24.10.10
I felt like a kid again
That's essentially what I got to journal about last night. For the first time in years, I felt like I was in high school, reading a book that took me in which I was willing to sit still for hours for and stay up late for and finish, all in one night. That's what I did when I was a kid. I'd stay up super late reading, sometimes after Dad went to bed so he wouldn't see my lamplight and come in telling me I should sleep. Then sometimes I'd also get up super early before school so that I could keep reading or even finish the book. I used to carry a book with me to class and in the halls. And on drives to wherever and during supper and all that. Those were the good days. And then I got friends. And could listen to music. And watch movies. And train for triathlons.
Last night when I wrote in my journal, was also the first time I've done that in a long time. I looked. I had written about four times in the past 14 or so months. That's awful. The worst I've done since when I didn't have a journal. It felt good to handwrite things again, even though it's awful stressful on the fingers and you sure can't keep up with your thoughts. But they seem to become clearer with handwriting, if I can just force myself to use a pen instead of this keyboard.
After reading that book, and going back to my younger years, and journaling, I was able to just sit and think. It was about 2 in the morning. I haven't done that in a while either. I loved it very much. There was something real about it. So if that last entry seemed like a low, this was the high. Go figure.
I'm sure the thoughts and feelings I had last night will fade soon enough. They will become lost in the mess of tomorrow and in the stress and monotony of work. And in the base animal characteristics of mine like hunger and needing to go to the bathroom and sleep. But I wrote them down. And I came up with three reasons that I want to live. Which isn't as morbid as it sounds. And for last night, at least, I was stoked about it. And it even spilled over into today. Which also hasn't happened in a long time.
die alive. love my own. change the world.
Last night when I wrote in my journal, was also the first time I've done that in a long time. I looked. I had written about four times in the past 14 or so months. That's awful. The worst I've done since when I didn't have a journal. It felt good to handwrite things again, even though it's awful stressful on the fingers and you sure can't keep up with your thoughts. But they seem to become clearer with handwriting, if I can just force myself to use a pen instead of this keyboard.
After reading that book, and going back to my younger years, and journaling, I was able to just sit and think. It was about 2 in the morning. I haven't done that in a while either. I loved it very much. There was something real about it. So if that last entry seemed like a low, this was the high. Go figure.
I'm sure the thoughts and feelings I had last night will fade soon enough. They will become lost in the mess of tomorrow and in the stress and monotony of work. And in the base animal characteristics of mine like hunger and needing to go to the bathroom and sleep. But I wrote them down. And I came up with three reasons that I want to live. Which isn't as morbid as it sounds. And for last night, at least, I was stoked about it. And it even spilled over into today. Which also hasn't happened in a long time.
die alive. love my own. change the world.
22.10.10
sometimes
i immediately regret the things i write. they are so pitifully insufficient. and my vocabulary is awful. and i repeat a lot. and mostly, my mind changes right afterward. but then, i guess that's why we write stuff out. dang. i hate that. and think it's funny. and i think i'm going home soon.
what does it mean
when his days kind of run together and he can go to bed realizing that nothing really happened that day. Is he dead? Is he dead to people? He's just curious. Being just a memory is pretty much being dead. Are other people dead to him. Some are. Those people from high school, they're dead. The only real difference, he thinks, is that technically there's still the slight possibility of running into them again. But then that's just awkward because he's not very good with those types of situations.
He sits in his chair all day wondering what to do for class, how to make lesson plans and syllabi, how to enforce rules, how to treat everyone at the office. He's the youngest one here. Except for that other guy. He's going through a big transition period in his life. It's like it hasn't dawned on him that when he steps foot back on home soil he's stepping into... well, he doesn't know. He reads things all the time about people growing and changing. About adventures or bad days. He wonders, did his parents ever write about how they were growing and changing? Or is that just a phenomenon of our generation? He wonders if he'll always talk about growth. Even when he's a grandpa. Will he say, Today was a tough day, but at least I grew.?
He sometimes wishes he could justify just doing things. Or maybe it's that he actually needs to learn how. When he sits on public transportation, he just watches. Is he making any kind of human progress by watching? When he teaches, he just struggles. Is he preparing for anything in the future by struggling? Is he preparing a future poet or engineer or other genius whose English foundation will be essential? He goes home and eats. He does pushups. Then he gets in bed. He gets in bed to watch a movie or read, or just be. What kind of growing is he doing then?
And how freaking big is he supposed to grow, anyway?!
He wonders if he's dead. It's not that he feels dead. But he's a little confused. If this is life, then why is it so... drab? He thinks that being creative, productive, ambitious -- that those are the signs of life he sees in others that he should have. But then, he thinks about that. He says to himself, even they only appear alive to me when they flit through my experience. If they never did, they'd still be dead. And, he figures, if they stopped flitting through and just decided to stay in his experience for a while, he figures their "lives" might appear just as drab sometimes.
So. What is he supposed to do? Go be spiritual? Is he supposed to go write a poem or a song, or draw something, or imagine his dream home or a shirt that he'd like to try and make? Is he supposed to spend the next hour trying to make a plausible plan for his little, supposed, and expected future? Is he supposed to just accept what he considers dull as his life? He compares, yes, but not only to those who seem to have a less dull life. He also compares to those whose existence seems rather mundane because of its exceeding seeming monotony and desperateness. Remember that woman who sits on the curb on your way to work? He does. Her life looks awful. He doesn't think he'd find that meaningful or enjoyable or worthwhile or anything like that. But he wonders--does she think about growth? Does she imagine she's heading anywhere? Does she consider her existence drab? Maybe she should go write a poem.
He doesn't really know anything. Except, that sometimes he gets hungry. Sometimes he gets dirty and wants to feel clean. Sometimes sleepiness overwhelms him and he must rest. Sometimes stress releases a darkness that few see. Sometimes loathing pricks at his upper lip, and other times inspiration and compassion swell his little heart muscle. He figures those things are true enough. But what do they mean? Will they let him really die--not only to become a memory, but die as a mass of flesh--leaving something behind? Some kind of story or legend or whatever you want to call it? Is that what he'd want to breath for anyway? He seems to recollect a few existences distinguished who left a legend behind, but never seemed to think their days were very special or worth much.
He figures everything should come around to God. He doesn't like that it always does. He blames it on the way he's been raised. He doesn't like it when he imagines the advice people would give him to the things that he says and thinks, were they ever to give him any. Is it that he's too stupid to see how obvious and practical that advice is? Or is it that he thinks he's following it but... obviously not? Is it that he doesn't agree? Or, could it be? Could he really hate the advice? Hate the thought of doing what they say? Is it that he wants it to be harder? That he has to earn something? Is it that most of the minutes he's ever been conscious he's been focused on something outside of himself, and that the relatively few minutes he's spent musing about all the other minutes make him think that his life is just not quite right? He doesn't find it comforting that he's not the only one wondering when he'll awake and be alive. He thinks, if this is how life is, it's... drab. But, is he supposed to just try to do stuff all the time? Is he supposed to get as busy as he can so that at least the drabness seems bigger?
What does it mean. He asks. Knowing that his current thoughts won't really be repeated until the next time he says What does it mean. Where is the life in that?
Nothing changes. That's what's funny. It's funny because as much as he wants to think, what good does it ever do him? Nothing changes. No, it's not that he's dead. It's... He thinks a moment. Maybe it's... maybe he's afraid. of trying to live and failing.
He sits in his chair all day wondering what to do for class, how to make lesson plans and syllabi, how to enforce rules, how to treat everyone at the office. He's the youngest one here. Except for that other guy. He's going through a big transition period in his life. It's like it hasn't dawned on him that when he steps foot back on home soil he's stepping into... well, he doesn't know. He reads things all the time about people growing and changing. About adventures or bad days. He wonders, did his parents ever write about how they were growing and changing? Or is that just a phenomenon of our generation? He wonders if he'll always talk about growth. Even when he's a grandpa. Will he say, Today was a tough day, but at least I grew.?
He sometimes wishes he could justify just doing things. Or maybe it's that he actually needs to learn how. When he sits on public transportation, he just watches. Is he making any kind of human progress by watching? When he teaches, he just struggles. Is he preparing for anything in the future by struggling? Is he preparing a future poet or engineer or other genius whose English foundation will be essential? He goes home and eats. He does pushups. Then he gets in bed. He gets in bed to watch a movie or read, or just be. What kind of growing is he doing then?
And how freaking big is he supposed to grow, anyway?!
He wonders if he's dead. It's not that he feels dead. But he's a little confused. If this is life, then why is it so... drab? He thinks that being creative, productive, ambitious -- that those are the signs of life he sees in others that he should have. But then, he thinks about that. He says to himself, even they only appear alive to me when they flit through my experience. If they never did, they'd still be dead. And, he figures, if they stopped flitting through and just decided to stay in his experience for a while, he figures their "lives" might appear just as drab sometimes.
So. What is he supposed to do? Go be spiritual? Is he supposed to go write a poem or a song, or draw something, or imagine his dream home or a shirt that he'd like to try and make? Is he supposed to spend the next hour trying to make a plausible plan for his little, supposed, and expected future? Is he supposed to just accept what he considers dull as his life? He compares, yes, but not only to those who seem to have a less dull life. He also compares to those whose existence seems rather mundane because of its exceeding seeming monotony and desperateness. Remember that woman who sits on the curb on your way to work? He does. Her life looks awful. He doesn't think he'd find that meaningful or enjoyable or worthwhile or anything like that. But he wonders--does she think about growth? Does she imagine she's heading anywhere? Does she consider her existence drab? Maybe she should go write a poem.
He doesn't really know anything. Except, that sometimes he gets hungry. Sometimes he gets dirty and wants to feel clean. Sometimes sleepiness overwhelms him and he must rest. Sometimes stress releases a darkness that few see. Sometimes loathing pricks at his upper lip, and other times inspiration and compassion swell his little heart muscle. He figures those things are true enough. But what do they mean? Will they let him really die--not only to become a memory, but die as a mass of flesh--leaving something behind? Some kind of story or legend or whatever you want to call it? Is that what he'd want to breath for anyway? He seems to recollect a few existences distinguished who left a legend behind, but never seemed to think their days were very special or worth much.
He figures everything should come around to God. He doesn't like that it always does. He blames it on the way he's been raised. He doesn't like it when he imagines the advice people would give him to the things that he says and thinks, were they ever to give him any. Is it that he's too stupid to see how obvious and practical that advice is? Or is it that he thinks he's following it but... obviously not? Is it that he doesn't agree? Or, could it be? Could he really hate the advice? Hate the thought of doing what they say? Is it that he wants it to be harder? That he has to earn something? Is it that most of the minutes he's ever been conscious he's been focused on something outside of himself, and that the relatively few minutes he's spent musing about all the other minutes make him think that his life is just not quite right? He doesn't find it comforting that he's not the only one wondering when he'll awake and be alive. He thinks, if this is how life is, it's... drab. But, is he supposed to just try to do stuff all the time? Is he supposed to get as busy as he can so that at least the drabness seems bigger?
What does it mean. He asks. Knowing that his current thoughts won't really be repeated until the next time he says What does it mean. Where is the life in that?
Nothing changes. That's what's funny. It's funny because as much as he wants to think, what good does it ever do him? Nothing changes. No, it's not that he's dead. It's... He thinks a moment. Maybe it's... maybe he's afraid. of trying to live and failing.
20.10.10
10.10.10
I made slippers this past week. They're not very good, but they're better than wearing only socks or having to walk around the house with stupid shoes on. Even if the shoes were smart, they'd still be stupid.This past week was a Sigur Ros week. Especially Góðan Daginn which you can listen to below, right.
Here's the 180 degree view of my front iron door. I sat on the sidewalk that continues straight from the door, not the one that goes down the length of the street in front, several houses down, where the park is. I sat there and drank some tea the other evening. I watched the teens play soccer on the little concrete court. I enjoyed the cool air and the failing sunlight. And then I chatted with the old man who came out to have a smoke. I was sitting on his front sidewalk. He said his son left for Argentina that morning at 10 o'clock. He asked how the work was in Argentina. I think he was hoping the best for his son. He also said that it costs $140 and takes 4 days to get from Lima to Buenos Aires by bus, via Chile. That was one of my most favorite times of drinking tea ever.
Also, I watched this movie. I'm not sure if watching it in Japanese with Spanish subtitles made a difference, but it is one of the best movies I've ever seen. As in, one of my favorites. I guess it may not even be that "good" of a movie, but I very much liked it.7.10.10
The hard floor
On a whim, I decided to try and sleep out in the garage area of our house last night. I got my sleeping bag and headed out. It was 11:15 or so, later than I usually go to bed here. My housemate was already in bed. I needed to see the sky and breath fresh air. I needed to try to think for a bit. And I needed a hard floor.
I don't know, I like sleeping on hard floors sometimes. Last night it was concrete, my thin sleeping bag, my t-shirt and long-sleeve shirts, and then my backbone. I liked it very much. I even got to think for a few minutes before allowing sleep to overcome me.
I had to get up and go to my room around 4:15 though because the concrete was too cold and my sleeping back too thin. It was probably only about 58 degrees, but I figured I wouldn't battle it out that night. I went to my bed. It's funny though. I never warmed up.
I like hard floors. Sometimes they're just the right place to be, the right place for me. I like only having myself to keep me comfortable. But yes, I think I like going back to a bed, too. I still find it strange though, that I didn't warm up. Is this how it's always going to be? Maybe I should just stay on the floor, by myself. Cold. Under the starless, city sky.
I don't know, I like sleeping on hard floors sometimes. Last night it was concrete, my thin sleeping bag, my t-shirt and long-sleeve shirts, and then my backbone. I liked it very much. I even got to think for a few minutes before allowing sleep to overcome me.
I had to get up and go to my room around 4:15 though because the concrete was too cold and my sleeping back too thin. It was probably only about 58 degrees, but I figured I wouldn't battle it out that night. I went to my bed. It's funny though. I never warmed up.
I like hard floors. Sometimes they're just the right place to be, the right place for me. I like only having myself to keep me comfortable. But yes, I think I like going back to a bed, too. I still find it strange though, that I didn't warm up. Is this how it's always going to be? Maybe I should just stay on the floor, by myself. Cold. Under the starless, city sky.
4.10.10
Bullet List
+ Elections for the Lima mayor (I think) were yesterday. Everyone came to work today with a purple finger where they must've had ink for a fingerprint.
+ I was surprised to find out that the books I thought we were ordering are not what we are going to end up ordering. I will try not to complain.
+ We went to the university again on Sabbath. I was there on Friday again as well, to speak with the ESL people. There were Revelation seminars going on there this weekend. I heard a couple. One of the presenters works with Dad. Another used to work with Dad. Another is a famous SDA scholar. It was neat to hear the translations and how sometimes they didn't feel right. But translating is a tough job.
+ I rearranged my room a bit. I like it this way better.
+ I went to the market by myself Sunday. It wasn't a big deal, really. I was glad I could go alone. I'm almost done with the food I bought though. That's unfortunate.
+ I bought some yarn. I'm thinking crocheted slippers. I won't have to buy them that way. The yarn was a pretty good price.
+ I have a story to tell about our house getting broken in to. But not now.
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