DS9 (I just got season 4, it has Klingons). I think I'm going to revamp BLF if I can get some sort of file transfer working, I seem to have turned everything else off.
Only Collin and Devin were at the Trident tonight. They go on and on about how boring our routine is, but never seem to want to do anything I would consider fun... go hiking... go biking... go out to sushi...
I'm wearing my North Face flece, and I'm cold. This shouldn't be possible. Not only that, but I haven't adding anything to socks (or even deleted a few pages) in maybe five days. I feel like a bad writer. Then I watch DS9 episodes where Jake Sisko patronizes me with his tedious views on writing. DS9 is broken Star Trek... It doesn't have the utopian morality of TNG. Why would I want to learn about a future I don't want to happen? I'll stick with TNG for my fantasy.
Dow goes up, Dow goes down. Such is the way of the Dow.
This land is Collin's land.: .posted by ben on Sep 7 at 17:24
This is the land up by Breckenridge. Collin's mom may buy it. 150 Acres at 12,000 feet for $150,000. I will build a hobbit hole from quickcrete and talus. It will have a wood burning stove, 2 chairs, a table, and a big down covered bed. Collin has also found a snow mobile for $200 (The sign says "Trailer and Snowmobile for sale")
We will need to get a Howitzer to blast avalanches. We could also use it to shell Breckenridge if we turn Luddite (seems unlikely somehow). The only thing is I don't think my car can make it up the Jeep road (seeing as how Collin's Land Rover couldn't).
Fucking Beatles. Fucking shuffling playlist. Fucking Digital Underground and Poison. Ga.
Not Punk at All: .posted by ben on Sep 7 at 17:22
The last day I've been kind of melancholy when I think I should be happy. I've had nondepressing social interaction for the first time in ages, but the result is that I feel fearful.
Satie is good.
I have a pronounced urge to bludgeon Andres, but that's nothing new. He thinks Pynchon is heir to Chaucer, the theme of which is supposedly shit and god. Chaucer's paranoid about god, and Pynchon about the CIA.
Andres also thinks Alex is PP. PP is pre punk, which apparently comes after post punk. It's also important to remember punk is a subset of post punk.
All this really means is that Andres is desperately infatuated with Alex. And I can't really blame him, everyone seems to be right now (it's the Betsy phenomenon all over again). Even Sam. In person, she's quiet and knowledgeable about everything but the Beatles. On the page she's a Female Asian Mark Twain... or something like that... and she likes Hot Hot Heat.
Pynchon's middle name is apparently Ruggles. Though, I still don't think The Crying of Lot 49 is about heat death.
Why are they frowning?: .posted by ben on Sep 6 at 16:59
Damn Zeitgeist: .posted by ben on Sep 6 at 16:52
Cory Doctorow's new novel, Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom seems to be a good rendition of the Sci Fi novel I was trying to write. I guess it's a zeitgeist thing.
I rode the direct drive to Golden. It was very hard. I went home and slept. I then stayed up all night coding this stupid Bezier applet. I coded the best damn applet, and I didn't even win a T shirt. Some other guy won a SIGGraph T shirt. He made a picture of Garfield using his bezier program that used the OpenGL libraries to render his curves for him. I didn't cheat, and I didn't get a lousy T shirt.
He is missing both his upper canines. It is incredibly creepy when he smiles. The skin on his face stretches in the most disturbing way, his lips pull up, cracking and bleeding, exposing his hole filled smile. I don't want to think about this... Why am I thinking about it?
I have amorbid feeling people are reading this, and judging me harshly.
Graham's 486 has apparently melted. BLF is in dire need of updating... maybe later.
Three guesses why I like German: .posted by ben on Aug 31 at 18:26
-Rainer Maria Rilke
wrinkle in me: .posted by ben on Aug 31 at 18:01
There's a hunched over man. He's wearing a red giro helmet, riding some sort of townie mountain bike with slicks. That could be me... in 50 years. In 50 years, it could be the same. I could still bike around the same streets, go the same places, maybe even eat the same foods. By then, who knows, I might even own the house on Pearl street. I think I'd rather own the little stone cottage on 10th.
In 50 years, it's possible that nothing could change.
The sorority girls are walking by. Some of them are speaking at me. I'm the guy with the tall bike. They recognize me from earlier. And, I can't hear them. That's the nice thing about these headphones. I can't hear a damn thing.
I posted to this message board for a class at school. Apparently participation is required. It's pointless. I posted a legitimate question, and all I got were a bunch of rants about how stupid and obvious my question was. What answers I got were patently false, but false in an arrogant way.
That's always charming. It's not enough to be wrong. It's better to be wrong, and an ass. It really adds something.
The music I get from Graham is a lot happier than the music I download on my own. Cassie doesn't like me anymore... none of them do.
I'm thinking about substitute teaching. Apparently all you need in Colorado is a college degree (I have 2, hahahaha...). That, and you send fourty dollars to the DOE (how do they differentiate energy from education?), and you need to have your fingerprints taken to prove you don't make a habit of mollesting children. I think I might do it. It only pays $100 dollars a day. We value education, really...
Murdered by doctor doom... I'm surprised how lame things I used to like are. The Justice League, Kenny Loggins, Starship, Megadeth, Transformers... At least I never likes Scooby Do. I'm also surprised how hopeless things I used to think were inevitable seem. Peace, Space Elevators, Virtual Reality, Fusion...
Earth people. Controlled by gamma light.
Some college kid (I can say that in the dimunuative now without feeling all that bad) walked by. He'd bleached his hair blond, and gotten an eyebrow in the process. He must have been trying so hard to look cool. Now he's worse off for the effort.
Josh was making fun of me for talking to girls about philosophy. I think that was as sexist as it sounds. I fear he might be right... somebody prove me wrong.
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