Fashionably Arcy.

Thanksgiving is over. *Commence agonizingly repetitive traditional Christmas songs heard year after year after year* The sweet sound of seasonal advertising. Ho ho hopeless resistance!

I have recently come to realize what comparatively dismal times these are for my generation. My grandparents grew up in the roaring 20's, my parents were in the prime of their youth in the 60's hippie revolution, and I was raised in the glam 80's and Nintendo 90's. But what kind of social or cultural revolution is there these days for kids to associate with? Fairly much nothing, it seems. American pop culture may as well be at an all time low. Early 90's pop music was incredibly cheesy, but somehow managed to be cheesy in a good way. "Ice Ice Baby" was such a bad song it somehow managed to be great, and I could write a novel about how much good music came out of the 80's. American pop music in the 00's is not only cheesy, it's also unoriginal, uninspired, and downright depressing in its manufactured blandness. Take a look at all the great movies that came out the first four years of the 90's, and compare them to the sort of movies that have been released in the last four years. Beyond terribly overrated blockbuster franchises like Lord of the Rings and Star Wars, I have not seen all that much worth being excited about. The exact same goes for video games. The early 90's represented the absolute golden age of gaming for myself. Now, we have ultra-realistic war-simulating nonsense like Halo 2 and innumerable auto racing games with omg awesome grafix. Video games in general certainly used to have a lot more personality than they do now, and I am grieving over the drastic negative turn it had to take. I take all these factors into account when I try to understand why so much of today's youth is either depressed or on Paxil. We live in a time where there really isn't much exciting going on, aside from an utterly unnecessary and senseless war over in a desert far far away, which really isn't terribly exciting anymore if only due to repetition. These seem like such stagnant times, and it's no wonder why so many kids seem to be struggling with their purpose in life. The entire world as we know it has already been completely mapped out and explored. There is no frontier left. There is no true wildlife or wilderness. No longer can anyone place any reasonable amount of hope in being an explorer and someday discovering brand new islands or continents that no satellite has ever photographed or no human has ever set foot upon. It seems like nearly everything has already been done by previous generations, and there isn't that much left to do. This is actually a central theme in Pump Up the Volume, one of the very decent films to come out of the 90's. Watching it made me extremely grateful I never had to grow up in a generic American suburb, where nearly every house on a street looks identical, and every street arranged into a large, tidy geometric grid is virtually undiscernable apart from the street signs. ...Where global fast food chains and giant corporate retail outfits reside on every other block and the cultural mosaic is about as drab as a plain white linoleum floor. I suppose I am very fortunate in that regard... that I have always had the opportunity right outside my door to escape into mother nature and leave the overwhelming dullness of contemporary American society behind for awhile.

I find nothing that society and "reality" has to offer nearly as exciting as the sense of surrealism that overcomes me when I journey out into the night beneath a full moon and spend hours weaving and wallowing in the reality my imagination creates for myself. That is what I find truly worth living for. Surrealism and the extensive use of imagination seems to be appreciated by so few these days... but if I didn't have an incredible capacity for it, I would find life quite dismal... and I now understand exactly why. The best things in life seem to be the simplest. The harmonious music that plays on in my mind as I explore the night, the lovely feeling of slowly drifting off to sleep in an exhausted state while listening to the rain outside, the intensity of an orgasm. If we did not have the capacity to achieve such pleasure, what would be the point of going through all the motions? There's really no reason to deny it to ourselves. Beyond all the unnecessarily complex details, like my worry of getting my big paper finished by next week, the things most worth living for are the simplest things. The real reason I feel beauty all around me is because beauty has saturated my heart, and it pumps through my veins. I am simply glad I know what I am living for during a time of such... decadence.

My mother finally lost her waitressing job. The owner has been speaking of shutting down the restaurant for years, and he finally made up his mind, apparently. I guess she'll have to find a similar job closer to home, and with her qualifications, it shouldn't be too hard to find one that produces nice tips. It's not the end of the world, mom.


yeah, i'm lookin' at YOU!

You forget there's 24 letters in between...

I consumed a little too much Kona coffee liqueor tonight. Well, not quite enough to impair my ability to ride a bike. The way I see it, riding something and driving something are two entirely different species of marmot. I would not have dared commandeer a gigantic mass of steel and glass, but a relatively compact mechanical stealth machine? Certainly. I longed for the outdoors, and that's exactly where I found myself five minutes later, wearing but a pair of shorts (and a belt!) in the nippy sixty-seven degree November weather. ...Took the ten minute ride through Waikii, past the old candy store and Lincoln Park, to the ethereal Alae Cemetery. Traipsed about the headstones for awhile, doing cartwheels at one point or another on the soft grass, and listening to the occasional bat utter its beautiful resonant note. Rode back all the way to the other side of town, past the well-lit industrial facilities of the harbour, and found to my delight no one congregated near the head of the breakwater at the end of the gravel road. Leaned my bike up against a tree and began hopping one large, flat boulder after another out to sea. I reached a lengthy section which was a narrow grid of smooth concrete, but that soon dissipated into more boulder-hopping, again. Left the noxiously bright lights of the harbour and the constant humming of its industry behind me as I ventured as far out as I cared to. Stubbed my toe very hard as I miscalculated a jump to an adjacent boulder. Took my time returning home, and realized when I examined my feet under the light that they were a bloody mess. Attained a few nasty scratches on my left shin, too. Cleaned it all up for the most part, and now... it's 4:00 in the morning, and I feel like I lost a good two hours somewhere along the way. It's so easy to lose track of time when you're utterly caught up in breathtaking surrealism and sense of danger.

I'll have to do quite a bit of studying over the weekend... I have two exams and a fifteen minute group presentation on Monday, all within a time span of three hours. There isn't much more to the week after that, though I suppose I should start gathering my sources for that 10-page geomorphology paper on tsunami sedimentology that's due on the 6th. Someone called in a bomb threat today, and the EKH building was conveniently evacuated right at the beginning of my last class. The instructor chose to resume it outdoors, but I escaped prematurely with my project group to the library. Compiled all the digital photos we took into a Powerpoint presentation, only to discover we had no way to save it onto disc. An hour later, we found ourselves in the GIS lab (in the building that had previously been threatened, probably by a student who had a test slated for 2:00 and forgot to study), which supposedly had CD-RW drives that worked. They didn't work. 45 minutes of specialized Derrick Hindery assistance, and we finally managed to get it on CD using his notebook. What a lovely way to whittle away an overcast Friday afternoon. Technology disgusts me sometimes.

The word "blog" really annoys me. Then again, so does the word "pudding."

And now, I fancy a play of Donkey Kong Country. Retarded as all the Kongs are, the game is still beautiful, and very nostalgia-inducing for me. Snow Barrel Blast... ahhh!

Room 5 in the math building smells weird. Like a wilting beard. If only online dating sites could find me a match I could light. I just realized that I am a poet who had no idea that he was one. Yeah, well you can tell Shelley her discombobulated onion is due by the fifth spongecake.

Don't mind me; pre-THanksgiving stress. It'll be worse just before winter break.

elevation

As I lay upon my bed near the window, facing the high ceiling drenched in murky shadows, listening in between songs that flow with mellifluous sentimental resonance to the rain sheet down in almost deafening fashion as it has done for hours, hearing the monstrous surf pound against the shore, feeling the cool breeze of the outdoors caress my body, becoming lost in my spectacular art collections and captivating imagination, taking the occasional sip of a delicious ice cold green tea as I feel sleep slowly overtaking me with the promise and possibility of hours of blissful dreaming ahead of me, I also take a moment to recognise one thing:

This is why I am alive.

Water, water, water...

I just realized that "Electric Circus" by Blank & Jones is really "Aquarius" by Boards of Canada. The sort of names I could come up with songs if I wanted to give various songs random names just to confuse others.

So we're being pummeled by rain again tonight. The day started off hot, dry, and hazy--pretty dismal weather for a duck at heart. In the course of what seemed like an hour, though, a dense layer of dark, magnificent clouds moved in seemingly out of nowhere. Drizzling occured for a good fifteen minutes, then it started coming down like it had something to prove. It hasn't stopped since, either. I rode down to the breakwall tonight, not expecting anyone to be down near its head, and there wasn't. The fact that the wind is heavy enough to nearly knock a light human being off its feet and the rain is driving sideways would keep most people indoors. I contemplated walking out along the breakwall this evening, as it leads clear out to sea for a good two and one half kilometres, and the sense of isolation I would achieve out there would certainly be a wonderful thing. I hesitated when I noticed high waves sending heavy doses of sea spray clear across the wall and into the other side. Many would consider me crazy if they had any knowledge of the sorts of risks I take outdoors, simply for the exhilaration of being, but I'm not stupid. I sensed a little too much danger for my own comfort. Certainly, it would have been a great joy to walk out along that wall in the rain, with my bare feet landing upon wet rock after wet rock, immersing myself in barely comprehendible surrealism, but I thought better of it. If I had no one to live for but myself, I would have gone for it, but I realised that when it comes to keeping reasonably safe for the sake of important others, it simply wasn't worth it.

I am rather tired. I have had a week to do my math take-home exam, and haven't started on it yet. I've been meaning to look up sources for my geomorphology literature review, and haven't gotten around to that. And my political geography photo essay? Pfft, right. I feel somewhat insecure about slacking so much, but then I must remind myself that I have always worked best under pressure. One way or another, everything is going to get done. It always does. I'm just glad I have nothing due tomorrow.

Oh, I weathered a dull hot, sunny day yesterday by wandering up the river a ways, and finding an excellent spot to frolic for hours. The river bed surface is slippery beyond comprehension, and that combined with nice, long, smooth rocky surfaces makes for great natural water slides. That was great fun.

...But! I almost slipped and fell inside this little cauldron:



Later, I voluntarily jumped in, because it was more fun than a jacuzzi full of jackals.

Wandering a little farther up the river, I encountered a small electrical substation on the bank, which was entirely vacant, so I decided to go exploring. A small stream tributary brought me to a large building, beneath which a rapid jet of water shot out of:



And whatever machine up there behind it was noisy. So very noisy. I could only imagine it to be some enormous fan blade... one of many evil industrial mechanisms of doom in a building full of death traps. I wanted to push somebody in just so I could see that whitewater turn a lovely scarlet red. How surreal it all would have looked in the full moonlight... I might just go back there that particular time of the month. I'm always seeking to expand my already wide range of exotic locales to escape to when the time is right.

And good Anubis, people, don't throw your car batteries in the river. It makes Arcy sad.

Exclusive never-before-seen footage!

Old, but still golden.

Am I a REAL chocolate endeavor?

Morals. How could I possibly conduct my life as a decent, upstanding human being without them? How would I get through life had I not a specific set of behavioral guidelines laid out before me that dictates what I should or should not do, think, or feel? Good golly, I might actually choose to rely on my own judgment and occasionally listen to my instinct instead, and that could very well be dangerous. It's wonderful that so many people are kept in line out of their fear of God and the unknown, inspired and perpetuated by their mentors, the church, the bible, and the unsubstantiated moralistic hogwash regularly disseminated throughout society for purposes of securing control over people when their minds are still young enough to be imressionable to believe just about anything. But what about creatures like me who are atheists to the extreme, and can only logically deduce that man created God in their own image as opposed to vice versa? That God was created just to keep people fearful and in line (sounds a lot like the Bush administration, actually) and to make humanity feel superior to every other species on the planet? (It's always needed that resassurance, I'm sure.) Who sincerely feel that morals should not be imposed on everyone, because what might work for one individual hardly works for another? Jehova's witnesses, huh. I can respect their continuous efforts to go around spreading the word of God (which is really the word of humanity, arrogantly glorified to supposedly originate from some higher power). Actually, I really can't. I prefer a fine coat of fur to a fluffy coat of wool, thank you, so go ask someone else to be your Shepherd's sheep, ma'am. An ideal, perfectly functioning society is one in which we can all subscribe to a unified code of behavior. Well, I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen, because everyone's different, and for that sole reason, we will never be as efficient and productive as mechanized droids. Last I checked into my own archive of philosophical conclusions, contributing to human society was hardly the meaning of my existence, anyway. There is no point to anyone attempting to force their morals upon me. If they're simply sharing their moral-based opinion with me, and they respect my personal spiritual beliefs, then I can respect theirs. But when someone insists I'm "sick" or "immoral" for feeling a certain way or doing a certain thing, and that I need to change myself, I have no reason to respect them at all. I go by my very own belief system, and there is no reason it should be any more right or wrong than theirs when it comes to myself. You can pray for my terribly immoral self all you want, and I'll be sure to prey for you, too.

I experienced another school dream a couple nights ago. The setting was another imaginary school somewhere, and an overwhelmingly large one at that. It reminds me of Wilcox, the largest elementary school in the most urbanized area on Kaua'i, where I lasted only a month because for some oddball reason, I had difficulty adjusting to a school of several thousand just after completing first grade in a school of one hundred fifty. Bridgeport elementary, Dallas, Oregon--a true rural school in a rural town, to Wilcox Elementary, an urban school where my race was actually the minority. Amazing how my parents had to work their way up once they moved here, from an apartment building on Nawiliwili harbor to a duplex in a Filipino neighborhood where illegal cock fights were scheduled bi-weekly to a series of rented houses in increasingly liveable areas until finally a purchased house. Kekaha elementary was a -much- better place to complete second grade, I found, despite the daily doses of racism I encountered. Third grade, too. Oregon was pretty, but we couldn't live half a block away from a twelve-kilometre long beach or the wettest place on Earth almost in sight there. Peculiar how we opted to move to the island of Hawaii a mere month before Hurricane Iniki made landfall on September 11th, 1991, wiping out most of our former hometown, and washing out to sea much of the school I previously attended and scorned. As I watched the television footage from our neighbor island, which received maybe a little rain out of the storm, I was crushed to see so many of our favourite beaches permanently obliterated by the inland flooding run-off and large swells.

At the time, I was attending Kahakai elementary, what I preferred to refer to as "the concrete asylum," as it was easily one of the most hideous, prison-like schools I ever had the misfortune of having to frequent. Nothing but dismal grey concrete everywhere; no artistic expression, no aesthetics in the building design or outdoor scape, nothing. And some of the teachers, they seemed like ticking time-bombs, and seemed as if they would be more at home in, well, an asylum. We were living far out in Coffeeland, only about a three hours drive from Mountain View, up a driveway so steep our poor little Toyota Tercel couldn't make it up without stalling, so we had to park it on the flat area below. Of course, we couldn't leave valuables in it, because squatters up there had a way with picking locks of any sort. We lived on a water catchment tank, and in times of droughts, flushing the toilet wasn't a practical idea in some cases. We were told that if it was number 2, yes, you always flush the toilet. Regular old number 1, though, and the next bathroom patron can deal with it. Our country home was little more than an old coffee shack, but we had a commanding view of the ocean, and no neighbors! We were true tropical hillbillies back then, yup, we were. Eventually, we packed up and moved to a lovely subdivision in Kamuela, a mountain town that seemed perfectly situated for optimum drizzle weather and spectacular fog effects. It never got quite cold enough to snow there, but the house in which we dwelled was the only Hawaiian structure I'd ever visited that actually contained a fireplace. The house contained all sorts of bizarre idiosyncracies, come to think of it, including the eerie blue overhead light in the hallway and the various hollows and cubbies in the walls.

The next school I transferred to, I actually stayed with until I graduated! We moved into another house, this one an old sugar mill homestead, no doubt once occupied by a dozen foreign laborers. A crazy lady who looked and behaved like a ghost (which is fortunate, because we didn't have to see much of her) lived in the small cottage in the backyard. A gargantuan lichee tree dominated the portion of the backyard behind the driveway, bearing succulent grape-like fruit once a year and supporting an expansive wooden treehouse. I remember spending entire afternoons up there, having Calvin & Hobbesesque adventures with my imagination. Ah, and there was the small screenhouse tucked every farther back, inside which myriad exotic plants thrived. I lost myself in there many times. I lived a ten minute walk away from the intermediate school campus, and by the time I was ready for the more distant high school campus, we moved again, this time purchasing a home farther up in the hills--the home I go back to visit every few weeks or so. I could end up inheriting the house someday, should the house and my parents' pocketbooks stand the test of time against Hawaii's physical elements and financial challenges.

Considering all the different schools I've had to attend throughout my life due to my family's consistent moving, it's no mystery to me why I would have so many school dreams later on. Adapting to new schools was never an easy process, and such dreams of mine tend to remind me of that. It was my first day of class, as usual, and I couldn't seem to locate any of my classes. I reckoned I would have to visit the office first to obtain some sort of schedule, but I had to wander the entire campus over before I could find the office. Meanwhile, I was panicking because I was missing my first class. Hey, at least I wasn't naked this time! Somehow, I found my second class, which took place in a small courtyard where each of the students were sitting in raggedy armchairs, facing an instructor lecturing on how to be extreme pineapple membranes. I knew not what that meant then, nor do I know what it means now. He was quite a character, too, for he was not lecturing behind the desk, but rather on top of it. And the "desk" was really an Italian leather sofa. At least, I presumed it was Italian, for "Italian leather sofa" just sounds better than, say, "Rwandan leather sofa." And he asked me, as soon as I walked in, "John, tell us, are you a REAL chocolate endeavor, and why?" As soon as he popped this question, I flicked a brown piece of dog kibble out onto the grass. You know, the kind that's O-shaped, something that would look quite appetizing as a breakfast cereal. "Very good, John," was his response. "You are one expectorating hydrant of praying kidney juicers!" Joyjoyjoy. Flash forward to my next class, which took place in a dull regular classroom with a dull regular teacher whose forearm bore a tattoo which read "SUB." He gave us a quiz, on the FIRST DAY, which read "SINLAB." I always have wanted to take SINLAB 100 before, but never had the chance. Maybe I should have taken the SINLAB quiz while listening to SKINLAB. I was stumped on all the questions, including the last one which asked, "which are the five frustratingly mutilated brownies of morning dew?" Even though my name was supposedly John, I still couldn't possibly fudge a proper answer, so I just drew up a flawless isometric sketch of the New Jersey turnpike.

I woke up soon thereafter, still rather tired. Such intense dreaming over such a prolonged period of time requires plenty of energy. I get a better night's sleep if I don't dream as heavily than if I do, and as far as I know, there's no way to predict or control how lightly or heavily I will dream. At any rate, it's no fun having to get up and go to class when, in your mind, you feel as if you've already spent a full day in class.