While out wandering along the coastal cliffs yesterday beneath a lovely overcast sky, I discovered an envelope lying on the ground. Curiousity aroused, I stooped down to pick it up, and discovered it was a refund check addressed to a Michael H. Gomes. I recognized the name immediately, not only because he's the brother of the esteemed guitar maker who lives just up there road from here, but also the owner of a several thousand acres of private land in this region. I heard he's not the most friendly gentleman for trespassers to run into, and I knew that white SUV I passed on the way down the gated road had to belong to someone who had "connections." I quickly concluded that he must have just lost it, seeing as the envelope was entirely dry and clean when the rain had been pouring down just hours earlier, and I had not noticed it before on my way down. I suppose it would be good karma to place it in the local mail drop box at the post office, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. ...After I tape it shut, of course. The envelope had been ripped open on the side and marked with arithmatical computations.
So, I've been spending the past hour or so trying to get rid of this spyware application that magically appeared on my computer, called "QuickSearchBar." It replaces my browser's home page with a page full of useless links. Pretty much the standard, anymore. Of course, going into my Internet settings and entering my old home page address into the field does no good. The next time I start up my browser, I get the "about:blank" link directory again. You can't just go into Program Files and delete the .dll file manually, no. You have to go into Add/Remove Programs and uninstall it. And then you have to run AdAware and exterminate the registry entries But that's not all! You have to find a program called "CWShredder.exe" and scan your entire drive again. Then, and only then, might you finally reach salvation! I had to repeat these processes several times in varying orders to finally eliminate the problem.
If some bastard of a spyware application is altering your Internet settings, popping up search toolbars at random times, changing your browser's startup page routinely, don't just deal with it. Blast the hell out of it, no matter how much effort it takes to do so. If only for me, please. Don't help generate revenue for some malicious cocksucker at your own inconvenience and frustration. I've downloaded Spybot Search & Destroy, a free, top-rated spyware killer, which made a back-up of my registry and immunized my system from 1944 bad products. So, I have two spyware killers, increasing my chances of sweeping all the unsolicited junk off my drive. These things are practically a necessity, these days. I'm also getting the Google search bar, since it contains a pop-up killer.
I read in the newspaper that a few beaches on west Hawaii are being "improved." Yes, the access road to a classical favorite beach of our family, a traditional beach for us to go, is being paved. A parking lot is being constructed, with a wheelchair accessible ramp leading right down to a new pavilion overlooking the beach. A public restroom facility is being built. Trees are being cut down to "improve the view." Now, little old ladies can scoot right up to the shore in their electric wheelchairs. A few miles down the road, another once-favorite beach of ours is undergoing a similar "improvement." Pretty soon, they'll both be crawling with fat, white tourists who couldn't bear a five minute hike. This makes me feel all the less reluctant to be moving to the east coast, which is remarkably unspoilt and incredibly gorgeous. Sure, our west coast has most of the stereotypically beautiful pure white sand palm tree-lined beaches, but the east coast is more my kind of beauty– rough, rugged, rainforested, and hence absolutely uncrowded.
I experienced quite an interesting dream involving school, last night. I dreamt I was part of a small group having glass in a dark trailer parked out in the middle of the field, with an animated instructor educating us all on Iraq's finest brands of cream soda by passing around samples from Venice Beach. Of course, the eerie piano soundtrack, typical of all my dreams, played faintly in the background. I'm not certain why it is I have so many dreams involving school– not college, but high school. ...An abysmal era of my life that I have long moved on from, and am very grateful not to have to repeat in this lifetime. I miss high school like I miss the wart on the base of my middle finger. Yet, it very much seems to be occupy my sub-conscious to a substantial degree. Perhaps that's because high school substantially affected me and shaped who I am. Yes, that's probably it. I may never forget high school, and the overly tender years of my life in which I was forced to endure it.
I know I've written on high school before, many times. School is a subject I feel rather passionately about and possess strong opinions on. When my train of thought tends to chug on without a caboose, I often end up thinking of school ... as an institution. I think about how I attended public school for twelve long years, twelve years of a childhood that only properly lasts eighteen, and wonder why the fuck I did it. Why the fuck did I waste twelve years of my childhood in a goddamn classroom? Because it's required by law, of course. Because my parents wanted me to be law-abiding citizens, and get me an education. And get me friends. And get me out of the house for long enough to retain their own sanity. Because I was an impressionable child who for the most part did what he was told. Who wanted to please his parents. Who felt he had no other choice but to attend school everyday. Who felt he had to get decent grades or suffer a life of pain, punishment, and misery. Who went to school and suffered pain, punishment, and misery, but learned how to write, add, and ignore bullies. Who was told repeatedly that if he didn't succeed in school, he would never succeed in real life. Who was told that the real world is a whole new ballgame, and that in comparison, school is the easiest of easy streets. Who was told that if he didn't persevere and make it through school, he would be a nobody his entire life. Who became so depressed he no longer felt much will to live because he was flunking chemistry and algebra II, and was convinced if he failed those courses, he would be a failure forever. Who positively loathed getting up at the same time in the morning, every single day for five days a week, to attend the same classes at the exact same times with the exact same people in the exact same building. Who discovered that such barely sufferable repetition was specifically designed to dull his brain and sap the livelihood right out of him, so he'd be an obedient little drone who would always turn his homework in on time and serve society without complaint. Who honestly believed that life would only go downhill from high school because all signs given to him pointed to yes. Who was told he should enjoy high school and find it a joyous experience because it's the best time of one's life. Who believed it as he observed so many of his peers having a great time on the days they actually bothered to come to school. Who couldn't bring himself to enjoy school in the slightest, and thus believed his entire life would only get shittier than it already was. Who watched the clock for several minutes at a time everyday, particularly in last period, waiting for the freedom bell to sound so he could finally slip free from his chains. Who stared blankly at the blindingly bright white intellectually unstimulating worksheets handed out to keep the students busy while the teacher drank coffee and read his Elmore Leonard novel. Who thought deeply to himself whenever he wasn't spacing out in mind-numbing boredom and fidgety, sore-buttocks-discomfort, and barely validated the existence of anyone else around him. Who was heavily provoked by those around him for not validating their existence. Who read from textbooks dry as a pile of bones in Death Valley and marked up like a ghetto-Brooklyn brick wall. Who answered countless questions that challenged not his mind but his ability to scan through his text to find the answer in black and white. Who was so often asked to write creative entries in a literature class whose students and teachers inspired him about as much as an earwig. Who was hit on by a gay Japanese teacher because he said "arigato" in a femine way. Who was referred to a counselor in 7th grade who tried to "adjust" him because the teachers found his quietness a sign of an emotional disturbance. Who was greatly emotionally disturbed by his counselor trying to get him together with individuals he thought he should be friends with. Who had his mother ensure the counselor that all was right as rain in Nealy's world. Who always preferred to walk home three miles in the wind and rain than board a crowded school bus. Who would look out the window during his first few days of first grade and see the sweet Oregon rain begin to fall. Who would break out of his chair and rush to that window, only to be peeled off of it like a poster and caned back to his seat by his teacher. Who had a principal in first grade nicknamed "Mr. Wildfang." Who got in trouble for following a trail behind the gym down to the river at recess. Who was scolded by his third grade teacher for responding to a question that asked what your favorite part of school is with "hearing the final bell in the afternoon." Who went straight from a rural Oregon school with 150 total students to a large school in Hawaii with 2300 students. Who attended five different public schools from first to fifth grade. Who never had human friends as a child. Whose canine best friends made him aspire to live the life of a dog. Who took off into the wilderness and emulated canine behavior whenever he could. Who found incredible inspiration and reassurance in the many meaningful messages of Calvin and Hobbes. Who realized how similar he was to Calvin in so many ways, and how Calvin universalizes so many other kids' perspectives on school. Who read his brother's senior quote in the 1997 yearbook which said, "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach." Who realized as soon as he entered 9th grade that his popular brother had turned half the senior class against him through blatant lies. Who ended up disspelling myth after myth of what he truly was. Who witnessed his brother nearly get suspended for a week for bringing a keychain pocketknife to school. Who was told a teacher reported his brother for wearing a t-shirt that said "fuck" all over it to class. Who scraped by year after year with his imagination and strong will alone. Who spent most physical education class periods sitting on the bleachers and doodling in his notebook and getting A's anyway. Who sat through health class listening to his teacher call out numbers instead of names, and forgetting the number he was supposed to be. Who spent an entire semester in zoology class peeling flesh from formaldehyde-soaked cats, being thankful his specimen wasn't among those that had acquired maggots over spring break. Who killed time in art class coloring in circles and squares with acrylic paint and drawing perfect diagrams of compact discs with a compass. Who learned how to properly use a broom when sweeping an industrial shop area in woods class. Who witnessed first-hand what a baby pig's bloody testicles look like in farm. Who learned how to prevent slip and falls in the kitchen as he prepared gourmet quesadillas in home economics. Who learned how to type like a true veteran in Keyboarding I by keying the same phrase a hundred times on a 1970's apple computer. Who dropped his pencil and lined up single-file along with everyone else whenever the fire drill bell sounded. Who covered his head and hid under the desk just as instructed to do whenever a standard volcanic earthquake produced the slightest tremor. Who was conned into flipping a light switch in the gymnasium, which actually turned out to be the scoreboard buzzer switch, and was thus punished for such disruptive behavior by having to sweep the stage. Who was discriminated against on several instances on the basis of skin color. Who had to use office bathroom because all the regular student bathrooms were engulfed in clouds of tobacco smoke. Who dealt with a security lady who had a crew cut and behaved like a male Marine drill sergeant. Who had a lesbian P.E. teacher who graded her students on how happy they seemed to be in her class. Who had a class for an entire year where he did nothing but rake rocks around and grow zucchini. Who had a principal with the last name "Bratt" and who looked like a female version of Jabba the Hutt. Who had his mother as a kindergarten teacher at the same school, and who was quickly notified of any deviant act he tried to pull. Who studied for SAT's, those little tests whose scores determine how successful you'll be for the rest of your life. Who was encouraged to join myriad extracurricular activities he'd never enjoy to impress colleges like Harvard and Yale, which he'd never attend. Who was told that anything was possible if he dreamt big. Who dreamt big about things he knew would never become possible. Who was guided by a guidance counselor who guided him nowhere but farther down a downward spiral. Who was nearly conned into joining the army due to his own naivete. Who spent every recess swinging on the swing set until swings were deemed unsafe because someone slipped off one and sprained his pinkie, and were thus taken away. Who then spent every recess playing ping pong in the gym until the last ping pong ball was crushed and the state couldn't afford any balls and students weren't allowed to bring their own and the tables were hence folded up and stowed. Who never took part in the prom and couldn't fathom the meaning behind such a seemingly ridiculous tradition. Who for two weeks in his junior year became involved with an insane female named Camille who later stalked him and sent her entirely imbecilic hired henchmen to supposedly murder him. Who spent every recess in the computer lab playing video games until video games were banned. Who then spent every recess in the library reading magazines until magazines were banned. Who then spent every recess listening to a CD player in a quiet corner in the shade until CD players in any corner of campus were banned. Who attended school on days where the electric was out for the entire day and the teachers had to hand out worksheets designed for kindergartners because they couldn't turn on their TV's to show them 30 year-old videos on proper nutrition for gerbils and handy Spanish phrases to use in Mexican quilt shops. Who was expected to perform mandatory cafeteria duty once a month, which served as extracurricular training for life as a janitor, and earned him a free meal he didn't eat. Who was sent to a mock prison across campus for a day for refusing to serve meat to students in the cafeteria. Who wore a stupid hat and apron and served peaches in the cafeteria for three hours to every grade in the school instead. Who always brought a bag lunch to school and was criticized for it by all the other students who brought the revolting processed school lunches. Who couldn't bear to eat inside the cafeteria in the company of two dozen loudmouths at his table stuffing processed pig entrails into their faces. Who stopped eating lunch at school altogether when eating lunch outside was banned due to many students littering the campus. Who memorized countless trivial facts just so he could pass a test and forgot them immediately after he was required to loudly gobble like a turkey in the annual Thanksgiving pep rally's class spirit yell. Who skipped half the pep rallies he was expected to attend by dashing off into the woods and laying back on the leaves in perfect silence, listening to the sweet euphony of birdsong while eating the tangerines he just picked from wild tropical trees, reveling in the quiescent solitude and natural beauty as opposed to four hundred noisy buffoons yelling at the top of their lungs as instructed so they'd get certificates for free McDonald's hamburgers next week. Who strove to remind himself of what was actually worth living for. Who dreamt of a life where he could roam free all day long, away from all the students and faculty he so abhorred. Who discovered the magic of Internet communities in the 11th grade, and made distant friends which saved him from himself and those around him in the nick of time. Who picked up his diploma with a blank expression on his face, entirely unaware he'd be watering piles of sand with garden hoses for two months in the matter of a week, as a parent-directed introduction to the "real world." Who eventually wondered how much more enjoyable his childhood would have been if he had been spared of institutionalization. Who only realized what a joke high school was after high school, when such a realization no longer counted for as much but counted for something. Who came to understand that after sixth grade, school prepared him for a life in a correctional facility more than anything else. Who knew that in his possible next lifetime, given any subconscious memory of his previous one, he would insist upon home-schooling when he was six years old.
Ah, school. I'm so thankful they were all just lying to us. College is so much better. I love university. I hated high school. Life has improved drastically. I'm so proud of me for never allowing them to institutionalize me into a complete nitwit who subscribes to groupthink at every fork instead of thinking for himself.
Aug 4, 2004
Aug 2, 2004
Aug 1, 2004
To live a dream is a dream come true
'Twas the morning after the full moon's eve, and a few field mice were stirring. Ever aware of their meager hierarchical position on the food chain, they cleared a path for the wolvenspirit, who bounded lightly through the lush green grass in search of– not mice, but release. He had just climbed over the barbed wire fence running parallel to the tree-lined mountain road, pausing a few seconds afterwards only to listen to the familiar, euphonious sound of the heavy breeze sweeping through the ironwood leaves. It could greatly be likened to the sound of the sea, only so much lighter and more peaceful. Only this sound, and perhaps the ocean waves quietly setting down upon a desolate beach's sandy shores, could possibly be used to define his spirit in a state of complete contentedness. When he noticed with his refined sense of vision approaching headlights, he quickly bolted up the grassy slope, away from the road. The rise was steep, and the air much thinner than what his body was acclimated to, so he quickly found himself out of breath. The car passed, the driver undoubtedly oblivious to the presence of anyone out there besides the ancient whispering spirits that roamed these mountains. As he relaxed his pace and continued uphill in a much more quiescent manner, striding parallel to an electric fence, he could hear them. Soft, low voices, words indiscernable. Many residents found them scary, and would not consider wandering this mountain in the evening, but he considered them quite soothing. He could have been hearing things, such as the faint, eerie whooshing noise of the windmills not far away, but he preferred to imagine that ancient Hawaiian spirits were keeping him company as his bare feet swept through the lush, verdant grass. The wind rolled down the mountain slope quite forcefully, challenging him to continue upward against the sheer intensity of its gusts. He persevered, however, knowing that only the cold, driving rain that typically reigned upon this region might convince him to back down, and the sky this morning was clear as a diamond. And the moonlight, oh, it was resplendent enough to safely drive by without headlights, barring other inattentive drivers on the road.
He passed closely by Kahua Ranch, a tiny mountain locale featuring a hydroponics facility, windmill farm, and a few residences and stables nestled amongst a grove of ironwood trees. Farther up the mountain, his destination came into view– the old FAA station placed in a lofty location. Nothing would fulfill his morning's wander more than reaching that zenith. And nothing would stop him. He followed no roads, but when encountering formidable electric fences imposing upon his continuance, he usually came upon gated by-ways after only a few seconds of searching. As he passed the ranch, he settled into a rhythm, allowing the beauty to permeate through his skin and into his spirit. The cold, soft grass felt remarkable upon the undersides of his feet, and the winds rustling his mane felt truly invigorating. His heart was beating at a rapid pace, ready to spring out of his chest and soak the silvery green grass with its beautiful scarlet red, the majestic color of strength and vitality.
After shifting directions to follow the contour of the mountain, he encountered several fences, which he either climbed over or rolled beneath. As he proceeded forward along the pasture, little did he expect to encounter a large group of equinefolk, about thirty or forty long-faced creatures. Every last one of them ceased their resting and grazing to quietly observe his movements. He slowed, observing them in return, gazing into as many large, round eyes as he could to communicate that he meant no harm. They seemed hardly intimidated, for many begin to approach him in standard graceful equine fashion. Never had he been afraid of horses, and never had horses been afraid of him. He always found their beauty and grace greatly worth of admiration and emulation. Silently, he moved in amongst the crowd, now more or less surrounded by creatures several times his body weight, and not minding at all. One horse stood apart from the pack, looking in, and she did not move away as the odd wanderer approached her. She was exceptionally gorgeous, the way her sleek coat sheened in the moonlight with seemingly more luminance than anyone else, with the physical form and aura of pride and dignity of a show horse. As she investigated his outstretched paw with her nose, he wished he had an edible treat to offer her. A simple scritch on the mane had to suffice. As he enjoyed their calm, quiet company, he began to envy their lifestyle. Here, perfectly at home upon this quiet hillside, with an astonishing view down the mountain all the way to the sea, feasting on damp, green grass all day. No busy agenda, no schedule book to maintain, no alarm clock to wake up to. How on Earth could humanity think it's actually superior to all other species?
Slowly, he broke away from the crowd, wishing dawn would procrastinate her own arrival for a few hours so he could linger about. The crowd began to follow him, stopping when he stopped, proceeding when he proceeded. He led them all the way to another electric fence, which he slipped under, and left them behind. Of course, he promised to visit them once more on his way back. His destination suddenly appeared much closer as he continued along the contour, not pausing until he reached the paved one-lane road which wound up to the very top. Of course, hard asphalt was not nearly so friendly to his feet, so he remained on the grass, following parallel to the steep road. It curved up behind the hill and met up with the barb wire-garnished chain link fence which surrounded the facility. Before he could celebrate reaching the apex, he had to shield his sensitive eyes from the bright amber security light affixed to one of the buildings. He steered away from the unwelcome distraction and set down on the other side, his legs dangling over the hill which plummted down onto the steep road he had just climbed, trying to make sense of all the majesty before him.
Glancing back down the mountain, he could easily see the ranch from which the road originated, lively as a forgotten cemetery with crumbling tombstones. Everyone was surely asleep, dreaming, perhaps, of liberation from the monotony of daily routine, or the unadventurous life. This inspirited wanderer dreamt of a beautiful moonlit morning, where the clock had only struck 2 a.m., or at least he reckoned. A place where he could see across rolling grassy hills down to the ocean from 5000 feet. A place where he could see the moonlight's expansive, silvery-white reflection upon the ocean. The only way to tell apart the void of the ocean from the void of the sky was to gaze at the brilliant reflection upon the water's surface, which immediately halted at the horizon. A narrow band of swiftly moving clouds spread before him, and so much farther in the distance burned the lights of the various coastal resorts. It all seemed so spectacularly far away, as if he was sitting somewhere up in heaven partaking of such a scene. He was truly even with the clouds, and his spirit felt as if it was sitting upon one. The scene of a dream. Could this possibly be reality, the same reality that so many lament and comfort themselves by reminding they'll someday escape from, or was he just dreaming it? If only... if only he could take photographs of scenes from his dreams.
The tower rose up mightily into the regal night sky above every tree and the nagging amber light, its queer-looking white sphere set aglow by the moon. Hardly complete would the night be if I did not opt to follow the winding steel staircase that led to the very top. Climbing over the chain link fence proved to be hardly challenging enough for a seasoned intruder, and the chain link gate that impeded access at the foot of the staircase was easily scaled. The wind became much stronger the higher he climbed, until it finally became so strong he could only maintain his balance by hanging onto the round steel railing or leaning into it diagonally. On the second to final set of stairs, he was forced to hold on tightly to the railing, for concern of being blown backwards. So is the nature of trade winds at such elevations. They blow along thousands of miles of ocean, entirely unobstructed for the entire duration, and when they finally hit a land mass at such an elevation, they hit with some force. He could feel the tower shaking, even swaying slightly as he reached the giant sphere's padlocked bottom door, upon which was posted a warning sign Just beneath the door, the wind blew with considerably less force, so he settled down to rest and partake of the panoramic view. So far away down the peninsula seemed the lights of his town, across miles and miles of darkness and wild. The stream of clouds to the west moved along with mesmorizing rapidity, simply dissolving before him as they reached warmer temperatures. His mind recalled the first time he had ventured up here, so many years ago, at a time he felt he had to choose between a release into the wild or a hole in his body. What a magical experience it was, one that forever inspired his fascination and love for the night. One of the earliest experiences that made him realize who he truly was.
The wolvenspirit stayed up there for another half hour or so, quietly reflecting and recollecting, until he lost interest in enduring the wind's incessant barrage. Slowly, he made his way back down the steps, and crossed back over the gate and perimeter fence. No headlights were approaching from any direction. Nothing would have dared desecrate such a surreal dreamscape, at least, in his mind. As 4 a.m. approached, he decided to wander back down, the wind at his back, guiding him home. He congregated with the horses again for awhile, properly saying farewell to each of them. As he ambled back down the hill, he glanced back up several times, noticing a heavy blanket of clouds beginning to set in behind the mountain. It seemed to take no more than a few minutes to reach the highway, but he seemed not content to go back home just yet. On the opposite side stood an iron gate, beyond which another rolling, grassy hill rose up into the sky. Over the gate he climbed, then set out upon a narrow dirt road twisting about the pasture. It led through another electric fence and by chance, up the hillside. He did not expect to encounter a cinder quarry, at the bottom of which someone has set up a firing range with wooden frames and large rubber tires as targets. Amazing how one can live in a place for years, and not be aware of so much that lies just beyond their backyard. Proceeding beyond to the crest of the hill, he reacquired his view of the moonlight reflecting upon the ocean, which had become all the more intense with the passage of time. He happened upon a cement slab housing a geological survey marker, and sat down, thoroughly awe-stricken by the scene's mesmorizing beauty. Behind him, a bright planet hovered above the hills he had left behind, and the royal blue sky gradually lightened in color. Dawn was approaching ... approaching all too quickly. He continued to sit, simply staring at the moon until it became obscured by clouds, then shifting his gaze downward to its reflection upon the sea. The majesty of the landscape was almost too much for him to fathom. Finally, he picked himself up and headed back, gazing back up the hill at the tower he had climbed seemingly so long ago. Behind him, the clouds lifted slightly, revealing the moon once again in dawn's earliest light. The heavens told him that he would never forget this early August morning. Never for the life of him.
He passed closely by Kahua Ranch, a tiny mountain locale featuring a hydroponics facility, windmill farm, and a few residences and stables nestled amongst a grove of ironwood trees. Farther up the mountain, his destination came into view– the old FAA station placed in a lofty location. Nothing would fulfill his morning's wander more than reaching that zenith. And nothing would stop him. He followed no roads, but when encountering formidable electric fences imposing upon his continuance, he usually came upon gated by-ways after only a few seconds of searching. As he passed the ranch, he settled into a rhythm, allowing the beauty to permeate through his skin and into his spirit. The cold, soft grass felt remarkable upon the undersides of his feet, and the winds rustling his mane felt truly invigorating. His heart was beating at a rapid pace, ready to spring out of his chest and soak the silvery green grass with its beautiful scarlet red, the majestic color of strength and vitality.
After shifting directions to follow the contour of the mountain, he encountered several fences, which he either climbed over or rolled beneath. As he proceeded forward along the pasture, little did he expect to encounter a large group of equinefolk, about thirty or forty long-faced creatures. Every last one of them ceased their resting and grazing to quietly observe his movements. He slowed, observing them in return, gazing into as many large, round eyes as he could to communicate that he meant no harm. They seemed hardly intimidated, for many begin to approach him in standard graceful equine fashion. Never had he been afraid of horses, and never had horses been afraid of him. He always found their beauty and grace greatly worth of admiration and emulation. Silently, he moved in amongst the crowd, now more or less surrounded by creatures several times his body weight, and not minding at all. One horse stood apart from the pack, looking in, and she did not move away as the odd wanderer approached her. She was exceptionally gorgeous, the way her sleek coat sheened in the moonlight with seemingly more luminance than anyone else, with the physical form and aura of pride and dignity of a show horse. As she investigated his outstretched paw with her nose, he wished he had an edible treat to offer her. A simple scritch on the mane had to suffice. As he enjoyed their calm, quiet company, he began to envy their lifestyle. Here, perfectly at home upon this quiet hillside, with an astonishing view down the mountain all the way to the sea, feasting on damp, green grass all day. No busy agenda, no schedule book to maintain, no alarm clock to wake up to. How on Earth could humanity think it's actually superior to all other species?
Slowly, he broke away from the crowd, wishing dawn would procrastinate her own arrival for a few hours so he could linger about. The crowd began to follow him, stopping when he stopped, proceeding when he proceeded. He led them all the way to another electric fence, which he slipped under, and left them behind. Of course, he promised to visit them once more on his way back. His destination suddenly appeared much closer as he continued along the contour, not pausing until he reached the paved one-lane road which wound up to the very top. Of course, hard asphalt was not nearly so friendly to his feet, so he remained on the grass, following parallel to the steep road. It curved up behind the hill and met up with the barb wire-garnished chain link fence which surrounded the facility. Before he could celebrate reaching the apex, he had to shield his sensitive eyes from the bright amber security light affixed to one of the buildings. He steered away from the unwelcome distraction and set down on the other side, his legs dangling over the hill which plummted down onto the steep road he had just climbed, trying to make sense of all the majesty before him.
Glancing back down the mountain, he could easily see the ranch from which the road originated, lively as a forgotten cemetery with crumbling tombstones. Everyone was surely asleep, dreaming, perhaps, of liberation from the monotony of daily routine, or the unadventurous life. This inspirited wanderer dreamt of a beautiful moonlit morning, where the clock had only struck 2 a.m., or at least he reckoned. A place where he could see across rolling grassy hills down to the ocean from 5000 feet. A place where he could see the moonlight's expansive, silvery-white reflection upon the ocean. The only way to tell apart the void of the ocean from the void of the sky was to gaze at the brilliant reflection upon the water's surface, which immediately halted at the horizon. A narrow band of swiftly moving clouds spread before him, and so much farther in the distance burned the lights of the various coastal resorts. It all seemed so spectacularly far away, as if he was sitting somewhere up in heaven partaking of such a scene. He was truly even with the clouds, and his spirit felt as if it was sitting upon one. The scene of a dream. Could this possibly be reality, the same reality that so many lament and comfort themselves by reminding they'll someday escape from, or was he just dreaming it? If only... if only he could take photographs of scenes from his dreams.
The tower rose up mightily into the regal night sky above every tree and the nagging amber light, its queer-looking white sphere set aglow by the moon. Hardly complete would the night be if I did not opt to follow the winding steel staircase that led to the very top. Climbing over the chain link fence proved to be hardly challenging enough for a seasoned intruder, and the chain link gate that impeded access at the foot of the staircase was easily scaled. The wind became much stronger the higher he climbed, until it finally became so strong he could only maintain his balance by hanging onto the round steel railing or leaning into it diagonally. On the second to final set of stairs, he was forced to hold on tightly to the railing, for concern of being blown backwards. So is the nature of trade winds at such elevations. They blow along thousands of miles of ocean, entirely unobstructed for the entire duration, and when they finally hit a land mass at such an elevation, they hit with some force. He could feel the tower shaking, even swaying slightly as he reached the giant sphere's padlocked bottom door, upon which was posted a warning sign Just beneath the door, the wind blew with considerably less force, so he settled down to rest and partake of the panoramic view. So far away down the peninsula seemed the lights of his town, across miles and miles of darkness and wild. The stream of clouds to the west moved along with mesmorizing rapidity, simply dissolving before him as they reached warmer temperatures. His mind recalled the first time he had ventured up here, so many years ago, at a time he felt he had to choose between a release into the wild or a hole in his body. What a magical experience it was, one that forever inspired his fascination and love for the night. One of the earliest experiences that made him realize who he truly was.
The wolvenspirit stayed up there for another half hour or so, quietly reflecting and recollecting, until he lost interest in enduring the wind's incessant barrage. Slowly, he made his way back down the steps, and crossed back over the gate and perimeter fence. No headlights were approaching from any direction. Nothing would have dared desecrate such a surreal dreamscape, at least, in his mind. As 4 a.m. approached, he decided to wander back down, the wind at his back, guiding him home. He congregated with the horses again for awhile, properly saying farewell to each of them. As he ambled back down the hill, he glanced back up several times, noticing a heavy blanket of clouds beginning to set in behind the mountain. It seemed to take no more than a few minutes to reach the highway, but he seemed not content to go back home just yet. On the opposite side stood an iron gate, beyond which another rolling, grassy hill rose up into the sky. Over the gate he climbed, then set out upon a narrow dirt road twisting about the pasture. It led through another electric fence and by chance, up the hillside. He did not expect to encounter a cinder quarry, at the bottom of which someone has set up a firing range with wooden frames and large rubber tires as targets. Amazing how one can live in a place for years, and not be aware of so much that lies just beyond their backyard. Proceeding beyond to the crest of the hill, he reacquired his view of the moonlight reflecting upon the ocean, which had become all the more intense with the passage of time. He happened upon a cement slab housing a geological survey marker, and sat down, thoroughly awe-stricken by the scene's mesmorizing beauty. Behind him, a bright planet hovered above the hills he had left behind, and the royal blue sky gradually lightened in color. Dawn was approaching ... approaching all too quickly. He continued to sit, simply staring at the moon until it became obscured by clouds, then shifting his gaze downward to its reflection upon the sea. The majesty of the landscape was almost too much for him to fathom. Finally, he picked himself up and headed back, gazing back up the hill at the tower he had climbed seemingly so long ago. Behind him, the clouds lifted slightly, revealing the moon once again in dawn's earliest light. The heavens told him that he would never forget this early August morning. Never for the life of him.
Jul 24, 2004
And so we watch the sun come up...
...From the edge of the deep green sea.
With this euphonious song from the latest band I'm becoming obsessed with playing on repeat, I headed down a seldom-traveled dirt road to a familiar place on the shoreline; a place I hadn't been to in months, but felt as if I was just there yesterday. Let's see if I can scrounge up an image of it. ... Ah yes, here we go:
The road usually looks like this:
But lately, it's rained so seldomly it's turned into a dust bowl populated by brown grass. We need some moisture.
Even though I'd visited this particular area a few dozen times before, I've never encountered another soul there. Just a few paces beyond the end of the road lay the edge of the deep blue sea at the base of a sea cliff. Last winter, I took a few shots of one of my favorite frolicking spots submerged beneath the powerful surf:
One typically descends the face of the small cliff using the rope, which should be visible in the picture, but every three minutes, a colossal wave would wash over everything, making such an activity highly unsafe. Today, however, it was amazingly calm down there. The tide was low, exposing a broad, dry area at the base of the cliffs. And of course, the tide pools, the finest for swimming in the area, looked incredibly appealing to me:
The water looked clean and pure, and was actually lukewarm. Not only that, they were several feet deeper than I am tall. Though the sun had already set and the breeze was cool, I still felt compelled to take a dip. So I stripped and waded in, leaving only my sandals on, for concern of who knows what could be lying on the bottom. It turned out "the bottom" was comprised of nothing more than large smooth boulders, covered by a thick mossy-like growth .. I would have been comfortable enough swimming barefoot, so I did. There's nothing like being completely free. Of course, the water was perfect. It took my body no time at all to become accustomed to the temperature. I must have spent a good forty-five minutes enjoying myself, lying on my back, staring up at the periwinkle twilight sky and the half moon gazing back at me from right beside the ironwood trees with their long, greygreen leaves whispering in the wind. Must I mention that it was beautiful?
When I got home, I turned on the Dish and started flipping through the channels. For once, I'm glad I did. I reached the Disney channel just in time to reach the opening theme song for Bonkers. Awesome possum. I'd forgotten about the show, but I once watched it on a daily basis, and remember being quite enamored of the wacky feline cop. Watching him again was a thoroughly pleasant nostalgia trip. Even better, though, was seeing Talespin come on afterwards. As the old, familiar opening theme began playing, I nearly felt like shrieking for joy. I immediately felt like I was 12 years old all over again. I cannot really describe how warm it made me feel inside to view and listen to the opening sequence for the first time in all these years. Talespin was one of my all-time favorite cartoons, and to finally see it again, so unexpectedly and out of the Baloo, was a joyous experience. Unsurprisingly, I still find Don Karnage sexy as ever. Unfortunately, he didn't make an appearance in this episode, which left me somewhat disappointed. Still, I know now when the right time to watch cartoons is ... relatively late at night, when all the stupid modern primetime trash is over, and the reruns of fantastic classics come on. The cartoon I really desire to see now, though, is Heathcliff and the Catillac Cats.
I must cease this entry, now: Ducktales is on.
With this euphonious song from the latest band I'm becoming obsessed with playing on repeat, I headed down a seldom-traveled dirt road to a familiar place on the shoreline; a place I hadn't been to in months, but felt as if I was just there yesterday. Let's see if I can scrounge up an image of it. ... Ah yes, here we go:
The road usually looks like this:
But lately, it's rained so seldomly it's turned into a dust bowl populated by brown grass. We need some moisture.
Even though I'd visited this particular area a few dozen times before, I've never encountered another soul there. Just a few paces beyond the end of the road lay the edge of the deep blue sea at the base of a sea cliff. Last winter, I took a few shots of one of my favorite frolicking spots submerged beneath the powerful surf:
One typically descends the face of the small cliff using the rope, which should be visible in the picture, but every three minutes, a colossal wave would wash over everything, making such an activity highly unsafe. Today, however, it was amazingly calm down there. The tide was low, exposing a broad, dry area at the base of the cliffs. And of course, the tide pools, the finest for swimming in the area, looked incredibly appealing to me:
The water looked clean and pure, and was actually lukewarm. Not only that, they were several feet deeper than I am tall. Though the sun had already set and the breeze was cool, I still felt compelled to take a dip. So I stripped and waded in, leaving only my sandals on, for concern of who knows what could be lying on the bottom. It turned out "the bottom" was comprised of nothing more than large smooth boulders, covered by a thick mossy-like growth .. I would have been comfortable enough swimming barefoot, so I did. There's nothing like being completely free. Of course, the water was perfect. It took my body no time at all to become accustomed to the temperature. I must have spent a good forty-five minutes enjoying myself, lying on my back, staring up at the periwinkle twilight sky and the half moon gazing back at me from right beside the ironwood trees with their long, greygreen leaves whispering in the wind. Must I mention that it was beautiful?
When I got home, I turned on the Dish and started flipping through the channels. For once, I'm glad I did. I reached the Disney channel just in time to reach the opening theme song for Bonkers. Awesome possum. I'd forgotten about the show, but I once watched it on a daily basis, and remember being quite enamored of the wacky feline cop. Watching him again was a thoroughly pleasant nostalgia trip. Even better, though, was seeing Talespin come on afterwards. As the old, familiar opening theme began playing, I nearly felt like shrieking for joy. I immediately felt like I was 12 years old all over again. I cannot really describe how warm it made me feel inside to view and listen to the opening sequence for the first time in all these years. Talespin was one of my all-time favorite cartoons, and to finally see it again, so unexpectedly and out of the Baloo, was a joyous experience. Unsurprisingly, I still find Don Karnage sexy as ever. Unfortunately, he didn't make an appearance in this episode, which left me somewhat disappointed. Still, I know now when the right time to watch cartoons is ... relatively late at night, when all the stupid modern primetime trash is over, and the reruns of fantastic classics come on. The cartoon I really desire to see now, though, is Heathcliff and the Catillac Cats.
I must cease this entry, now: Ducktales is on.
Jul 23, 2004
Hungry? You may have a serious medical condition requiring immediate treatment.
ICQ conversation, 7/23
Timberwolf: Ooh, lovely, a commercial for a drug that helps reduce hunger pangs.
WyteLyon: Ooh, cool, I heard those can get terribly uncomfortable
Timberwolf: Yeah, and so can the sensation of pressure in your bowels that lets you know when you have to defecate.
WyteLyon: They should make a pill that prevents that feeling from ever happening.
Timberwolf: Mm, it would probably increase the sales of adult diapers tenfold... *Chuckle*
WyteLyon: exactly!
Timberwolf: Everyone in the commercial looks so happy, too. They all appear to be having so much fun.
Timberwolf: "Yay, look at me, I can finally go out and play tennis, sail on the lake, and travel to the Virgin Islands because I found a cure for my debilitating hunger pangs!"
WyteLyon: *gigglesnort*
WyteLyon: Possible side effects include: fullness, food in the fridge aging beyond their expiration dates, and starvation.
Timberwolf: And of course, diarrhea.
Timberwolf: I need this drug. My empty stomach depends on it.
No, I did not actually see a commercial for a drug that reduces hunger pangs. I broached the topic primarily to satirize the ridiculousness of there being advertised on television government-approved prescription drugs for seemingly every conceivable minor ailment, and posted it here because... well, this realm needed something on the lighter side.
Timberwolf: Ooh, lovely, a commercial for a drug that helps reduce hunger pangs.
WyteLyon: Ooh, cool, I heard those can get terribly uncomfortable
Timberwolf: Yeah, and so can the sensation of pressure in your bowels that lets you know when you have to defecate.
WyteLyon: They should make a pill that prevents that feeling from ever happening.
Timberwolf: Mm, it would probably increase the sales of adult diapers tenfold... *Chuckle*
WyteLyon: exactly!
Timberwolf: Everyone in the commercial looks so happy, too. They all appear to be having so much fun.
Timberwolf: "Yay, look at me, I can finally go out and play tennis, sail on the lake, and travel to the Virgin Islands because I found a cure for my debilitating hunger pangs!"
WyteLyon: *gigglesnort*
WyteLyon: Possible side effects include: fullness, food in the fridge aging beyond their expiration dates, and starvation.
Timberwolf: And of course, diarrhea.
Timberwolf: I need this drug. My empty stomach depends on it.
No, I did not actually see a commercial for a drug that reduces hunger pangs. I broached the topic primarily to satirize the ridiculousness of there being advertised on television government-approved prescription drugs for seemingly every conceivable minor ailment, and posted it here because... well, this realm needed something on the lighter side.
Truth is...
I accidentally dropped my digital camera, worth approximately $450, into a stream yesterday afternoon. It's now nothing more than a paperweight; perhaps a nice mantle piece. I've been mentally punishing myself all last night and this morning for allowing such a catastrophe to occur. If I had been more cautious with my footing or had maintained a tighter grip, or had not been so audacious as to take it with me upstream at all, it never would have happened. Or maybe it would have later on. Karma works in mysterious ways. I could have accidentally dropped it down a steep, inaccessible gorge and not even have gotten to keep it as a souvenir for aesthetic value. My spirits thoroughly deflated, however, I decided not to go that far, and simply turned back to go home. It's not even so much the monetary value of it that so upsets me, not how analogous the experience was to watching $400 float down the stream away from you while you could do nothing about it. I can always afford another one. It's how careless and ungraceful I was to allow such a thing to happen that depresses me the most. I don't feel my expectations of myself are overblown, but I disappointed myself more by doing this than I have in a long, long time. I expect myself to make plenty of mistakes, as everyone does, but... I simply was not prepared to make a mistake like this. On the surface, it's hardly a big deal. Cameras can always be replaced. Of course, it had very much become a part of me, as I take photography seriously, and am very passionate about my developing work. Underneath, I'm reminded that I'm not nearly as invincible as I often become convinced I am. I take risks all the time and usually come out unscathed and satisfied. Perhaps the purpose of this unfortunate event was to remind me that I am vulnerable to tremendous misfortune, that it's always lying just around the corner, waiting for a time that I'm sticking my neck out to pounce and clamp its jaws down upon my jugular. Perhaps in the long run, my loss has done more good than harm, in that it has inspired me to exercise more caution, which could save me from having to endure a tragedy in the future. At any rate, I need to call the service center and send my camera to the repair facility, to see if they can do anything to fix it. If it must be replaced, I at least hope I can get it for a lower price, considering I still have nine months of warranty left. Unfortunately, it explicitly states it does not cover water damage, or clumsy negligence.
"Cauterized" by Tweaker is a composition that very accurately represents my current mood.
"Cauterized" by Tweaker is a composition that very accurately represents my current mood.
Jul 22, 2004
So shut the door and shut off the light...
Apparently, my domain went under for a few days, as its expiration date arrived a little sooner than I could deal with. It's all resolved now, though. I just added two more years of life to it. Before long, I should upload quite a few new images. That's one of the foremost projects I'd like to accomplish before I move out.
Yes, I should be moving out of my parents' home by the middle of August. My father and I have been discussing renting me a place closer to my University campus for months, now. The hour and forty-five minute drive is a bit much to handle four days a week, plus whichever other days I may have to work. Yesterday, we decided to make the commute together in search of a reasonably decent place for an independent student to shack up for at least a semester or two. I did the driving around town; my father manned the cell phone and the classified section of the local newspaper. The first place we investigated was a studio apartment complex which looked rather ratty-looking, and was then viewable only from the outside. I wasn't entirely impressed with what I saw. The next door neighbor, beyond a narrow stand of trees, was a daycare center with noisy toddlers screeching. Minus. The two apartment complexes the owner (not on the premises) said were available were rooms 'N' and 'O.' I believe what those two letters put together spell is hardly a coincidence. So we decided to keep on looking.
The next stop was a little room behind an antique shop on one of the busiest streets in town. We were supposed to meet the renter later on to get a tour of the inside, but one glance at the location immediately turned me off to the possibility of living there. Next stop: the University. We checked a couple of the bulletin boards there, expecting to see a few ads for rooms/apartments for rent, and found a few. My father called up one character whose supposed genius son allegedly got admitted to a mainland university when he was eight years old. This individual sounded like quite a character, indeed, but his offer for a downstairs room for $275/month with cable internet sounded promising, so we went over and visited him. It turned out his home was also close to a busy street, and directly across from a large industrial building. The unkempt yard gave me a bad first impression, but if that hadn't, one look at the living space would have. The room itself wasn't terrible; it's a little larger than my current bedroom, and included a nice bed, as well as (did I mention this already?) cable Internet. Of course, that spooky poem written on the wall made me feel slightly uneasy. For some reason, the overall atmosphere left me truly uncomfortable. Never mind the fact that the guy who lives in the room right next to the one for rent is a classic example of pot-abusing space case. Never mind that the toilet and sink were located across the basement from the shower and bathtub, or how bizarre it was that the bathtub stood in the center of its own little room, with the shower pointed straight down upon it, with no shower curtains. Never mind that it all looked like a complete rat nest, with three or four different paint jobs peeling off the walls and brown stains all over the porcelain. Never mind that there lay a large puddle of standing water on the kitchen's dirty cement floor due to god knows what kind of plumbing problem. It looked like a classic ghetto living space to me. A place where junkies congregate to cook up methamphetamine and hide their product in the toilet tank for midnight pick-ups. But never mind at all that. Something about the place just made me feel altogether disturbed. I still feel rather uncomfortable about being there after so many hours of not being there. I may have sensed an extremely foul paranormal force, or something. We went upstairs, which wasn't nearly as spooky but still inexcusably messy, and conversed with the renter for awhile, since he was such an interesting character who claimed his friend invented the hydrogen car and that another friend of his invented a CD player that can make houseplants behave as speakers, but I insisted we keep on looking. He insisted he had the world's most wonderful wife, which I could not contest per se, but I saw absolutely no sign of his wife, nor a woman's touch in the living quarters. And considering he was supposedly a successful businessman and one of his sons was an astronomer pulling down a fortune like the stars, one would assume he'd live in a nicer home. Ooh, my. What a character. My intuition was telling me something was just too suspicious about those people... I don't think I would have ever felt comfortable there, never mind the barking dogs across the street, the crazy old man next door he spoke of, or the noisy traffic.
And thus, we called up someone else. This place turned out to be right next to the place we originally looked at when we first came into town. This apartment complex was much nicer and newer-looking, and was considerably farther away from the screech factory. Location-wise, I found it extremely satisfactory. It's on quiet, narrow Lehua Street, not even half a mile from downtown, but still well away from any serious commotion. The neighborhood seems reasonably quiet and clean, with yards dominated by the typical lush natural foliage characteristic of Hilo. Apartments were what I originally had in mind, as well– considering what a private creature I am, I much prefer to live in my own room with my own bathroom, kitchen, and entrance/exit. That's exactly what this place offered. The realty lady showed us two available rooms on the upper level, and I immediately felt at home. For $400 a month including utilities, it's a single studio room more than large enough to fit in an entertainment and computer center, bed, and a couple other items of furniture and still have a comfortable amount of space left over. I decided to go for it. Not out of impatience or desperation, but because I truly had a feeling we would find nothing better.
So that settles it. I officially have a place of my own. I just have to figure out a few things... what kind of bed I'm going to introduce into such a space and where I'm going to get it, where one goes to do their laundry, how much broadband Internet costs, whether I should get a cell phone or land line, where exactly the mail comes in... I have weeks to figure it all out, though, and more than a month left of summer vacation, so I am, for the most part, going to spend the rest of it relaxing and enjoying myself. I recently received a scholarship in the mail, granted to me just for graduating from a Hawaiian high school. Talk about a cake walk.. it gives me $1000 more in financial aid right from the start, and instead of having to earn $1750 in workstudy through a job, I now only have to earn $750 for the semester. Every once in awhile, remarkable things like that happen... and one hardly expects them to. I'm grateful, though, trust me. I'm grateful for many things, as I should be... everyone deserves a liberal education ... not everyone is able to afford it.
I picked up the new Tweaker album at Altitunes in Chicago. I was actually shocked to find an album by such an undiscovered artist in such a small music shop. I'd have to say it's about as accessible as the Earth's inner core, at least as far as the general pop-favoring masses are concerned, and that's saying nothing of its depth. Like his debut, I imagine it's much too difficult and altogether "weird" for most to ever get into. It smacks of typical Vrenna genius; that which most could probably never be bothered to dabble in. It is rather intimidating, in a way. Former Nine Inch Nails programmer Chris Vrenna is a strange man who makes disturbing music, and that's exactly what makes him such a fabulous artist. This album is best listened to during periods of insomnia. He recruited eight different vocalists to sing lyrics in his enchanting compositions, including David Sylvian and the notorious Robert Smith from The Cure. This kind of music simply refuses to fit into any genre. Vrenna is his own genre. It all sounds so unique... so purely refreshing. Such a marvelous departure from all the stale crumbs I regularly hear toasted on the radio. As I sit here listening to "It's Still Happening," I could just imagine enjoying the same song as I drive home late at night from a liberating spiritual wander. It makes me want to howl and then some.
I know I owe a few e-mails. I have not forgotten about anyone. I am not avoiding anyone. I've just been Internet-challenged as of late. Lately, I've actually suspected the phone might be an easier tool to use for keeping in touch, which is rather frightening, considering my traditional perspective on phones. I may have meandered away from the e-mail routine for a disgruntlingly long time, but I'll never get completely lost. I'm going to attempt to get back into it very soon. ...Anyone want a post card?
Yes, I should be moving out of my parents' home by the middle of August. My father and I have been discussing renting me a place closer to my University campus for months, now. The hour and forty-five minute drive is a bit much to handle four days a week, plus whichever other days I may have to work. Yesterday, we decided to make the commute together in search of a reasonably decent place for an independent student to shack up for at least a semester or two. I did the driving around town; my father manned the cell phone and the classified section of the local newspaper. The first place we investigated was a studio apartment complex which looked rather ratty-looking, and was then viewable only from the outside. I wasn't entirely impressed with what I saw. The next door neighbor, beyond a narrow stand of trees, was a daycare center with noisy toddlers screeching. Minus. The two apartment complexes the owner (not on the premises) said were available were rooms 'N' and 'O.' I believe what those two letters put together spell is hardly a coincidence. So we decided to keep on looking.
The next stop was a little room behind an antique shop on one of the busiest streets in town. We were supposed to meet the renter later on to get a tour of the inside, but one glance at the location immediately turned me off to the possibility of living there. Next stop: the University. We checked a couple of the bulletin boards there, expecting to see a few ads for rooms/apartments for rent, and found a few. My father called up one character whose supposed genius son allegedly got admitted to a mainland university when he was eight years old. This individual sounded like quite a character, indeed, but his offer for a downstairs room for $275/month with cable internet sounded promising, so we went over and visited him. It turned out his home was also close to a busy street, and directly across from a large industrial building. The unkempt yard gave me a bad first impression, but if that hadn't, one look at the living space would have. The room itself wasn't terrible; it's a little larger than my current bedroom, and included a nice bed, as well as (did I mention this already?) cable Internet. Of course, that spooky poem written on the wall made me feel slightly uneasy. For some reason, the overall atmosphere left me truly uncomfortable. Never mind the fact that the guy who lives in the room right next to the one for rent is a classic example of pot-abusing space case. Never mind that the toilet and sink were located across the basement from the shower and bathtub, or how bizarre it was that the bathtub stood in the center of its own little room, with the shower pointed straight down upon it, with no shower curtains. Never mind that it all looked like a complete rat nest, with three or four different paint jobs peeling off the walls and brown stains all over the porcelain. Never mind that there lay a large puddle of standing water on the kitchen's dirty cement floor due to god knows what kind of plumbing problem. It looked like a classic ghetto living space to me. A place where junkies congregate to cook up methamphetamine and hide their product in the toilet tank for midnight pick-ups. But never mind at all that. Something about the place just made me feel altogether disturbed. I still feel rather uncomfortable about being there after so many hours of not being there. I may have sensed an extremely foul paranormal force, or something. We went upstairs, which wasn't nearly as spooky but still inexcusably messy, and conversed with the renter for awhile, since he was such an interesting character who claimed his friend invented the hydrogen car and that another friend of his invented a CD player that can make houseplants behave as speakers, but I insisted we keep on looking. He insisted he had the world's most wonderful wife, which I could not contest per se, but I saw absolutely no sign of his wife, nor a woman's touch in the living quarters. And considering he was supposedly a successful businessman and one of his sons was an astronomer pulling down a fortune like the stars, one would assume he'd live in a nicer home. Ooh, my. What a character. My intuition was telling me something was just too suspicious about those people... I don't think I would have ever felt comfortable there, never mind the barking dogs across the street, the crazy old man next door he spoke of, or the noisy traffic.
And thus, we called up someone else. This place turned out to be right next to the place we originally looked at when we first came into town. This apartment complex was much nicer and newer-looking, and was considerably farther away from the screech factory. Location-wise, I found it extremely satisfactory. It's on quiet, narrow Lehua Street, not even half a mile from downtown, but still well away from any serious commotion. The neighborhood seems reasonably quiet and clean, with yards dominated by the typical lush natural foliage characteristic of Hilo. Apartments were what I originally had in mind, as well– considering what a private creature I am, I much prefer to live in my own room with my own bathroom, kitchen, and entrance/exit. That's exactly what this place offered. The realty lady showed us two available rooms on the upper level, and I immediately felt at home. For $400 a month including utilities, it's a single studio room more than large enough to fit in an entertainment and computer center, bed, and a couple other items of furniture and still have a comfortable amount of space left over. I decided to go for it. Not out of impatience or desperation, but because I truly had a feeling we would find nothing better.
So that settles it. I officially have a place of my own. I just have to figure out a few things... what kind of bed I'm going to introduce into such a space and where I'm going to get it, where one goes to do their laundry, how much broadband Internet costs, whether I should get a cell phone or land line, where exactly the mail comes in... I have weeks to figure it all out, though, and more than a month left of summer vacation, so I am, for the most part, going to spend the rest of it relaxing and enjoying myself. I recently received a scholarship in the mail, granted to me just for graduating from a Hawaiian high school. Talk about a cake walk.. it gives me $1000 more in financial aid right from the start, and instead of having to earn $1750 in workstudy through a job, I now only have to earn $750 for the semester. Every once in awhile, remarkable things like that happen... and one hardly expects them to. I'm grateful, though, trust me. I'm grateful for many things, as I should be... everyone deserves a liberal education ... not everyone is able to afford it.
I picked up the new Tweaker album at Altitunes in Chicago. I was actually shocked to find an album by such an undiscovered artist in such a small music shop. I'd have to say it's about as accessible as the Earth's inner core, at least as far as the general pop-favoring masses are concerned, and that's saying nothing of its depth. Like his debut, I imagine it's much too difficult and altogether "weird" for most to ever get into. It smacks of typical Vrenna genius; that which most could probably never be bothered to dabble in. It is rather intimidating, in a way. Former Nine Inch Nails programmer Chris Vrenna is a strange man who makes disturbing music, and that's exactly what makes him such a fabulous artist. This album is best listened to during periods of insomnia. He recruited eight different vocalists to sing lyrics in his enchanting compositions, including David Sylvian and the notorious Robert Smith from The Cure. This kind of music simply refuses to fit into any genre. Vrenna is his own genre. It all sounds so unique... so purely refreshing. Such a marvelous departure from all the stale crumbs I regularly hear toasted on the radio. As I sit here listening to "It's Still Happening," I could just imagine enjoying the same song as I drive home late at night from a liberating spiritual wander. It makes me want to howl and then some.
I know I owe a few e-mails. I have not forgotten about anyone. I am not avoiding anyone. I've just been Internet-challenged as of late. Lately, I've actually suspected the phone might be an easier tool to use for keeping in touch, which is rather frightening, considering my traditional perspective on phones. I may have meandered away from the e-mail routine for a disgruntlingly long time, but I'll never get completely lost. I'm going to attempt to get back into it very soon. ...Anyone want a post card?
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