[Christopher The Lion]

P.S.

2006-08-16T21:11:00.000-04:00

I have just learned that the boyz of New Edition were born and raised just footsteps away from where I am living now.

I've probably stepped on the same asphalt as the big B.B. himself.

Swooooooooon!

Shit is weird

2006-08-16T20:58:00.000-04:00

Pig valves and DUI's....
Fried shrimp and limp potatoes....

It was a weird week.
Part of me was psyched to leave.
The rest felt like I should stay.

But my psyched-ness was quickly dashed, when I walked into my stinky dark apartment alone, to a sink full of dishes.

Waste of life. Thanks for all your hard fucking work.

In the morning I was to discover that all of my soy milk had been drinken...dranken...drunk..?
Oh, I'm sorry, not all of it. You were so kind as to leave approximately half a teaspoon full.

Mmm, froot loops in water. Deeeelish.

These next few weeks aren't looking too good.
I've got two weeks of listening to fat people go on power trips.

Fat, like seriously morbidly obese.
These people are fucking monsters.
Smallest one is probably 350 pounds.

And I have to take orders from all you stupid Biggie Smalls wannabes.
Countdown to graduation has begun, and school hasn't even started yet.

May. In May I will be a college graduate.
And five May's from now I will be a doctor.

Crazy.

Shit is weird.

Where are you?
You should be finished with your run by now.

Don't make me sleep in this place alone again tonight.
It smells, but I bought more soy milk.

That way we can have breakfast in the stink.
And you and I can complain about it together.

These days

2006-08-06T16:52:00.000-04:00

I've not been doing much.

I have been spending much time sitting at the proctor station staring blankly into space.

But at least I'm getting paid for said staring.

I am also getting paid to play egregious amounts of Sudoku.
And I have begun to rock at it.

A friendly reminder

2006-08-05T21:21:00.000-04:00

When you're a jet you're a jet all the way.

And when you're an RA, your life sucks.

Basically.

Note to self: Next time you have 48 straight duty hours, stock up on alcohol, narcotics, or both.

Packaging

2006-08-03T17:32:00.000-04:00

I am an excellent target for all you market-eers out there.

I love packaging.
Cool packaging.

Cool packaging will make me buy just about anything.

I don't care what the product is. It could be an electric vagina-maiming device, and I would buy it if the packaging was cool enough.
Would I maim my vagina?
Probably not.
But I would keep it just for the box.

And really, I've decided...that is sad.
Pitifully sad, in fact.

For example: I have two small boxes sitting in my room which are filled with I don't know what. One I think is a bar of soap, and the other I think has a tiny travel diary or something ridiculous like that. I've never opened either of them. I never intend to open them.
There they sit, unopened and completely useless.
They're not even good decorations because they're fucking cardboard boxes.

I don't know...they're still cool.

Fuck you.
Don't judge me.

Boondoggled

2006-07-28T22:46:00.000-04:00

I haven't the faintest what the word means.

But it seemed appropriate for the moment.
Went down to the Vineyard today with the pharmacy folks.

Headin on down in the Peter Pan bus we watched "She's the Man" and all the pharmacy chicks fuckin loved it.
What?

Say again -
What?

Anyhow, got to spend some time on the sandy beaches. Water was warm, and no man-o-wars in sight (or, according to the newscasters, "men of war.") A tiny little crab pinched me though. Tiniest crab I ever seen.

Still hurt. Fucker.

All in all, I would chalk it up as a damn decent trip, seeing as I got to partake in my favorite treat of all: ice cream -- food of gods, angels, and mortals among us.

Did you know?
Much of the island of Martha's Vineyard is dry.
I, myself, was unaware of this fact.

Oh, and by dry I mean they don't serve alcohol. Otherwise, they're quite wet. Being an island and all.

Just in case those of you who are not reading this were at all confused.

ANYWAY.

The only downside to the trip (other than She's the Man, but I can forgive that) is the downside to all beach trips: sand under the titties.
I had a piece of kelp in there too.

Shower food.

Dear Post Office

2006-07-27T12:46:00.000-04:00

Give me my fucking mail.

Assholes.

Give me my checks.
Give me my packages.
Give me my circulars.
Give me my credit card offers.

Assholes. Assholes. Assholes.

For more than two weeks, I have not received a piece of mail. My roommate, with whom I share the mailbox, has certainly been receiving hers.
I contacted the USPS. They launched an "investigation."
And would you like to know what the "investigator" had to say?

"Well, I talked to your carrier, and he said that when he has mail for you he delivers it and when he doesn't he doesn't."

Well, that's great, Dennis Franz. Whoop-dee-doo and hoo-fuckin-ray, my mail carrier is doing his job.
Put your name on your mailbox, he says.
It's there.
And that aside, even if it weren't...my roommate is still getting her mail.

So, you motherfuckers, answer me this.
If my name is on the mailbox, as it should be... And my mailcarrier is doing his job, as he should be... And if fucking FedEx found me without any problem...WHERE IS MY FUCKING MAIL YOU BASTARDS?!

ANSWER YOUR PHONE!
ANSWER IT!
I HATE YOU!

Give me my mail!

Wow

2006-07-20T16:51:00.000-04:00

No one more deserving than me?

I almost skinned my knee with joy.

The day of endless Nothing: Part 2

2006-07-01T18:44:00.000-04:00

Well, as it turns out, fortune hath smiled upon me. Kinda.

I talked to my bawss, and she dropped da bomb on me: I totally didn't have to be sitting in THE office all that time. So roundabouts 2 pm I hauled my ass out of there and ended the day of endless Nothing by changing out of my staff shirt.

This was rather anti-climactic.
But not like it wouldn't have been anyway.

Oh well, maybe next time...

Day of endless Nothing tip:
Before you officially embark on your day of endless Nothing, make sure you're actually required to do so.

Such a dumbass.

The day of endless Nothing: part 1

2006-07-01T12:31:00.000-04:00

Three and a half hours down, six and a half to go.

I watched the hi-larry-us Smigel/O'Brien (and don't forget Adam West) pilot brought to my attention by the one and only Jim Teacher

Comedy gold? I think so.

I've also been watching some childhood cartoon favorites posted on youtube, which has been rather enjoyable thus far. Other than that, just sippin' my 99 cent iced tea.

Day of Nothing tip:
It's easy to be overwhelmed by a day of Nothing, so it is key to be prepared!
Buy some cheap snacks and make sure to wear comfortable clothes -- and ladies, don't be afraid to let those fabulous ta-ta's fly free. After all, you're doing Nothing...who do you have to be lifted and separated for?

More to come in the day of endless Nothing: part 2!

The day of endless Nothing: prequel

2006-07-01T09:20:00.000-04:00

So today shall be the day of endless Nothing.

Allow me to elaborate.

During this particular span of the year, it becomes time for old friends to leave, and new friends to arrive. That is to say, a certain proportion of residents pick up and go, generally leaving in their wake a barrage of empty alcohol bottles and a variety of other goodies ripe for the picking (a few days ago I scored four great bags, brand new face wash, and Gucci perfume and moisturizer...yesterday I found a bag of unopened groceries, including tons and tons of expensive teas...and back in May I got a brand new TV).
But, as with the ways of the world, with death comes rebirth. In the form of more drunk and disorderly students.
Fortunately, due to the impressive inefficiency of the university bureaucracy, the amount of people leaving far outweighs the amount of people returning.
However, unfortunately for myself, this has brought me to the day of endless Nothing.

The obligations of my "job" require me to be in THE office today from 9 am to 7pm to assist new residents as they move into our complex of buildings. But, as I have just mentioned, there is a large deficit in entering summer students. As a result, there is not a single person who is scheduled to move into the entire complex on this day. Not one. Zero.

And so we have, and it must be clear by now, the day of endless Nothing.
I will be documenting this enthralling experience periodically throughout the day. So, as such, let's document.

It all began normally enough, despite the fact that I chose to sleep in my bed last night. Recently I've taken to sleeping on the floor for due to two recurring problems. One: my bed has become increasingly creaky for unknown reasons. The slightest motion results in a maelstrom of variously pitched creaks and metallic clangs. Obviously, this can prove troublesome to the light sleeper. Two: my bed has become increasingly uncomfortable for unknown reasons. Upon waking from a night of wakeful sleep, I often find myself with pain in the neck, shoulders, lower back, and hips. Last night's eight hours certainly reminded me why I prefer the floor, and I assure you that I will back down there tonight.
But I digress.
My alarm woke me at 8 am sharp, and I, of course, hit the snooze. I ended up sleeping until about 8:30, at which point I had to come to terms with not having time for a shower and breakfast. I opted for breakfast, which consisted of an english muffin covered with funny tasting margarine left by one of my former roommates because I ran out of soy milk the other day and haven't had a chance to pick more up and, even though Scott swears it's good, I will not eat my cocoa crispies with just water.
While I was toasting my muffin, I noticed a particularly offensive odor wafting its way around our kitchen and living room. I sniffed around, poked my nose into dark places, but ultimately discovered nothing. That is, until I opened the refrigerator to put the margarine away. It was immediately obvious where the smell was coming from.
One of my roommates moved out on Wednesday. Let me premise this by saying, she liked a lot of weird food. So, in the back of the fridge I see sitting a large oval red can...it looked like a cat food can. I peeked in and, lo and behold, it's a sardine can. It had in it one sardine, belly up, and one of my forks. And, lawdy lawd, that fish stank.
I grabbed a plastic bag and worked up my courage. My instincts told me to salvage my fork, but when I saw the movement of the fork stir up the fish entrails and various other goos, I opted to let the fork fend for itself.
Now, I had never seen a sardine before. So when I pulled the can out of the refrigerator, I was inclined to take a gander.
Gross.
Like I said, the fish was belly up...and its belly was not looking too good. All of it's white little belly scales were flaking away, and the line from its head to its tail was splitting open, revealing the pink, stinky, fishy insides.
I'm sure I made about 15 grimaces before managing to drop the can, with fork in tow, into the plastic bag. For my own safety, I decided to put that bag into another, and I tied it up as tightly as I could. I dropped the thing down in the trash room before leaving for THE office.
When I reached the appropriate building, I was thrilled to find a giant banana-yellow trash bin in the middle of the hallway. Being a good samaritan, I took it down to the trash area and, on my way back upstairs, stopped to buy a nutri-grain out of the vending machine, as I knew I would be missing lunch and a reasonably scheduled dinner.
As I plodded up the three flights of stairs, I realized that there is a reason those english muffin commercials show a four course meal when they say "part of a complete breakfast." An english muffin is not enough to get you up those stairs.
Thank goodness for the nutri-grain bar.

More later, when the day of endless Nothing gets really nothingy.
Stay tuned!

The Office

2006-06-26T20:04:00.000-04:00

I am sitting here in THE office, rerunning the events of my day. My day in syndication.
It's not my office. It's THE office. I probably would loathe it less, should it be MY office.
But it's not. So loathe it more I shall.

The day was not filled with action. It was not filled particularly with interest or intrigue.
But today was the day I grew climactically aware of the crossroads I've entered at this stage in my life.
I suppose it was only to be expected, given the intrest-less and intrigue-less events of yesterday.

Yesterday I spent the day searching for graduate programs and taking practice GRE tests.
To my own surprise, it turns out my weakness is not mathematics, but vocabulary. Apparently I have a sub-graduate level vocabulary.
"Stygian:dark::"........no clue
"Upbraid:reproach::"....what the fuck is upbraid??
Multifarious?
Loqacious?
Inveterate?!?

I am doomed, vocabularily speaking.

But, remarkably, I still recall the formula to find the area of a triangle (bh/2), and can, in fact, quite fluidly recite this little geometric cadence:
Tweedle dum and tweedle dee
Around the circle is pi times d
But if the area is declared
Then the formula is pi r squared

I fiddled around with my student loans.
I need to borrow yet another 16,000 for my final year of undergraduate education.
And then to come another four years of digging my hole (see: dismal abyss) of debt.
That is, of course, unless I choose the NYU M.D./Ph.D. program, which would probably have me scraping the bottom of the barrel for a good long seven years.

You load sisteen tons, whaddaya git?
Anotha day olda an deepa in debt.
Saint Peter don't ya call me cause ah can't go
Ah owe my soul to th' comp'ny stoh.

And so, today.
Today I attended a dissertation defense.
And while it was entirely fascinating, I found myself wrought with worry and borderline extreme trepidation. (I am practicing)

I have less than one year to complete the GRE general and subject tests, complete my graduation requirements, and complete applications (and pay for said applications)for multiple graduate programs (one of which needing be completed by October 15th of this year).

Painful, it is.

But it's been an occasion to realize a particularly salient point. Over the course of my meager 21 years on this planet, I've certainly heard my fair share of old-people bitching. Invariably, the one point that has most frequently arisen is the overwhelming awareness of lost opportunity. The older you get, the fewer and fewer leisurly choices you can make about the direction of your life. This struck me with a great force as I was struggling with the idea of achieving a medical degree. I don't want an M.D. because I want to be a doctor. I want an M.D. because I want an M.D. I want a Ph.D. because I want to be a doctor. There is only the tiniest difference in getting an M.D. to become a psychyatrist and getting a Ph.D. to become a psychologist: and that is the ability to write a prescription. That's it. And the truth is, within a few short years, a psychologist with a Ph.D. or a Psy.D. will be as free to write a prescription as a psychiatrist with an M.D. And the truer truth is, as long as you are working in a firm with a physician, you can write a prescription if the physician has given you permissions. (For example, my gynecologist is really a nurse. But she writes my prescriptions under the permission of the doctor who runs the office.)

I've lost my direction, here...

Ah, yes.

So, it dawned on me that I do not presently meet the requirements to enter into an M.D. program. There are quite a few more courses I'd need to take. I would be able to do this, but I know that I would despise it. In fact, I am abhorred by the idea of taking physics at all. These are things I do not want to learn, but by only the virtue of my status-seeking mindset I want to take these courses.

And, by the way..

That's, like, totally stupid.

But despite my own consciousness of my excruciating stupidity over the matter, the near impossibility of completing these required courses on time while still maintaining a modicum of sanity felt like some abominable defeat. The sheer thought of not being able to attain an M.D. at the same time as a Ph.D. brought to mind an image of a set of giant golden french doors with the word "opportunity" elaborately inscribed along the molding slamming shut and being sealed by fat, ugly, hairy, vertical-smiling welders with their inappreciable, inadequate, insubstantial, flimsy, floppy, shameful PhD's in hand.

And so there I was, gawking, neck wrenched backwards, staring as this gilded opportunity was torn away from me. Standing in a sidewalk crack of indecision and regret.

Being quite aware the I could complete the requirements, but did not want to made me feel regretful. I felt regretful because I had opted out of this route some time previous. I opted out of this route in favor of pursuing a minor in photography...something I love for its own sake. Something I love.

And, so, my regret of my prior indecisions led me to this epiphany of sorts.
Of course this opportunity is closing. It's because of the choices I've made.
Is it a little depressing?
A little.
But listen, self....
It is absolutely impossible, in this realm of three dimensions...what with the time, and the age, and the money, and the social norms....absolutely impossible to keep all of those doors open at all times.
Later on, of course, should I decide to get my M.D. I can. This I've known for quite some time. But the small idea of letting that door close for, perhaps, a few years was so agonizing that I could not nearly bare to face it.

But, with the realization that, short of doing precisely nothing, I cannot prop that door open...well it came as something of a relief.

I suppose I've always been one of those that you'd call an "overachiever." I've been clinging to that since the day I could comprehend it.

But, for christ's sake, Sarah...give it a rest.

For someone who's been bragged about over Thanksgiving dinners for 16 years, you've been awfully fucking stupid.

And, in retrospect of this entry...

...my stream of consciousness is the definition of "hodgepodge."

Le reve d'hier

2006-06-16T16:25:00.000-04:00

Last night I dreamed I was having lunch with TG in a grungy underground café in NYC when Brother Stephen passed by the windows on the ceiling and waved down at us. He came down to say hello, and TG turned into Scott, and Brother Stephen turned into K-Fed.

Kevin Federline, infiltratin' my dreams.

Oy vey.

Raise your flags!

2006-06-13T01:48:00.000-04:00

I have declared a

[revolution]

against my ass.

Where Are

2006-05-25T19:21:00.000-04:00

[You]?

Are you done your banking?

What are you doing?
What are you doing?
What
are
you
doing
?

I have to clean my room.

Milk Chocolate Fudge Covered Caramel Popcorn With Cashews

2006-05-10T13:26:00.000-04:00

I am a fatty today.

I will

not

stop

[eating].

Eighty Degrees

2006-05-05T13:21:00.000-04:00

Yesssssssssssssss.

Get me some rope I'm building a wall

2006-04-18T01:32:00.000-04:00

You ain't too bright are ya?

No, not too bright at all.

[Dumbass]

Melville's Candy Flavoring Spoons

2006-04-12T22:42:00.000-04:00

PERFECT FOR TEAS, NATURAL FLAVORED
Clover Honey

[Ingredients]: Sugar, Corn Syrup, Water, Natural Oils, Natural Flavors, US Certified Food Colors (Including FD & C Yellow #5, Yellow #6, Blue #1, Red #3, And Red #40), Citric Acid.
Contains soy.

Sweetheartpop
70Finnell Drive Unit 16, Weymouth, MA 02188
800-638-8063

Proudly Made In The USA

What they failed to mention is that this product is a severe diuretic.

Hollllyyyyy crap.

Endless Excitement and Pee-Pants Anxiousness Comes Screeching to a Halt and Crashes with Death and Blood and Blood

2006-04-09T15:58:00.000-04:00

The doors opened at 5. FIVE.

The show started at 6:30. SIX THIRTY.

I was done work at 7. Left at 8.
Waited in line for an hour.
For a [frisk] that did not happen.

The Femmes...I missed them.
They played at 6:30. SIX THIRTY.

They opened for Jurassic 5. Who opened for a DJ. A DEE-JAY.
Who opened for Dashboard Confessional.

DJ something or other got billing over The Violent Femmes.
THE FEMMES.

The only thing that got me through the days and nights of brink of death dying and intraveinous antibiotics and 12 inch needles piercing my spine, I missed. I missed it.
By a lot.

Because some crappy wedding DJ got billing over THE FEMMES.

Scott wanted to stay for Dashboard Confessional, because he had never heard them before.
We left after two songs.

Lumbar Puncture

2006-03-31T13:16:00.000-05:00

AKA spinal tap.

Do not get one if you can avoid it.

The process is not so painful...it is the aftermath that [kills].

And the leftover hole? Gross.

No.

2006-03-30T08:58:00.000-05:00

I am [not] sick.

I do not feel not not well I do not.

My head is not pounding, my joints are not stiff, my neck is not hypersensitive to every minute movement of my not feeling incredibly giant and heavy head.

My throat, is not burning, or swollen, or filled with pustules. My temperature is not fluctuating between 96 and 100. My hands are not freezing. I do not sound like a 35-year smoker/manicurist not on the way to tracheotomy and not cleaning her oozing neck-hole with a not paper towel.

And I do not blame the Lane DEATH Center for allowing this to happen by last time this happened prescribing me MOUTHWASH.

MOUTHWASH.

TOMORROW IS SUPPOSED TO BE SUNNY AND 70, YOU HORRIBLE HORRIBLE PEOPLE. I HATE YOU. WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING. I HATE YOU. WITH EVERY OUNCE OF MY VIRUS AND/OR BACTERIA INFESTED BODY YOU GOD DAMN MOTHERFUCKERS WHO LOOKED AT MY THROAT AND GASPED IN HORROR AND THEN PRESCRIBED ME MOUTHWASH.
I HATE YOU

DO NOT EVER FORGET THAT

oh, sweet jewsus, i hate you so much.

What is this

2006-03-28T23:06:00.000-05:00

I do not feel good

I feel [bad].

That is to say, not good.

I am hot.
I am fatigued.

I believe my medication is beginning to do strange things, again.
I will call the doctor in the morning.

But she is so so far away. So far away.

2006-03-27T23:37:00.000-05:00

ROGUE WAVE!

is what I was [thinking] of

re-alligatored b-log

2006-03-26T15:32:00.000-05:00

[i miss]

this thing that we used to do called loving
and the words made of gestures made of papier mache so delicate as a bubble of soap on the edge of the tub where we showered together after watching the fireworks in the heart of the city with the grimy greazzy sweaty hair on the heads of the people on the bridge over the cars and the trucks driving westward and eastward as we looked northward and southward to shield our eyes from the setting of the sun over the river above which we stood waiting and watching and waiting and watching and waiting and listening to the buzz buzz buzz of the heartbeat beating until they told us we had to move it along people

Vendredi, Le 24 Mars

2006-03-26T11:39:00.000-05:00

I saw The Walkmen this last vendredi. They played with Devon Trevelyan and Alpha Juliet.

The doors were at 9. I got there late intentionally. Sometime around 10:30. It was a long week, and an even longer day. I had no tolerance for another self-involved crappy school band. But I had to gather that tolerance, because that's what I got. They started much later than I had anticipated.
I sat on the floor, next to some smashed french fried p'tatoes. I had a constant flow of traffic in front of my face. All the boys wore checkered Vans or $150 Pumas. All the girls wore flip-flops (it was about 30 degrees that night) or those slip-on shoes that make me think of Barbara Eden. And most of them had on leggings under jean skirts. But that's another story.

I have nothing good to say about Devon Trevelyan. I only caught their final two songs...but what I heard was heart-wrenchingly awful. I could tell they thought they had really hit the big time, playing the basement of a university student center. They were cocky and boring. They could not sing, and they could not play. And I would not applaud.
However, I was pleasantly surprised by Alpha Juliet. Composed of several interesting figures: a Conor Oberst style singer/guitarist/keyboardist in flannel, a crazy screaming sweaty shaved-head wannabe stand-up-comic Jew(probably) guitarist, an excruciatingly bored keyboardist that looked like he'd just stepped out of the shower and I think he was wearing some sort of jersey, a forgettable bassist, and an invisible drummer. Oh yeah, and some chick who got up there a few times to sing back-up. She was overdressed compared to the rest of the band. I enjoyed it. Dynamics. Or something.
Together they made some seemingly good music, although it was difficult to tell given the poor acoustics and even poorer sound-dude. But I clapped. I enjoyed what I heard. I checked their myspace page. They only have one song on there, and I'm not sure if they even played it on Friday. But the recording is icky, and I don't think it is fair. They're good. Trust me.
Their sound conjured up images/soundages of a wide array of other artists. I heard Bright Eyes, Modest Mouse, !!!, a hint of Ryan Adams (the sad stuff), Radiohead, some Elliott Smith, Verbena, a heaping helping of The Flaming Lips, and several other bands and artists I can't think of right now. Some more rock-y stuff, surely. But I'm not in a rock-y mood.

Two of the band members' fathers and uncles were in the "audience." I hope they were very proud. Their sons can make music.
Then the Walkmen came on, and they were what I had been waiting for. I danced, kind of. More like bounced. With my hands in my pockets. The girls in front of me cleared out, and I wiggled my way in front of the "stage." The guy that looked like Jim Teacher played a gourd with cowrie shells. He also picked up the bass occasionally, and when he did he moved like a dolphin trying to walk on its back fin. It made me laugh a little bit. One of the guitarists noticed, and I think he laughed, too.
Anyhow, they were pretty much what I expected. I was neither thrilled nor disappointed. I did, though, find myself in an unfortunate acoustical position. The amps pumping out the guitar and drums were to my right, but the amp for the vocals was behind me. There was nothing happening on my left...it was rather a strange [sensation]. My right ear is still paying for it this morning.

Afterwards I thanked one of the guitarists for "playing our little shithole." He said that they enjoyed it. But I'm not ready to believe that.

When I got back to my building I saw some of the girls on my floor that had been at the show. I asked them if they liked it. They said they did, but they hated the first two bands. I told them that I thought Alpha Juliet was surprisingly good. They shook their heads and said that they had made fun of the band while they sat next to the fathers and uncles.
Then I was disappointed.

Talent goes unappreciated. Because, even if they weren't fond of the style, there was no denying that Alpha Juliet could play. They could fucking play.

Teeth chatterin foot shufflin state-wide dance party

2006-03-22T14:07:00.000-05:00

Boston is

the [antithesis]

of warm
sandy
beaches

Meet The Press

2006-03-19T10:50:00.000-05:00

Being that the [reception] on my TV is so poor, I enjoy making up names for talk show guests based on the snowy, twitchy jargon I see on the banners.

Par example, this dude's name is "Mothra St. Clair" (R) Amazon Rainforest

And this dude's name is "Senor Jeramiah Murderball" (D) PleaseExcuseMyDearAuntSally

While writing an analysis on consciousness...

2006-03-19T02:48:00.000-05:00

An exerpt from my late-night ramblings on the origins of [consciousness]:

"Much of our world seems to be a result of top-down processing which, under no doubt of my own, likely has its origins in this grey mass inside of our heads. I am, for the moment however, not going to rest on the assumption that our world is a creation of our minds. Let me first work my way through to my given conclusion. Given our knowledge of the way the world works (or how we believe it works) it is almost necessary to make this assumption. We know that there are parts of the light spectrum that we cannot see, that there are sound frequencies we cannot hear, that there are variations of flavors we cannot taste, and amounts of pressure that we cannot feel. But does their absence in our conscious experience mean that they do not exist? If we want to believe that atoms and UV rays and UHF waves exist, then we must assume that our world is a creation of the mind...for if our mind represented reality in its truest form, we would be privy to everything concretely, not abstractly. To accept that there are sights and sounds we cannot see or hear by virtue of our physiology (or brain, or mind...whatever it may be) is to accept that our “physiology” dictates what and how we experience. So if it is our body/brain/mind...whatever it is that is deciding what we get to experience...that is in control over the world of our awareness, then we must accept that this thing constructs our world for us. It would seem silly to say that a blind man’s world is less real than a seeing man’s world. His reality is only different from the reality of the man with sight, not incorrect. The world without pictures is no less of a world. But in order for this to hold true, there must be the underlying assumption that we actively construct our own realities. So, following this, it is generally accepted that all of this top-down construction that happens has its origins in the brain. Whether or not this is truly the case is, of course, arguable. I cannot even begin to conjecture where our top-down processing might come from, if not from the brain."

2006-03-18T23:31:00.000-05:00

I have become nocturne-al,

and have gotten into the habit
of wearing mascara [to bed].

I have come to the recent realization

2006-03-18T16:00:00.000-05:00

while I sit in the [cybercafé]

that I do not have

nearly enough sad songs

on my 'pod.

what a

shame

De l'art et conscience.

2006-03-18T15:37:00.000-05:00

Peut-être l'art pour le saké d'art ressemble à la [conscience pure].

I am a pint lighter this evening

2006-03-17T19:13:00.000-05:00

My heart rate was 92. A little high.

We do these things for each other.

And I have no track lines.
But very meaty veins.

Must be all that spinach.

I loved you a little today.
[Just a little].

What is free culture anyway?