Oct 31, 2004


Earlier this rain-ravaged morning, just after the clock's impatient hand wavered past midnight, several automobiles materialized out of the fog and quickly filled the numerous parking spaces of the apartment complex. Several humans emerged, and began strolling down the one-lane street while chattering loudly amongst themselves. Being the dedicated recluse that I am, I watched them from behind by my own window, comforted by the security it afforded. Humans: the larger the groups they travel in, the more nervous I am made to feel. They were all shuffling off in some uniform direction, all being magnetized to some central hotspot beyond my field of view. A few minutes later, I decided I would benefit both physically and psychologically from a late evening bicycle excursion to some place where human activity was not so proximate and imminent. By the time I unlocked the chain securing my bike to the post underneath the stairwell, I glanced down the street and noticed at least half a dozen police vehicles, their charming blue bubbles glowing steadily. I could only assume the party was being broken up merely half an hour after it started, which was fine by me. I headed off in the opposite direction to the intersection, and turned northward onto the dipping, winding residential road.

Whenever I coasted over a bridge, I could hear the heavy flow of water beneath them; swollen streams in a mad rush to greet the sea. The rain had subsided momentarily, but tall, dark clouds looming over the ocean promised more. I became lulled, as usual, by the steady growl of the tires rolling along the wet pavement, which occasionally splashed through a deep puddle or flash flood stream flowing across the road. Just as I departed from the residential stretch and left the unpleasantly bright amber street lamps behind, the moon exposed herself in all her gorgeousness. A short stretch along the highway, upon which no potential machines of death happened to pass by, led me to the cemetery ... the place one visits when they wish to be alone, yet in the company of quiet souls. I arrived well after closing time, which according to the sign posted at the entrance occured approximately six hours earlier. The dead certainly do not expect visitors after sunset, after all. I rode quietly up a one lane paved road to the central pavilion, a small shelter built upon a concrete slab which was garnished with two picnic tables. It stood rather modestly beneath a colossal tree whose great crown sheltered several rows of grave stones from the driving rain. The rain was again cascading torentially, and I was relishing it. My bare feet deviated from the concrete path and sunk into the cool, waterlogged grass. A comparable sensation simply does not exist. The falling water inundated the thick mane of fur flowing behind my head and slid down every inch of my body, soaking me to the bone in a matter of moments. I caught a few chills, but I did not mind, for I was one with the celestial atmosphere. I padded down the narrow paths separating row by row of headstones of various geometric shapes and shades. The grass upon which I stepped was short, even, and edged perfectly it seemed. As I ascended up the hill, deeper into the caboodle of neatly organized headstones, my ears perked up. They detected the faint melody of the music from my dreams. The eerie piano score seemed to swoop down from the sky like an ill-behaved pendulum exerting the power to displace mountains. Glancing up at the ghastly layers of clouds, I witnessed the heavy ivory keys being depressed slowly by strangely reptilian fingers. The lifesize replicas of Mary spun slowly in their perches as I passed them by, tormenting me with their ruthless surveillance. Cold, black, sunken eyes; faces blemished with lichens. Another "NO ANIMALS ALLOWED" sign made my fuzzy jaw drop. The subtlest semblance of a murmur for mercy. An awkward pile of decomposing human skulls in which robust spiders weave their webs in the southwest corner. A deep-throated chuckle emanated from behind a banana tree. Patchwork out for blood again, or perhaps sweet elongate fruit. Naturally, not another soul was to be found in this enchanting necropolis, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Oct 25, 2004

And the great waterfalls descend from the castles in the sky...

There's nothing like waking up to the gregarious sounds of your next door neighbors having sex. Ladies and gentlefurs, the walls are thinner than my crumbling patience.

Fortunately, my trusty music box drowns out every undesirable noise out there. I must depart in five minutes to write a lengthy exam, but there is one high note about this week's Miserable Monday--it's been pouring all morning, and it's showing no signs of stopping.

Oct 22, 2004

He's on his 9th life, right?

I hate Garfield. Positively loathe. What a pitifully obese, despicably lazy, dismally unfunny sack of shit.

That's all I felt like saying at the moment.

Oct 20, 2004

Meum cerebrum nocet

My human counterpart has never looked so awake at 6:30 in the morning.

Oct 17, 2004

I swear to drunk I'm not God!

I'm hearing Team America could be a big hit at the box office. If the previews I've seen are anything to judge it by, I'd say it appears to be the most dreadful cinematic invention since South Park. And that's saying a lot.

For some reason, I've been waking up just before dawn the past couple days, and upon noticing the very first light of day outside my bedroom window, migrating outside to revel in the early morning euphoria. Such is the expression I use to describe that magical daily transition between the darkness and my very first glimpse of the rising sun. The atmosphere almost always inspires a powerful sense of sentimentality within me that warms me inside and makes me shiver on the outside. I'm usually reminded me of that unforgettable experience where I became lost in the Arizona mountains and had to wait out a long, cold night sleeping on hard rocks. As I lay back on the dirt, thoroughly tired, shivering in the cold due to lack of any warm clothes, and uncertain I'd ever regain the trail I had somehow meandered off, I had no way of telling time, and I sincerely began to feel as if daylight would never arrive. About all I could do was stare up at all that empty void between and beyond the stars, imagining there had to be something else out there far beyond what humanity would ever have the capability to discover preceding its own extinction. That's a lovely thing to think about, really. Worlds full of magnificent inhuman life forms even more evolved, but in a good way, so far away that humans could never hope to reach them. I have a certain fondness for the song "Nowhere Fast" by Incubus, for it was the song playing through my head through most of the night, one of the only things keeping me company and preventing me from convulsing into a panic. When I did finally find the trail hours later, and managed to get back to the parking lot with what little water I had left, I was overcome with an incredible sense of relief... relief of a magnitude I had never before felt. Relief is a spectacular feeling, for it usually comes right on the heels of some dreadful emotion, and stands in such sharp contrast to it. The rapidity and intensity of the transition can be mind-blowing, as it certainly was that morning.

So, that's only one of the many reasons early morning euphoria arouses my sentimental side and often brings tears to my eyes. The new light of day represents a renewed sense of hope. Plenty of other factors contribute to the sum total of beauty, certainly. This morning, everything was shrouded amongst a dense layer of fog, which always makes me feel as warm spiritually as a heavy blanket warms me physically. The serenity in the air was breathtaking as my bare feet padded through the cool, damp, freshly mowed grass of the front yard. All is usually quiet save for the stirring of the winged beasts, whose graceful movements and euphonious melodies I exceptionally adore. So few humans seem to pay any attention to them, for they are nothing out of the ordinary; nothing to gossip about at the beauty parlor during a manicure or the bar over the football game. Most people, it seems, are usually in such a rush to conform to a pre-destined agenda that they rarely if ever take the valuable time to notice the "small things." To myself, the small things in life are easily the more important things, for whether they are recognized individually or not, they add up to shape the very fabric of the world surrounding us. The audible rustling of a bird's wings as it takes flight just outside my window. The lovely musical notes that persistently play on in my head. The perpetual motion of nature, be it reflected in the gentle breeze caressing the leaves, or the rhythm of the ocean. The ocean as an inanimate entity wouldn't be nearly as splendorous, but how often does one actually think of that? How often does one think about our being in constant motion, even as we sleep? How many have ever imagined Earth stopping its speedy rotation on a dime and the sort of cosmic windshields the consequential inertia of humanly unfathomable proportions would send us flying through? How often do we stop and bless whatever imagined deity for the gift of gravity which keeps us anchored on familiar ground most of the time? How often do we praise our good health even in times of unrelated misfortune? How often do we recognize how fortunate we are to be able to express ourselves to others who genuinely care for us, and need not face the indifference of the natural world all alone? The subtle things in life need not go unnoticed even in spite of their subtlety, for they are collectively the infrastructure of our daily existence. Beauty and mystery is everywhere, and I try to capture and reflect it the best I can, much like the pigment in the leaf of an evergreen does the first rays of the sun to maintain its own survival. It once saddened me to sincerely believe, based on my earnest observations, that I was the only one I knew who was particularly receptive to such majestic sensations. Even my own parents labeled me a "sensitive child," and I came to realize how much of a gift that is.

I've been downloading hundreds of songs lately, mostly from foreign artists, and am pleased to report that the quality of most of it greatly surpasses the utter mediocrity and formulaic manufactured blandness of so much American music. If anyone who may be reading this wants some good music, let me know. Music is one of many things I love to share.

On a different note, I don't relish nightmares much, but I did experience one last night. For some reason, many of them seem to involve me becoming completely detached from my own body. ...Not in a good way, obviously. The bad dream started out with me getting up to use the bathroom, a typical prelude I've experienced many times before. It's as if someone had written a script designed to convince me, the participating audience of the nightmare, that this was actually reality. After all, everybody sleeps and everybody pees, but not everybody pees in their sleep. (Deep.) I turned on the bathroom light, because of course the dream took place at nighttime. Upon taking care of business, I happened to glance up at the mirror. Instead of seeing my handsome Arcanine facial features and expression, I saw ... nothing. Nothing but the closed door directly behind me. It's a scary thing when you look into a mirror and realize you're the only thing that isn't reflecting. I tried feeling for my body (oh, baby), and ended up swatting at thin air. Looking down, I saw more nothingness. Apparently, I was physically non-existent. At this point in the dream, I wasn't frightened so much as genuinely fascinated. As I exited the bathroom, I felt as if I was floating ... flying, almost. If this was a lucid dream, I would have tried soaring over the ocean towards Maui, a mere 30 mile journey away from here. One thing I should not have done was return to my bedroom. When I got back to my bed, I noticed it was already occupied ... by a thoroughly decomposed skeleton. I immediately assumed it was myself ... and of course, right then, the overhead light burned out, and I tried desperately to turn it back on at the light switch, with no luck. That's happened in my dreams innumerable times, and I believe it all relates back to that horrible nightlight dream I had when I was six. That familiar feeling of paralyzing fear clenched me in its grasp as a cacophonous ringing sound filled my ears, and I soon found myself lying in bed, struggling to escape from the dream entirely. It took me maybe fifteen minutes of being conscious before I could finally will myself to move, and recognize I still had a body. I was quite thankful to look up and see the soft, comforting glow of my blacklight directly above me rather than complete darkness. Perhaps manicotti just before bed isn't the most splendid idea.

I'm going back to sleep, soon.

Oct 14, 2004

What debate?

And now, the highly anticipated first episode of the latest hit reality TV show... My Big Fat Greek Husband Parks Public Pineapples!

I've found myself spending a great deal of time in the university library the past few weeks. Admittedly, the first few times I stepped in there, I was quite intimidated by its expansive size and overwhelming complexity. So many narrow aisles, so many stories, wings, and tales. I perceived it as a sort of colossal maze with ghastly halls and spacious dungeons blushing with bright fluorescent light. I feared becoming lost deep within the complex and never being able to find my way out. Well, when one is assigned a gigantic research project which requires them to actually take the initiative to search for hard copy, that individual must overcome his trepidation of the unknown and valiantly explore the sensational mysteries of... THE LIBRARY.

I am certainly glad I was forced to overcome, for I now genuinely appreciate the library. As I wander down the narrow carpeted corridors, both paws outstretched on either side of me sliding along book after book or periodical after periodical, I feel empowered. To simply have unlimited access to an unfathomable amount of information and knowledge arouses such a sensation within me, and I revel in it. I love the feel of genuine 19th century texts, the rough old pages, the way they smell when I open them up. The sweet, sharp musty fragrance emanated by tens of thousands of old, worn bindings evokes an invigorating feeling within me, and actually inspires my scholarly impulses; my thirst for illimitable intellectual discoveries. I sniff no farther than the library for the scent of knowledge, which motivates my mind to dive deep into whatever academic subject matter catches my observant eye. I often stroll up and down the myriad narrow aisles of the general collection, letting various books catch my eye and investigating them further. And rarely am I distracted by any humans... if they notice me in any aisle, they quickly turn around and head off to the next, as if I give off some sort of ominous radar warning them that terrible consequences shall ensue should they invade my territory any further. That or I smell bad. Either way, the library is an exceptional place to be alone in perfect silence. The tranquil atmosphere is indeed delightful... I'm always able to locate a study desk to hide behind in some isolated corner where hardly anyone ever ventures... and I can become lost in intense studying or undisturbed imaginative thought for hours. No one ever messes with me anywhere I go, particularly the library... I'm quite thankful for that. Sadly, places like Borders just don't compare. I may be surrounded by thousands of wonderful books and music there, but there simply isn't a comfortable place to hide from all the shoppers. The cafe is lovely, but too often crowded. At least half the time, the music playing is barely tolerable. Whereas Borders is still occupied with plenty of customers even after 10:00 at night, the library after 10:00 is virtually empty, and I often feel as if I have the entire complex to myself. What a wonderful feeling, indeed... I can usually spend the last hour before closing time imagining I'm being hunted down by someone or something that's silently pacing the halls in hopes of robbing me of my furry hide. Of course, I know all the maneuvers of a true spy. When a custodian sees me holding a mock firearm up in the air and sidling along a wall of books, that's when I know it's time to take my wolfplay outside.

If I'm not already a serious recluse in the world surrounding me, I've certainly become one online as well. Over a month since my last dedicated entry in this journal, and even longer since a proper website update. Well, once I ramp this tremendous wave of school projects, I plan to update things more frequently. All the photography I've accomplished in the past few months deserves to be properly archived. Certain aspects of my life are worth mentioning more often for a few deserving readers. VGC can kiss my furry butt, as it took up far too much of my time, and I don't feel most of those nutjobs are worthy of my input anymore. To be quite honest, I haven't for years. That must make me sound awfully pompous, but that matters not, as I never allow anyone to discourage me from stating what I truly think and feel where I have every right and desire to express myself.

Don't let my big sniffer get a whiff of any cheese you might have lying around. My mother can certainly attest to that not being a good idea. I was back home for two days and I inhaled a baby loaf of cheddar like a whiff of oxygen. Mm...