Monday, March 16, 2009
after reading brave new world, i was a tiny bit confused on their rules. the society hates the idea of commitment, but if they follow the whole no commitment thing, aren't they committing to not committing? maybe i'm overanalyzing. who knows. i tend to find nonsensicalities (wow that's actually a word) in things that are supposed to be solid.
if someone is a nonconformist, aren't they conforming to nonconformity? like, isn't that unoriginal now? but then they couldn't rebel against nonconformity by being a conformist because then they'd be conforming, which would cancel out their rebellion.
if someone rebels against being a rebel, are they a rebel? or are they a rule abider?
if there is only one rule in life which is to have no rules, are there really no rules? because in order to not have any rules, people would have to follow that one rule disallowing rules.
reality is just a figment of the imagination. maybe life is just a long, strange trip of some random person that can experience the life of every person he imagines. he knows how everyone feels at all time. have you ever noticed that random people just show up in your life? they can be new colleagues, or new students in your school, or they can even be someone you meet randomly on the street. but where do they come from? i mean obviously i know about the whole baby making process. but why were they led to your life specifically? why weren't they led to someone who lives 1346.2 miles away's life? honestly, it could very well just be that random hallucinating fellow. they could think of some random trait or quality or whatever, then imagine a person with it and then that person is exiled from their thoughts to their life hallucination and then you find yourself face to face with that person that was just created. interesting way to see life. let's hope that acid doesn't wear off any time soon.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Here's one of my short stories that had to include a foreign language, a death and at least two characters : )
"It was a dark stormy night" emerged on the blank yellow lined paper in front of his gazing, concentrated eyes.
"No no, that has been done before," he mumbled. Crumple crumple. The paper took form of the cliche writer's block ball and got launched into the tin waste paper basket. Eli always wondered why it was called a basket; there were never any holes in the tin. But he also never got distracted and pondered about ill-named objects when he wrote. Words just seemed to dance from his right-hemisphere frontal love to the paper from the pen in his hand.
He sat there tapping his lucky black Bic round-stic pen and wondered. Wondered about life, ill-named objects and what was for dinner. Eli was awfully hungry. And the aroma of the freshly-baked apple crisp candle that mother had been burning all day was not helping. Hmph. He sulked into his puffy black leather wheely chair.
"Ya know, if it wasn't for that death, Eli, you would still be able to write beautifully," the little voice inside his head said. (Eli enjoyed making up other people in his head congratulating him when he felt down, just to make him feel better.) However, this little voice did not help. But for some reason, it just would not go away. Eli had multiple voices. He had a little French voice, Gustave, the alter-ego super-hero version of Eli, Fernando, and the cheerleader who cheered him on. But none of these voices seemed to be present... It was only that pesky droning writers-block voice.
"Okay you pest, I will in fact exterminate you. I just need to find out how."
"Silly little Eli. I'm only here right now because you cannot write for shit."
This angered Eli. A lot. He tried to remember the formula for his writing.
"Hmm... conclusion, intro, body paragraphs! No no. Body paragraph one, thesis, body paragraph two, thesis, intro, thesis, conclusion. Yes! No. Fuck. UUUGGGHHH!!!"
What was this phenomenon possessing him? It was exactly like when Sponge-Bob could not remember the order of the krabby patty and went crazy. Just last week he wrote an A-plus paper and people loved it. He even got a standing ovation from his class. But now, it's as if his writing is dead...
Yet suddenly, the lightbulb above his head illuminated! Gasp! "I can totally kill this writers block by writing my seven page economics paper! It's not like anybody actually needs half a brain to research boring facts and place them on paper," Eli then wrote his economics paper quite easily and jauntily jumped up from his rolling office chair and showed it to his mother.
"I see you're wearing your proud face, Eli. Usually a good..." she trailed off when she started reading his paper.
"Is that a good cutting off? It has to be good. You never do. This is the best, then!" he said with dismally dim ray of hope in his voice.
"Well, um. Darling. I don't know exactly how to phrase this. But, you tried."
"Enough with the annihilation." Eli sprinted up the stairs in a state of disarray and slammed his door. He opened his laptop and typed "short story starters" into the little box of the search engine. Humorously enough, "it was a dark stormy night" was number one. Eli chuckled to himself and realized just how terrible that truly was. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his frantic brain down.
"Come on bud, you can do it. You totally rock at writing" he said to himself. He tried imitating his little cheerleader voice, but it just was not the same.
"No no Eli, you used to totally rock at writing. You're nothing now. You're not your teacher;s or parent's favorite anymore. There's a new writer on the block. You're dead to them."
Eli cringed as he heard that. His eyes winced in pain, he shook his head to try to erase what he had just heard. He even shuddered. He tried and tried to get that damn voice out of his head but he just could not. He tried using all of the short story starters, yet none of them worked. By the end of the night, about thirty-seven crumbled papers overflowed that silly named waste-paper basket.
"Alright Eli. You're running on close to no hours of sleep, and have a massive amount of adrenaline that cannot be used until you write something decent... What do you know really well?"
"Hmm. Good question, Eli. I seem to know writer's block very well. But how can I write about writer's block when I have it, other Eli?"
"Easy Eli! Write for yourself. Have a passion. The reason why your economics paper sucked is because you don;t have a passion for economics. Nobody does," Eli knew this to be a fallacy. Mr. Guggenshteem had a passion for it for underneath that sweat stained blue gingham button-down and the khakis with that tiny hole near the back-pocket button, was a flame. And not just the kind of flame one gets after eating the cafeteria's chili con carne. This flame was much different. this flame was much like the flame Eli got when he wrote all of his miraculous short-stories and poems and such.
Reader, this is an epiphany.
"I just had a conversation with myself! ...weird. No, but really. I have a passion for writing, I just cannot do it right now, but I can, if I write about something I have a passion for (like writing). Which cancels out the entire writer's block thing so, AHA! (<-- epiphanous moment) I can just write something about not being able to write which would kill my writers block!"
"Eli, tu es un baleze," the silly little French voice said.
And so, Eli wrote his masterpiece entitled "Extermination" in just eight minutes, and reader, you are in fact reading it right now.
Ah, the suburbs. Home to both the wealthy and the not-so-wealthy, but mostly.. the wealthy. But Do people actually enjoy living there? Well, surely it depends I suppose. The decision to reside in suburbia may be made for the right or wrong reason. Right being in the sense that they may adore New York City or Los Angeles, and therefore enjoy living in great proximity to these respective cities but not necessarily in them, yet they also may not want to completely isolate themselves from modern life as we know it and lice in a one-story red paint-chipped barn ranch bungalow where the cow (wandering upon their prairie-esque grass) has more teeth than their "neighbor" who lives 872 acres away. Now one may wonder, well, what is this "wrong" in deciding to live in lovely suburbia? None other than the fact that they think their family is just the darnest, swellest, most idyllic perfect family where both the kids are on the honor roll, the father is a religious holy figure at the local church, and the mother is a stay-at-home mother, who vacuums for pleasure. And but of course, since they are just oh so lovely and oh so peachy, they must live in the perfect little area where the biggest (known) conspiracy is someone's lawn getting a dry patch behind their perfect white picket fence, right?
Ha. Maybe this family is only perfect on the outside. Maybe the father is going to a hotel for a ... erm "church retreat" when in reality he is downing Jose Cuervo with the bleached-blonde call-girls perched upon his lap while his wife cries to herself on her lovely perfect couch with the clear plastic cover that protects the paisley upholstery while her porcelain tea cup of searing hot secrets spill.
Now, also on the coffee table are the pill canisters; the same ones that the kids steal from only so the pills can intoxicate their young brains while running through their young veins because their parents won't buy them a brand new Jaguar. Tear.
This family is doomed the day they attend the open house and praise the paisley couch. Then their life will slip down the chrome drain of their Jacuzzi bathtub. And all for what? Pride? Because their ego is so high they could not be seen living elsewhere because nowhere else is quite good enough? Maybe it's dignity. Only some can answer, but their lives are slithering down that chrome drain into oblivion. Suburban life is good for one thing: the brutal destruction of a perfect family by the weapon of corruption.