I had a rant here about sci-fi always comparing humans to robots to ask, "What really makes us human?" But I got bored of it. It wasn't nearly as good as my bit on sock buying on facebook anyway.

And then I had a rant about how my writing all seems like a bad copy of itself, but that started seeming like a bad copy of something else.

So here we are.

-Pocket is a bad copy of a sci-fi rant.

When Casey and I were parting Champaign-Urbana for our various lives, we spent our last moments together in a parking lot on Main Street in Champaign, with him about to get in his vehicle and abscond with my partner (his own self). It was cold, and I could kind of see our breath. We commented on how there just isn't ever any type of "goodbye" which seems sufficient.

Just before he left, I said, "Well, I guess we'll see each other soon, cosmically speaking."

He replied, "But realistically speaking, it will be two years."

"See you later," we both said.

Man, did I not realize the truth of those words. Even declarative statements can mean quite a bit more than they say...

-Pocket misses his pals.

The following is a conversation in Firefly between a town sheriff and a smuggler with a heart of gold when the smuggler brings back the goods he stole after he finds out they are vitally important to the region.

Sheriff: "You were truthful back in town: These are tough times. If a man can get a job, he might not look too close at what that job is, but a man learns all the details of a situation like ours... well, then he has a choice..."

Smuggler: "I don't believe he does."

And that is an important part of my life philosophy too.

-Pocket

So, over the course of my years, I have had numerous discussions about parenting with people. This is, I must admit, not a subject with which I am very proficient. But a fairly frequent cause of strife for most people has been my assertion that I don't want my children to celebrate Christmas. This isn't because I have bad memories of it or because my family is broken. In fact, quite the opposite. It comes down to a few points of interest for me, which I will say after the brief following rant...

Rant

An argument which people often pose is as follows: "But how will you explain to your kids why they don't get presents when everyone else does?" Ignoring how shallow and materialistic this argument is for the moment, I will instead get at what I suppose its real meaning is. Essentially, what people are trying to say with this argument is that my kids will be different, bizarre, or weird. When all the other kids are out picking trees with their family or decorating their schools with cardboard cutouts of Santa, snowmen, and presents, my kids, apparently, will be the gloomy grinches in the corner ruining it for everyone.

This is automatically not just a poor argument to me, but an offensive one. It completely ignores a large number of American children who grow up in Jewish, Muslim, or Athiest families. It ignores that these children grow up to be functioning, useful members of society. It ignores the majority of people all over the world who will never open a single present on Christmas day with whom my children will (perhaps unknowingly) share a bond. Of course, my children WILL open a Christmas present, because my parents celebrate the holiday, and I'm not going to keep the kids away from their family during winter break.

And this fact is due to why I actually do like Christmas: I get to see my family and spend quality time with my mom and dad. But let me replace "Christmas" with "Winter" there, and you will see that there really is no difference. So why no Christmas?

1. I'm not Christian

Christmas is, despite extreme pagan leanings, a Christian holiday. No one would ever complain that I don't celebrate Passover or Rammadan with my children, or even Ash Wednesday, for that matter. I will head off certain arguments and assume this latter fact is because Christmas is viewed as a not just a Christian holiday, but an American one as evidenced by our getting school time off for it and its near omnipresence in American media and stores. So...

2. I don't support it as an American holiday.

Christmas in the media and popular culture has come to revolve around a fat man in a red suit (created by Coca-Cola) and the items which he distributes to children. Almost everything that has to do with it is almost pornographic in its desire to paste the jolly old prostitute on anything possible in order to increase sales by convincing people that their wife would really love that new vacuum cleaner. It is capitalism at its most disgusting. And I am a devout capitalist. I remain vegetarian because I don't want my economic vote going towards the meat industry, and I purchase music, movies, games, and books which I could download because I want to support those things I love.

I understand the benefits that it gives to business and the economy, but this is one case where I will use the fact that my activism won't change anything to my favor: my abstaining won't hurt anything at all.

3. I can do all the things I love without it.

I don't have to celebrate Christmas to give my children gifts occasionally. I don't have to celebrate it to play in the snow or admire trees or even to decorate my house. I don't need it to inspire me to help or to volunteer. Perhaps most importantly, I don't need it to spend quality time with my family. I do that whenever I hear their voice on a phone or know they are sitting next to me when I need it.

Look... I don't even need Christmas to have special days. Hell, I celebrated Labor Day two years running by giving hand-written compliments to workers. What did YOU do for it last year? Just not work? Psh.

Fin.

-Saint Pocket

I learned the definitions of a few words which I have long read and seldom bothered to try to comprehend.

The first is sang-froid (lit. cold blood) which is a noun meaning "coolness of mind; calmness; composure." It is oddly pronounced "sahn-frwa."

The second is quixotic. I had guessed the meaning of this word due to its resemblence to the literary hero, but it is an adjective which means "resembling or befitting Don Quixote." For a more widely applicable meaning, one could go with "extravagantly chivalrous or romantic; visionary, impractical, or impracticable."

Good luck in applying these two amazing words!

-A Pocket Dictionary

My Amazing Weekend

This weekend was fantastic. I spent it among some of my closest friends in Thailand and a bunch of the new volunteers, having a good time bowling, dancing, and doing a spot of drinking (for the sake of full disclosure). When I say that we enjoyed those three things, I mean to see that we enjoyed all three of them at the same time, as dance music being played at the bowling alley essentially made it a dance club with a bowling theme for the evening. The game was stripes vs argyle (with teams being based on socks bought earlier in the night). For the second year in a row, I was Argyle, and for the second year in a row, I helped lead the team into a resounding win. The win was due in part to bowling skills, but a much more important debt is owed to the amazing fashion sense of my teammates. Without our stylish clothing and sexy bowling, we never could've pulled through.

Of course, the weekend wasn't all fun 'n' games. I played doorman to a sexual escapade that I would prefer hadn't happened, and once again learned that the penis is often mightier than the sword. I had two of my episodes of anxiety, but I feel I dealt with them admirably, simply excusing myself from the evening for bed in order that I not begin attributing the anxiety to anything that happened to be around. So, in spite of that, I go to bed knowing the weekend was as complete a success as could possibly be hoped for. I hung out with old friends. I made new friends. I got to go swimming. I bought two working video games for about $15 each (which would normally have cost $60). And I had an almost perfect night of fun, which played out like a good novel of fun. I call that an overall win.

Two Unrelated Things

I was told that I have gotten sexier by two of my friends. I tend to actually believe this one this time. I don't have much to say on it, other than that I just wanted to report something positive to counteract my usual slew of the opposite.

Mike Rowe from the show Dirty Jobs is possibly one of the greatest television hosts of all time. He is able to perform and talk about ordinary jobs in a way that humanizes them, makes them interesting, and oftentimes is humorous. Imagine, for example, trying to make cleaning a backed-up basement or the inside of a wind turbine into a half-hour of watchable and enjoyable material. You might get lucky and find an interesting turd or get a good shot on top of the turbine, but could you make the men and women performing the jobs (who are not tv personalities or show-offs) into people others feel like they might get to know? I could go into it, but I would become a bore. In contrast, the host of this "Ultimate Survivor" show just makes me feel like he is kind of a dick.

A Final Word

I was just today reminded of a very poignant moment in my youth. I was on a scout camping trip, and we were out on a hike. Really out of nowhere, a storm hit and began pouring down rain. My scoutmaster pulled out his poncho and put hit on, as did many other scouts. I did not, as I did not have one. He turned to remind me of the scout motto.

"Don't you know you should be prepared?" he said, indicating his own poncho.
"Oh I am," I replied, "I am prepared to be rained on."

I kind of realized today how much that interaction, or at least my attitude towards it has shaped my behavior and my life in general.

-Trust him, Pocket is prepared for rain.

Until this week, I had a pretty pristine record of having read almost every book I ever started (movies too, as I managed to hold my lunch through the suckfests that were Pearl Harbor and Superman Returns). Until this week, I had only ever stopped reading Catcher in the Rye and Moby Dick. I went back and read Catcher at the behest of one of my ex-gfs. It was her favorite book, and perhaps the only major matter of taste on which we entirely disagreed.

I stopped reading Moby Dick for the following reason: The first 9 pages promised an epic tale full of overly long allegory and mind-numbing descriptions of things that don't really matter. I could be wrong. I've never read the book.

I have read some dooseys while in service here, including a book that switches from the first person view of the plucky reporter protagonist to the third person view of a scroungy fed whose only friend is the bottle and the dead man whose murderer he is chasing. For good fun, it sometimes jumped to a third person cut of the assassin whose dark and mysterious backstory was entirely laid out in the first chapter into which he was introduced. The good guy wins and gets the girl in the end, in case you were wondering. I read the whole, poorly written catastrophe.

But in the past week (the same week in which I read the book mentioned above), I picked up two books which were so boring as to make me put them back down again without the normal twinge of guilt I feel that keeps me reading (and watching) crap.

Book 1: Real Sex

The first was a book called Real Sex which I somehow gathered was a book written by a Christian about how chastity is not a Christian virtue, but can be exercised in order to bring one closer to god. I was interested in this notion, as someone who is practicing Chastity until he meets the right person.

In this book, I was tricked twice. The first trick was that it is actually about how Chastity is one of the most important virtues of Christianity because it is the most unnatural and is therefore the hardest virtue to exemplify (forget patience, everyone has that in spades), so it just talks about how Chastity is hard, but you just gotta do it goshdarnit. Too bad God is the only one who can help (read: allow) you do that. And I put this book down because I don't see the point in reading a book which tells me that only God can help me chaste. If that is true, then what is the point of the book?

The second trick was that it was written not by a Christian, but by a Jewish woman who converted to Christianity. I have to admit that I put Converts into a different camp than Christians. And so I expound:

( Read more... )

Book 2: Atlantis

I was a fool on this one. When I saw the title of the book, I thought, "If Dan Brown's name appears anywhere on this cover, I'm burning it." Lo and behold, the back cover noted that Atlantis "is loaded with real facts and highly plausible scenarios" just like The Da Vinci Code!!! The Daily Mirror (no doubt a huge publication) went on to note that it is "a gripping read," and they were certainly right... (you ready for this) if they expect you to grip the book and throw it out in order to read something else! Ha!

But seriously, I read to pg 146 of a 465pg fiction, only to find out that the author must be some kind of marine archaeologist (which, turns out to be true) since the only thing that happened in those 146 pages was a bunch of scientists nearly crapping their pants over some realistic relics which provided evidence of Atlantis possibly having existed. If that sounds exciting, then you should watch National Treasure and call it a night. This is because in National Treasure, I guarantee you it takes less than 2 hours for them to stop babbling about the latest treasure hunter technology and have at least one, measly, pitiful, action scene (something the first third of Atlantis seems to be lacking, along with character development and plot). In addition, there has been no other reason for them to find Atlantis than, "Gee, it sure would be awesome to find that place. Ya know?" No national wars will be waged if they can't find it. Poseidon isn't waiting to destroy all coastal cities. No relic of that could kill the Nazis. Not even one measly life seems to be at stake.

In short, though I put down Atlantis lest it destroy my love for the one album which reminds me of the lost city and the campaign brewing in my head, it taught me one of the more important literary lessons of my time here: Historical Fiction is shit. No. Haha. Just kidding. I mean, it is. But what I learned is that sometimes one has to resort to crummy plot-hooks or stock characters or your Fiction will read like a text book on whatever happens to be catching your fancy at the moment.

Let me make this clear to you: reading Atlantis is like watching only the parts of Star Trek in which they explain the futuristic gear, except the main character is named Jack Howard and you don't even get the fun layman's metaphors because everyone is Jordi and they all understand what is going on. Nerdy enough yet? It should be.

( Read more... )

-Pocket recommends that you recommend more books to each. Pocket recommends Michael Chabon's "The Final Solution," an ode to Holmes in the form of 'young adult fiction.'

Observe the creature in its den. What does it do in there all day long? Our bravest explorers won't even knock on its dilapidated, wooden door. They must only be level 6. We know he eats the food we leave in pennance, for surely it is we who put him there. Though, for the life of me, I cannot remember how. Or why. And so he slumbers (I suppose) the hot days away, letting his presence be known only by the heavy tread of his feet as he moves about his small abode, which may better be termed his prison.

Of course, we have no guards posted, no threats are issued, and the offerings of food should seem friendly enough. I am tempted to think that perhaps the creature has some amazing toy or book or some other thing which keeps him there all day, meaning, perhaps, that we are in fact the monsters kept at bay, while he is a normal, happy individual. Somehow, I suspect such intuition is faulty. More likely, then, has the creature kept himself there.

Confinement and isolation are, perhaps, preferable to our company. Should we then see this as an insult? An offense to our good will? And, thus, should we oust the creature from its home? Or... this cave we call its home at any rate. I wonder what questions the creature asks itself each day, as it wakes, as it moves about, and as it goes down to bed. I wonder if it asks any questions at all.

I would like to say that these answers will someday be known. I would like to vow that I will be the first to knock on the creature's door with my gift in hand to say a simple, "Hello." But I cannot, in good conscience, make that promise. Rather, I must truthfully say that I am only casually musing on the fate of this peculiar creature, and his existence within or without the cave has no bearing on me or my daily routine. So, I hope that should my questions one day be answered, revelation will not befall me as I peer into the creature's stomach. I suppose, really, that is the best any of us can hope for.

-William 'Pockets' Smythe, village idiot

I was reading a little bit on World War 2 today, and it pushed my mind into all of those bodies that I could never possibly understand. This is not only because they have participated in events which I literally cannot fathom, but also because of how many lives were lost. The lives of people roughly my age or a little younger. A whole generation of fathers and/or brothers wiped away.

I read about battles that I had never known about, or only learned in such passing that I forgot them almost immediately. Okinawa is little more than the name of a place in the Pacific Ocean to me. It is an Island on which 100,000 Japanese soldiers, 100,000 native islanders, and 8,000 Americans lost their lives (part of me wonders if the "low" American casualties were enabled through the "collateral damaging" of the islanders, though I suspect the Japanese did not try to hard to discriminate either). Twice the population of Champaign-Urbana wiped out. It blended with the recent shootings of two vendors in some protests here.

At these points in my readings, I always imagine two things in this order: 1. I am walking through the deserted city/town/area which my mind has emptied to grasp the scale of the loss of human life; 2. I am a soldier/victim/terrorist/vendor, with a history, a career path, a wife (or at least some girl that I like), and suddenly it doesn't matter. Those desires fade into dust.

A whole book could be written about any one of these people. But some 208,002 books will never be written. And so, of course, I am forced to ask the question a mid-western, liberal white male always asks when faced with such a thought: Why? Why must humans be so inhumane?

I was at first inclined to say that there is a fundamental lack of respect for life. There is a failure to appreciate that other person's history or career or wife. But I guess this failure is understandable because that other man is currently failing to appreciate your history and hopes and wife, so you have to kill him, so that he does not kill you (or, in your mind, your history, your hopes, your wife). So what is it that leads us to the point at which we MUST fail to consider the humanness of the other person in order to convince ourselves we are still human?

To get to that, I must briefly digress. Humans need three basic things to survive: food, water, and shelter. Our genes have coded the desire for these things within us, along with a desire to sow our seeds and spread our genetic material. That is how genes, and therefore humans, work. But humans have a fairly unique special condition: we can, for whatever reason, want things that we don't need. And, while other creatures my be capable of this, humans can do it on levels so abstract as to be mind-boggling. This is not a matter of simply wanting more food or more sex. This is a matter of wanting power, wealth, love, revenge, comfort, camaraderie, knowledge, and more far beyond the necessity of fulfilling our needs. And that is all well and good.

But we have come to view ourselves as better than the lowly animals, who are slaves to their needs. We have culture and intelligence, and thus we are important. But that belief in importance is a tenuous and shaky one. It leads us to think the weirdest things about this added "life" we have been granted on top of merely being "alive." It is almost as though we must find the minutiae of our lives important to remind ourselves that we are important. I have spent several weeks in a funk when my music player broke. Apparently, I strongly believed that my iPod was IMPORTANT to my daily mental health. Other people trash cities when their football team loses a game. Some know that it is important to drink wine properly or to use proper grammar when speaking English. Ideals of freedom are important. Keeping the ugly truth from people is important. So, of course, is revealing it to them.

When people only found the three needs important, they did not war. They fought. They skirmished. They murdered. And always with a clear purpose: the obtaining of one of life's necessities. At some point, though, someone was able to convince others that something was more important than these three things. I don't know what it was, who convinced who, or how it happened (there are of course several decent sociological theories that attempt to answer this, but I won't bother with them for now), but once it did happen, people warred. People fought, not as individuals or even self-sustaining tribes. They warred as groups, nations, religions, races, cultures, and more.

So what, then, is my ultimate conclusion here? It is a strange and somewhat sad one: War is not allowed to occur because human life is devalued. No, the devaluing of human life is a necessary condition for winning a war and for protecting one from the horrors of war, but it is not the cause of war. The cause of war seems to be the over-valuing of unnecessary things as super-important when, in fact, they are not.

Indeed, by all accounts, if the ONLY thing we (meaning all of us) were concerned with was ensuring that everyone in the world had proper food, water, and shelter, then the goal would be accomplished within our lifetimes. And the reason that this does not and will not happen is not because we devalue the lives of those other people (although that certainly does occur), but because people tend to place importance in odd, unimportant things. For many third-world leaders those ephemeral wants are power, control, and fame. For the American majority, the wants are excessive comfort, sport, technology, and freedom from being troubled with other peoples' problems. For me, they are many and myriad. And it would probably help if others would learn exactly what I need to: Prioritize properly, and everything will fall into place.

-Pocket is wondering how he can obtain a copy of Spore, thinking of Michael Chabon's latest work, typing a journal entry, concerned about his slight belly and lack of dating prospects, and trying his best to remember people he never forgot because they are people he never knew.

Well, I just got done with a perfectly good dinner with my Thai family, and then I called my friend to wish her a happy b-day. So far, so good.

The dinner went really well. We talked about ghosts and how they are real in Thailand and how they can't do anything to you, but they are still scary. My younger brother, whose name I mispronounced (both brothers are named Yo with different tones), was pouting for some reason and kept placing various hand written notes outside of his room. One was even on a makeshift stand whose base was comprised of two colored hearts. All the notes said that his older brother was not allowed into the room. Fortunately, mom and dad rode to the rescue, using a hidden key to enter the room, whereupon Yo (the younger) made an appearance and attempted to remain proud in his defiance. I respected that, so I finally worked up the courage to whip out some pictures my mom gave me for him. They were of wind-powered turbines, and they went over really well.

Upon seeing those pictures and hearing the giant things were near my American mom's house, my Thai mom (is this getting confusing yet) requested to see pictures of my Mom's house. So I brought out the only 3 pictures I could find (along with a bunch taken of her property). The three photos depicted the following: 1. the actual house in the dark, lit up for Christmas with snow falling; 2. The top corner of the house with a cat on it and the two story garage behind it; and 3. an old barn in which they keep a tractor.

My Thai mom held up the picture with the tractor shed and asked if it was my mom's house. I immediately realized that it highly resembled many of the Thai houses surrounded mine (dilapidated old wood that has gaps between the boards in places). So that was a rough spot in explaining. Imagine my further consternation when the two story building with a really nice roof was, in fact, a garage for housing cars and tools. I think I accidentally conveyed that I lived there for a time, given that I said my stuff was in the attic. Oh well, you can't win em all.

In other news, I have been reading again, and I wanted to include an excerpt from one of the short stories I read, written by Eudora Welty in 1941. This particular excerpt is a black band leader named Powerhouse speaking in a bar he goes to during intermission with his bandmates wanting to hear some music:

"Here's a million nickels," says Powerhouse, pulling his hand out of his pocket and sprinkling coins out, all but the last one, which he makes vanish like a magician.

This story, entitled 'Powerhouse,' has such a great way of making me feel the characters that it made me want to write again. I am frequently amazed to find hidden gems like this lying around. I have gone through a lot of bad books, movies, and stories, but can't nobody say that Pocket hasn't tested what he likes. Powerhouse drove home the notion that a good story isn't theme or message, it is description. Poetry isn't convolution or complication, it is simplification. Music isn't sorrow or love, it is a way of life. And this is, quite simply, because if you limit yourself to describing, simplifying, and living, then people will find meaning in and with you.

- Jean-luc Pocket's Supplementals are often longer than his regular logs... And no, that isn't a poop joke.

I woke up in good humor again today. Last night, I forced myself to finish reading some books I wasn't enjoying, just to get them over with. I actually skipped a few stories and poems that looked uninteresting (a novel approach for me). In addition, I did some small amount of cleaning in my room and threw away some things that my lesser packrat instincts told me to keep. Finally, I fell asleep around 9:30pm, which may be some kind of first. Of course, today, I woke up at 5am, and have yet to do anything productive by 2:30pm (including showering or eating breakfast). I will probably go do both of those after I am done here.

Either way, this suggests that my lack of appetite may not be a result or symptom of my former mood. More likely, as previously guessed, it is a partial cause of said mood. Still, this does not answer why I often don't feel like eating for whole days. Oh well, I'll work on that later. As it stands, I Need (with a capital N) to get myself fed, even if I am not hungry. There is no point in causing my body any added stress to what it already receives.

I have started doing some very basic stretches, meant mostly to soothe aching muscles and increase my range of motion. A hopeful secondary effect will be an increase in my posture and/or an increased desire to do further exercise. And, hopefully, that will tire me out for good and proper rest.

Still, baby steps. Baby steps. Rome was not built in a day, and neither, for that matter, was I. I have done a lot of hard work damaging my brain and body, so I suppose it will take an equal, if not greater, amount of work to repair it. But I have to do that work incrementally. I have to do what I can handle. I wish I could focus on that approach more easily. Inevitably along that line (be it in learning, working, living, etc), I become frustrated that my progress and results aren't good enough. But I can't do that.

So today, I stretch some. I call a friend. I eat dinner with my homestay family and read them my mom's thank you note. I put the finishing touches on my presentation to the 121ers. Tomorrow? My whole dang schedule is going to be interrupted by a full day bus trip. Sigh. Still, some stretches aren't out of the question.

-Pocket's never had much faith in his future self. I guess you have to build that slowly too.

So, today, I woke up in a pretty good humor. I have absolutely no reason why that is, other than I spent last night in some kind of nightmarish hellhole of what can only be described as a cocktail of boredom, lust, and hurt. Now, that sounds pretty creepy, but I'm not talking about what you might think of when I say 'lust.' Rather do I mean a strong craving for some ephemeral thing on which I cannot put my finger.

Now, that said, I'm in a good mood. I woke up early, cleaned my teeth and mouth, shaved, showered, ate breakfast (a first for this week), and have done my laundry, which is now up and out in the sun. I have found that 2 things above all else make me happy these days: sun and physical work. So what is the first activity that pops into your head? Exercise. Exactly. And that is good for other reasons: 1. I am not getting any younger and should learn to care for my body much as one would any investment in the future, and 2. I know that looking better would be a boost to my confidence and would increase my ability to perform in desired areas of skill (namely, dialoguing and mentoring) because cutting a better, more confident figure would make it easier to convey messages and information.

So here's the digs: I can't seem to bring myself to do it. I would like to call myself Lazy and go back to bed (hah), but I don't quite think that is it. It would take a truly lazy person to not engage in the things he enjoys. Still, it is work, and I am avoiding it, and that seems to be the quintessential definition of Laziness. And this, primarily, is why I feel I need therapy. I honestly think that someone helping me to set up a schedule would help immensely. Of course, people who aren't physically present in my life will be able to do a very poor job of this. I don't know how I can observe this fact, know it, and then not just go do it myself. But there it is.

And I am reticent to say I will or will not do something or that my future will be some way, because I have gone back through these journal entries, and it is disappointing how many sad entries are preceeded (sometimes by a matter of days) by an entry full of hope and happiness. I do not think this mood will last into next week.

Anyway, for now, I'm in a good mood. And I miss my family and friends, but in the good way, the way one should. I love them, and their absence is an almost tangible hole in who I am. I realized today what real loneliness is, and it is similar to the feeling of love. Love makes you feel warm and healthy and better and great, but it doesn't always make you feel happy. Loneliness makes you feel cold and less energetic and less yourself, but it doesn't always make you feel sad. This is usually when Loneliness helps you remember those you Love.

On another note: In a conversation with a friend recently, I told her that truly generous people realize that they have already been given much in their lives, so, in giving, they really aren't losing anything (and, in fact, usually gain). Anyone who loses something by giving is charitable, and there is honor and sacrifice in that. But oh how much better it is to be generous! I wish I could realize my goal of being such. And that, really, is my only goal in life.

-Pocket just needs to know how to realize it.

Apparently, the following was hidden away as a "draft" of some kind in my journal, and when I went to write a new entry, this popped up:

pretending to type to look busy when no one is around
to feel like something is getting done at a time when
so much is getting done
I never had to realize that grown ups weren't gods
I had to realize that I am just like them
so much for getting done
and the only thing i've ever really learned
is the root word for adultery makes perfect sense
and it is getting done

I don't really know the circumstances under which I wrote it, and it is very, very rough, but I might have something there if I chip away at it. Though, I know I never will :-p. Meh.

So why did I open livejournal today? I dunno. Crap.

-Pocket just can't remember.

Today, I learned that there are a metric shit-ton of resoundingly mediocre movies. These are the movies which all score a 4-6, but usually you have to drop em to a 3 because their mediocrity makes them unbearably boring.

I also learned that a night to yourself is no fun if the food you bought is bad and the movie you have doesn't work. Hmm. I don't know that these are particularly valuable lessons.

I do know that I am currently watching the outtakes to a movie that they have never shown on the MGM Asia channel. "A Guy Thing" or something? They do this between movies. I once watched an entire program of Dick van Dyke remembering how awesome Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was, only to never see said musical. I will give "A Guy Thing" this: their outtakes are decent. Why am I not asleep?! More importantly: why is no one here to talk to me or rub my head until I fall asleep?!

-Man, people are just lettin Pocket down.

Also, I kind of have a time-warp, celebrity crush on Liza Minelli.

-Pocket really wants to go to a jazz show.

Sometimes, I wish the fake news were the real news: The Jottery


You there, Tanner? Here as I ever will be, I guess. What's up? Sometimes, I get this sneaking suspicion that the world is a really shitty place. And what gives you that idea? I don't know. Decapitated heads hanging from bridges, the way people follow their penises instead of their heads, the way the whole thing works. But, you yourself are a proponent of the notion that were it not for shadows, we would never know light. I know, I know, but all faiths are shaken at some point are they not? Haven't you ever found your faith in God shaken for even a moment? Can't say as I have really. It seems apparent to me that he is as real as the amenable Athos, whom I met just today. He is no less tangible than the wolf I rode through the forest just yesterday. You know, it can be really frustrating that you live out the life I dream about. You dream about riding wolves through forests? Well, no. Look, you know the only difference we share is that I believe in the truth of things, even the false ones. These days, you seem more preoccupied with disbelieving all things, even the true ones. I know the Life of Pi isn't one of your favorite books anymore. It is disconcerting how you know my thoughts. You would know mine if only you would be content to know nothing. That you of all people would charge me with not knowing is killer. I think you misunderstand. You need to know nothing to understand me. I'm here for you to ask a question whenever you want. But you think it not worthwhile as the answer will always be "yes." Well yeah, why ask a question to which I already know the answer? Because you want the answer to be otherwise, I suppose. If there is nothing golden in this world, then it is easier to work for silver, or not work at all. Wow, you are poetic this morning. I mentioned I met Athos? Well, Aramis was there too. I wonder if he ends up joining the clergy. Don't you know? Well, you haven't finished the book yet. Those three have such bad vices and character traits, but you really can't help liking them can you? I suppose we have to take the bad with the good. Yeah, I see where you are going. Athos simply takes the world as it is. And he is a depressed drunk. Well, you can't win them all. I, for one, never understood why persons of noble character are always the saddest at heart. I don't know either, but I guess it doesn't take away my faith in the noble. Well, that is settled then. Yeah, I suppose it is. Thanks, Tanner, good luck with your adventures. No problem. G'night. Goodnight.

-Pocket listens: "If you're feelin what I'm feelin, c'mon. All the soul searchin people c'mon." Yeah, I like Delta Spirit too. G'night, Tanner.

I have seen so many miscommunications blamed on how "sarcasm doesn't translate well over the internet," which actually occured simply due to a lack of effort on the part of the interlocutors. I actually thoroughly enjoy talking over the internet (2nd only to talking in person) because of how it allows me to think of what I am saying before I type and to better digest what someone else has said before I respond. But so many people don't use this extra time, and I don't know why this is.

Have they yet to adapt to the communicative medium that is the internet? Are they bad communicators in person as well? Does the computer inspire laziness?

There is something to be said for that last one, given that I know I (and many of my contemporaries) can blow hours on the internet when they have work to do. Though, perhaps it isn't laziness so much as some kind of bizarre nature of the net which causes us to feel like there just isn't enough time to do all the things we need, when in fact there is a surplus.

And, I think I am talking about "we" when I mean "me" again. I have always found in myself this odd tendency to waste time when there is a surplus of it and not waste a moment when there isn't a moment to spare. Of course, that only makes sense, because you can only waste time you have. But what I mean is that breaks and naps and reprieves are bad for me, because getting started is the hardest part. Getting started is the hardest part. And having to get started more than once is just nuts.

But this is most certainly a digression, because I am still pondering how so many people get into so many arguments over a device which allows for the utmost patience but inspires the quickest of tempers. I know, in part, it is the facelessness inspired by the glowing screen of typed print. But then, how quick we are to forget what a human being is just when we can't see what one looks like...

And perhaps that is because we base so much of our behavior on what a person looks like, that we cannot help but be confused when confronted with a disembodied and genderless voice. The way we respond to others is determined in large part by their gender, race, and age. And it is affected in no small part by dress, bearing, and physical attractiveness. That last one is easy to do though. I actually have a policy of assuming that everyone I meet on the internet is a rather dashing figure. Because, whether we like it or not, we treat attractive people better. We are quicker to forgive them their mistakes and their foibles, and we feel better to for helping them and for finding ourselves worthy of their attention. And this time, I do not mean "me" instead of "we." I have found this to be near universal.

I suppose we can curse biology for this, just as we can curse it for making it so difficult to accept our cyborg nature and deal sociably with others via telecommunicative devices. Bah, I lost my train of thought. Well, I honestly doubt future me will get this far when he passes this entry.

I think this is important to me these days, because I am a member of the Information and Communications Technology group here for Peace Corps, and I am constantly pressed with how accessible information is on the internet, and how there is just too damn much of it. It has come to be analogous to my life: there are so many wonderful options that the most certain path is choosing nothing. I guess the great/shitty thing about life is that it's going to shunt you down a path no matter how much indecision you throw at it. Well, I'm rambling now, and rambling means it's time for bed... or at least another website. At least I feel a little calmer.

-Pocket always finds himself thinking of the road not taken.

Now, far be it for me to judge others, but I am about to. If there is one solid thing on which I am an admitted snob, it is humor (people could catch me on music too if they wanted, but humor is the kicker). And, when I say I am a humor snob, I don't mean that I prefer "high" humor to "low" humor or wit to slapstick or anything of the sort. I simply mean the following:

Well, come to think of it, I don't know how to explain exactly what I mean. Essentially, I have a sort of disdain for that humor which I deem "done before" and especially that which has been done to death. Let's try an example...

(I know I am not doing myself any favors by admitting this, but) As I was perusing the internet forums I regularly read, I stumbled upon a thread in which someone asked if a wizard could beat the united states. To the thread's credit, it made it all the way to Post #24 before someone sagely responded

"You fail.
Chuck Norris can beat him." (him, in this case, being the wizard)

For those of you who aren't aware, both lines of this post are popular memes from the internet. In fact, the Chuck Norris one dates back from when I was a freshman in college at least. Now the poster of this post could age anywhere from 0 to 120, so I can't really fault him for lacking a certain sophistication. I think what, for lack of a better term, 'irks' me is that the person most likely typed this message precisely because of its seemingly endless internet popularity. He is, I don't know, riding on someone else's coattails. And whenever I hear a joke like this or "Git her done" or some lackluster reinvention of "black people do this/white people do this," I always think of my least favorite bathroom wall graffiti:

"Here I sit, broken-hearted.
Tried to shit, but only farted."

And as I find myself trying to be entertained during the doldrums that are most dumps, I stumble frequently upon that exact 'poem,' unironically penned or carved into the stall door. I always imagine someone in my same position, digging in their ground-level pants pocket as they think, "This is it, I'm really going to leave my mark." And what do they choose as the monument to their having passed on that very commode? A poem that probably wasn't funny the very first time someone wrote it and certainly hasn't appreciated in humor-value over the decades since.

I could go on with examples, but I think I have made my point, and I certainly don't want to beat this subject to death. I don't know why I can't just sit back and enjoy some good old comedy. Maybe it is because I value new experiences and creative new paths, but that wouldn't explain how I can listen to the same album for weeks on end or still laugh everytime someone farts loudly. Either way, aside from Conan O'Brien, I don't think the funniest funny people I know could make Chuck Norris funny again without the perfect situational set-up. So, I guess all I'm asking is that we put a few tired jokes to bed.

-To be honest, Pocket actually feels awkward when someone makes a Chuck Norris joke in person, much like one might if he just saw his friend crap his pants in front of a crush... "Oh, that must be embarrassing."

"...The frog-prince said to the princess, 'I am sorry my dear, but I cannot let you kiss me. Not until I have proven I can make it on my own.' And though the princess would have waited were he trying, the frog-prince could never bring himself to eat a fly. And the princess married a real prince. And the frog died of starvation."

Grandpa's hands were rough from many years of paper-cuts, his tongue smooth from the flow of all the words. He was meticulously groomed and sharply trimmed, save for the thumbnail on his left hand. It was for peeling oranges, he said. Why not use a knife, we said. Because one can lose a knife, he said, but if he ever lost his thumb, then he wouldn't have much use for oranges anyway.

-A Grimm Pocket

A while back, knowing where my future lay led quite immediately to that future's dissolution.

I've been talking to an old friend about where all my high school buddies are going, and it seems like the normal spread. One getting back in school, one getting out of rehab, and the rest with normal, businessy jobs and current or future wives. Some are "house hunting," which may as well describe something done by the 15th century Navajo for all it means to me. Some are now ex-military, and one looks like he might be going lifer as an honor guard in D.C.

Now, of course, I'm not so naive as to think these people's futures are set or that they will be happy for life (though I sincerely hope so on the latter), but it just made me feel like a big kid. My high school buddies have 9-5's, rents and wives, and they are looking for mortgages and kids (heck, some of em already have kids). Maybe I just came from an area where that is what you do, and it just so happens to not be what I did.

But the weird thing is that I don't even see that in my distant future. I don't see anything in my distant future. I have absolutely zero idea what I want to do. That's not true. I want to live and work with my friends. So why the heck am I living by myself? Unfortunately, many of my friends seem to have career paths. Well, unfortunately for me, that is, but I am glad for them. I think I know now why I ended up liking Friends so much, despite its... well... terrible writing.

The biggest problem right now is simultaneously that I am doing things backwards and that you can't do things backwards. What I mean is that I am burningly interested in women these days (one moreso than others), but, of course, a significant other can't present me with a path in life (unless they are willing to let me be a stay-at-home-dad, which doesn't seem likely, even though I would love to do that). And so that is how it is backwards, but the way it can't be backwards is that there is no real law that dictates that one must have a job before one has a love. It is perfectly accepted to not move or change your job for a loved one, and it is even finer to find your love through your job, but the reverse of those is rarely acceptable to most.

As a result, I've tended to shy away from my feelings for others because "now is not the right time," but for someone who doesn't really have a life schedule, when, excactly, is the right time?

-Torn Pocket