Aphorisms:
1. Let's all get together and track deer back to their nest or lair or whatever deer have. Then we'll take pictures of them licking each other and sleeping, and post them online for a small fee, and make a million dollars.
2. The snow knows when you're under it. The tree knows when the snow knows. Don't look up.
3. People in small groups enjoy penis jokes much more than they do on their own. This is because when people congregate, they get high on phemones and, also, marijuanna.
4. Frankly, I never really loved you. I was just putting on a show for your father. Now that he's dead, I can finally go back to St. Louis.
5. You can rate a band by the quality of the bassist's hair. Malkmus was wrong about the drummer. The drummer's hair is merely incidental. It is the bassist who picks up the karma waves of the band's relative goodness or badness, and manifests this physically in his locks. Look at the Beatles. Paul had a pretty stupid hair cut, no?
6. An epiphany may come at any moment. Most commonly, however, it comes while listening to My Bloody Valentine.
7. The French word transir, to chill, is very useful when you're making Cat Stevens jokes.
8. Scott's lists always were better than mine.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Monday, February 23, 2004
I spent an hour today piling watermelon rinds, banana peels and leftover lettuce on top of a compost pile, then covering this with leaves, then shoveling dried horse manure on top of everything. This was one-tenth of my penalty for missing six lab classes last semester. Shouldn't they make me study the material I missed, or put me on probation, or ask my tutor if my performance was satisfactory, or find out why I missed so many classes? A week ago, I walked around Uppers for two hours picking up assorted detritus, broken bottles, candy wrappers, and the like, and staring at the sky and the dry brown hills. Then I swept organic matter away from the stairs, onto the ground by the tough trees and persistent little bushes. I didn't think about much of anything while doing this. I examined, which is my primary mode of cognition; I examined growing things, land, and the effects of two generations of unthoughtful students on their surroundings.
I can't put this into a context. I can find no connection between my six missed lab classes and my ten-hour introduction to Buildings and Grounds. Somehow, I don't mind this. I don't take it as absurd. It is, to be sure, Puritan and inexplanable, but it makes a kind of sense in the back roads of my logic.
Four weeks ago I shovelled snow. It snows here with frequency but not much quantity. Matt Aranoff, the young alumnus who runs Buildings and Grounds, gave me an ice breaker, two snow shovels and a bucket of salt. The ice-breaker worked best if plunged perpendicular to the plane of the ice. The shovels proved ineffective for most of the work. After scattering the ice, I returned to the office and worked for another forty minutes shovelling the parking lot outside B&G, which Matt counted as an hour toward my ten. When it snowed again that night, the areas I had salted remained clear of ice. Salting the ground, usually, has the connotation of cleansing it from evil and preventing anything from growing. It is an image which shows up occasionally in old tales of the supernatural.
I usually feel revulsion at the expression of the concept that exercise somehow improves the workings of the mind, clears the soul. I would say simply that physical action provides satisfying relaxation on a cognitive level. The mind does no thinking; I don't think it regenerates while it rests. There is, of course, a satisfaction that you are doing something, accomplishing necessary work, improving, rearranging, purifying, whatever. This appears largely to be imaginary, although not false. This work is frequently unnecessary, and creates only minor aesthetic pleasure or benefit to the community once it's done. It thus seems unrigorous to claim that it is even community service. I would not call it punishment either. It seems almost a form of meditation. There is, of course, also no connection between meditation and missed classes . . .
I can't put this into a context. I can find no connection between my six missed lab classes and my ten-hour introduction to Buildings and Grounds. Somehow, I don't mind this. I don't take it as absurd. It is, to be sure, Puritan and inexplanable, but it makes a kind of sense in the back roads of my logic.
Four weeks ago I shovelled snow. It snows here with frequency but not much quantity. Matt Aranoff, the young alumnus who runs Buildings and Grounds, gave me an ice breaker, two snow shovels and a bucket of salt. The ice-breaker worked best if plunged perpendicular to the plane of the ice. The shovels proved ineffective for most of the work. After scattering the ice, I returned to the office and worked for another forty minutes shovelling the parking lot outside B&G, which Matt counted as an hour toward my ten. When it snowed again that night, the areas I had salted remained clear of ice. Salting the ground, usually, has the connotation of cleansing it from evil and preventing anything from growing. It is an image which shows up occasionally in old tales of the supernatural.
I usually feel revulsion at the expression of the concept that exercise somehow improves the workings of the mind, clears the soul. I would say simply that physical action provides satisfying relaxation on a cognitive level. The mind does no thinking; I don't think it regenerates while it rests. There is, of course, a satisfaction that you are doing something, accomplishing necessary work, improving, rearranging, purifying, whatever. This appears largely to be imaginary, although not false. This work is frequently unnecessary, and creates only minor aesthetic pleasure or benefit to the community once it's done. It thus seems unrigorous to claim that it is even community service. I would not call it punishment either. It seems almost a form of meditation. There is, of course, also no connection between meditation and missed classes . . .
Thursday, February 19, 2004
I don't mind that people aren't reading my blog. That's fine. I just mind that those people who aren't reading it also post no comments. Is this some practical joke? I don't get it. Why have I gotten no responses in over a week? You know as well as I do that the only reason people write blogs is to have people respond with comments. I'm not writing this for my health. If I cared about my health, I wouldn't smoke, or eat M&M brownies. This is about verification, proof that people I can't see still exist. You people better start verifying, or I'm going to stop believing in you.
Is it something I've done? Should I stop talking about metaphysics, for example? Because I can do that. No problem. You just tell me what you want me to write about, and I'll put it down, and everyone will be happy. I will sell out for you.
Are you people going through some sort of slump? Are you, maybe, involved in something else, like bein' sad and stuff? Because, hey, I'd like to read about it if you are. Why? Because I'm just that kind of guy.
I can only cry so many tears before the pain from my rejection turns to rage. Better watch out, mothas. Ever wonder how I got the name Dr. Dark? It wasn't shifty-eyed Dan. That guy wasn't poet enough to create a shopping list. Eat my appendix.
Is it something I've done? Should I stop talking about metaphysics, for example? Because I can do that. No problem. You just tell me what you want me to write about, and I'll put it down, and everyone will be happy. I will sell out for you.
Are you people going through some sort of slump? Are you, maybe, involved in something else, like bein' sad and stuff? Because, hey, I'd like to read about it if you are. Why? Because I'm just that kind of guy.
I can only cry so many tears before the pain from my rejection turns to rage. Better watch out, mothas. Ever wonder how I got the name Dr. Dark? It wasn't shifty-eyed Dan. That guy wasn't poet enough to create a shopping list. Eat my appendix.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
My mind is currently occupied with Latin, French, German, Kant, Newton, Proust and Rosenzweig. It used to be occupied with music. I have been listening of late mainly to The Basement Tapes, Louder Than Bombs, and Yo La Tengo, and these only infrequently. It helped quite a bit to have music playing while at the computer, and this is now impossible. That is why my writing has been uninteresting for the last several weeks, in case you were wondering.
Right now, even, writing this rather trivial post, I am aware of how uninteresting it is. There is no excitement, no content bursting to get out. I am doing it mainly to keep up appearances.
I would like to leave. Not in any real sense: I have already decided rather firmly to graduate next year. Yet although I am, for the first time, starting to enjoy it here, I cannot help but wait impatiently for college to end. I have never experienced so distinctly the constant engagement of my subconscious mind on school work, reading, philosophy, call it what you will, to the extent that I have nothing to say when I try to write. It's a dismal feeling, even though most of the time I'm pretty pleased and excited. It is strange to be truly excited about academic material. I feel as if I'm writing like a high school student here, but there's no other way to say it. I allot almost no time to "relaxing", a term I scorn, and yet I rarely feel stressed. When I wake up, I learn twenty Latin words before showering. Then I exercise and go to class. Every class has become interesting, and I've surprised myself by talking of my own will. When I get back to my room, I usually do my seminar reading (I've actually started trying to read them at least twice) before dinner.
I'm not sure what I'm saying in this post. I'm not sure why I'm writing at all. However, since this is the only thing that comes to mind to write about right now, I am. At any rate, it's starting to make sense to me why so few people do anything special while going to this school, although I still wonder why so few alumni do anything, either. I feel like I'm cheating myself somehow by not developing my writing, but there's not much I can do, and when I consider it, it seems perfectly reasonable to wait until I've finished this education. Whatever it's doing, however it's doing it, I am definitely beginning to learn something of real value here.
Oh, and Scott, that post was awesome, and I've often felt the same way, but didn't know how to express it. You're really getting at something.
Right now, even, writing this rather trivial post, I am aware of how uninteresting it is. There is no excitement, no content bursting to get out. I am doing it mainly to keep up appearances.
I would like to leave. Not in any real sense: I have already decided rather firmly to graduate next year. Yet although I am, for the first time, starting to enjoy it here, I cannot help but wait impatiently for college to end. I have never experienced so distinctly the constant engagement of my subconscious mind on school work, reading, philosophy, call it what you will, to the extent that I have nothing to say when I try to write. It's a dismal feeling, even though most of the time I'm pretty pleased and excited. It is strange to be truly excited about academic material. I feel as if I'm writing like a high school student here, but there's no other way to say it. I allot almost no time to "relaxing", a term I scorn, and yet I rarely feel stressed. When I wake up, I learn twenty Latin words before showering. Then I exercise and go to class. Every class has become interesting, and I've surprised myself by talking of my own will. When I get back to my room, I usually do my seminar reading (I've actually started trying to read them at least twice) before dinner.
I'm not sure what I'm saying in this post. I'm not sure why I'm writing at all. However, since this is the only thing that comes to mind to write about right now, I am. At any rate, it's starting to make sense to me why so few people do anything special while going to this school, although I still wonder why so few alumni do anything, either. I feel like I'm cheating myself somehow by not developing my writing, but there's not much I can do, and when I consider it, it seems perfectly reasonable to wait until I've finished this education. Whatever it's doing, however it's doing it, I am definitely beginning to learn something of real value here.
Oh, and Scott, that post was awesome, and I've often felt the same way, but didn't know how to express it. You're really getting at something.
Monday, February 16, 2004
I talk to Will Jensen every Sunday. This is by his request. He lives in Chicago with no friends, goes to a school he hates, and until this week, had no job. His parents are divorced, his mother doesn't like him, and he gets depressed when he talks to his father, who has tenuous employment; he's never had a story accepted despite trying since high school. He is twenty three and has never had a girlfriend, and he tried to kill himself at age five. Even though I don't enjoy talking to him, it's hard to say no.
This week, I had to tell him I don't have enough money to travel with him over my spring break. It's true, anyway, so what the hell. "Hey, if anyone understands not having enough money, it's me." (Here's the general course of our conversations: we trade stories about anything we did that week. For my part, there's a lot I don't tell him, because I don't think he'd understand; for his part, he usually hasn't done anything at all. Then we make whatever possible comments there are to make, which usually peters out after about three minutes. This is followed by seconds of true abyss as the phone makes audible our lack of similarity.)
"I'm gonna have to drive down there myself some time. But anyway, I was thinking, how about this summer you and me just drive around, not doing anything, see the country. We'll swing by the coast, you know, maybe stop off in Nevada at the Bunny Ranch. I was thinking, you know, all my friends back home are married or practically married, engaged, you know; you're really the only free friend I have left."
I was, for a moment, too surprised at his casual reference to getting prostitutes that I didn't say anything. Then I explained that when I said I didn't have enough money to travel over spring break, that would go doubly for the summer. That I had a couple of options as to places I'd stay, but the'd all involve either working or taking a course. I added to this that the fifties are over, and it is no longer possible to travel cheap like Kerouac. Will is aware, on some level, that things really have changed since the fifties, but he persists in wanting to live in them. His favorite authors, it should be noted, mostly died under bad circumstances.
After an hour, I was able to break off the conversation. Kant proved too much for me in the state I was in, so I tried Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space to see if it made more sense. It did.
During "Electricity," Jess knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to go to 10,000 Waves, a local spa which seems to be a rite of passage for Santa Fe students. I hear about this place at least once a week. So, being the follower I am, I went with Jess.
My readers (you guys are still there, right?) probably can't imagine me in a spa. I'll keep my description brief. The hot tub was too hot, and I wasn't wearing my glasses, so I couldn't see the topless girls. The cold plunge made it a little more pleasant, but then it was once again too hot. The sauna, how surprising, was too hot. We stayed for about an hour and a half, and I was most relaxed just sitting on the edge of the tub, not touching the water. I doubt that it would have come up, but nobody buy me a spa gift cirtificate for Christmas.
This week, I had to tell him I don't have enough money to travel with him over my spring break. It's true, anyway, so what the hell. "Hey, if anyone understands not having enough money, it's me." (Here's the general course of our conversations: we trade stories about anything we did that week. For my part, there's a lot I don't tell him, because I don't think he'd understand; for his part, he usually hasn't done anything at all. Then we make whatever possible comments there are to make, which usually peters out after about three minutes. This is followed by seconds of true abyss as the phone makes audible our lack of similarity.)
"I'm gonna have to drive down there myself some time. But anyway, I was thinking, how about this summer you and me just drive around, not doing anything, see the country. We'll swing by the coast, you know, maybe stop off in Nevada at the Bunny Ranch. I was thinking, you know, all my friends back home are married or practically married, engaged, you know; you're really the only free friend I have left."
I was, for a moment, too surprised at his casual reference to getting prostitutes that I didn't say anything. Then I explained that when I said I didn't have enough money to travel over spring break, that would go doubly for the summer. That I had a couple of options as to places I'd stay, but the'd all involve either working or taking a course. I added to this that the fifties are over, and it is no longer possible to travel cheap like Kerouac. Will is aware, on some level, that things really have changed since the fifties, but he persists in wanting to live in them. His favorite authors, it should be noted, mostly died under bad circumstances.
After an hour, I was able to break off the conversation. Kant proved too much for me in the state I was in, so I tried Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space to see if it made more sense. It did.
During "Electricity," Jess knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to go to 10,000 Waves, a local spa which seems to be a rite of passage for Santa Fe students. I hear about this place at least once a week. So, being the follower I am, I went with Jess.
My readers (you guys are still there, right?) probably can't imagine me in a spa. I'll keep my description brief. The hot tub was too hot, and I wasn't wearing my glasses, so I couldn't see the topless girls. The cold plunge made it a little more pleasant, but then it was once again too hot. The sauna, how surprising, was too hot. We stayed for about an hour and a half, and I was most relaxed just sitting on the edge of the tub, not touching the water. I doubt that it would have come up, but nobody buy me a spa gift cirtificate for Christmas.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Self-awareness sometimes fades for me, and frequently heightens. At both of these times I feel like I am becoming aware of some truth, and then I promptly realize that the very idea is absurd. I'm considering a Junior essay on the concept of wanting out of your skin. A great piece of obvious and already known knowledge was given to me two days ago. For these essays, people should first think of what they want to write about, and then pick the work. The tutors here won't tell us this, because they think it heretical. "What? You can't find an honest topic? Why don't you write on Descartes? You seem to like the study of knowldege. Or how about Hume? He's post-modern, right?" Now, perhaps no one reading this will care, and quite understandably. Sometimes considering this college is boring to me even while going here. But generally it remains a powerful paradox which bears sorting through.
Why are so many students drunk all the time, and stupid even sober? And yet some of the most impressive people I've met, I've met here. What could I make of the persistent vulgurization of all culture? Particularly when I am aware of its influence over me. Is it possible to affect someone who lives in the unenlightened manner of the great mass of humanity, who is bigoted, unaware, resistent to change, and content with a stupid life? But then, maybe I'm not qualified to judge such people, and maybe I'm wrong about the quality of their lives; maybe mine is not better.
In the development of philosophy (and why should I care?) the trend in the last two hundred years has been away from the dogmatic confines of logic and toward something much more complicated and less seemingly applicable. It is as if philosophy has been examining its own subconscious mind, and has found great depths of mystery about what had been seemingly the simplest of concepts. And yet, if it remains mystery, why should I trust it, and what could I hope to gain from it? What could my role in such a thing possibly be?
Writers seem to stuggle to remain relevant. What, then, is relevant? Why does this generation seem to me to be incapable of great art, to the extent that we cannot even judge ourselves?
Oh, and why did I write this blog?
Why are so many students drunk all the time, and stupid even sober? And yet some of the most impressive people I've met, I've met here. What could I make of the persistent vulgurization of all culture? Particularly when I am aware of its influence over me. Is it possible to affect someone who lives in the unenlightened manner of the great mass of humanity, who is bigoted, unaware, resistent to change, and content with a stupid life? But then, maybe I'm not qualified to judge such people, and maybe I'm wrong about the quality of their lives; maybe mine is not better.
In the development of philosophy (and why should I care?) the trend in the last two hundred years has been away from the dogmatic confines of logic and toward something much more complicated and less seemingly applicable. It is as if philosophy has been examining its own subconscious mind, and has found great depths of mystery about what had been seemingly the simplest of concepts. And yet, if it remains mystery, why should I trust it, and what could I hope to gain from it? What could my role in such a thing possibly be?
Writers seem to stuggle to remain relevant. What, then, is relevant? Why does this generation seem to me to be incapable of great art, to the extent that we cannot even judge ourselves?
Oh, and why did I write this blog?
Friday, February 13, 2004
Yesterday, for twenty minutes, the cold went all away. The ice stretched out and fell into the sidewalk cracks and disappeared. The rabbits and bears came out of their holes, looked at each other, and started playing together like children. It looked very silly, but also wonderful. Lou Reed showed up and stared dancing, and nobody seemed to know who he was, so I danced with him. The snow turned into summer clothes, molecule by molecule; then the summer clothes melted. Then the earth, cracking open from such a sudden change in temperature, sucked the entire Santa Fe campus down, and Lou Reed cried.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
In an ordinary-seeming conversation last night, I discovered the meaning of my life. It is deceptively simple. The packaging resembles that of a Pokemon action figure, full of bright blues and pinks, swarming with love and cuteness and obviousness. I am, you see, simultaneously attracted and repulsed by everything. I am no sooner stirred up by new realizations than I am depressed by the dullness of the posibilities. This is because everything reminids me of death. Scott, you were right.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Also, it is fucking dry here. But you knew this. And my heater is always on. Always. I have it turned down to 50, but it persists in blowing hot, steam-heated air into my room at all hours. Which makes my room something like the inside of an oven that is baking mud. I've been hanging out in the bathroom a lot, because it is the only humid area in Santa Fe. I'm considering whether I should sleep in the bath tub. I have sounded like I have a cold for a week and a half. If anyone has a humidifier, (wipe it on your dress and) send it to me.
Last Sunday I was talking to Will Jensen (long story) and just before he hung up, he mentioned that his roomate frequently played the Flaming Lips, and that Will always made him turn up "Do You Realize?" and rocked out, going "Yeah!" to lines like "Everyone you know some day will die." For those of you who met Will, you know what tone the "Yeah!" had. For those of you who haven't, don't worry about it.
Then, a few days ago (for the sake of being specific, I will say Tuesday, but I'm not sure it was Tuesday) I got up from listening to a CD (for the sake of interest, I will say it was Little Richard, and although it probably was Little Richard, I'm not sure) and walked over to the door (for the sake of interest, I will specify that the door is brown, because it is). Just before I got there, I noticed a CD someone had slid into my room through the crack. I picked it up and read, "Dear Greg, hope this song puts a smile on your face. :)" The CD contained only "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips. It did not put a smile on my face, for musical reasons, but regardless, I was terrified. "Oh my God! Is Jensen here? What's going on, is this an acid flashback or what?" You get the point.
So I called Jess, and Wes, and other people who's names end in "ess". They had not sent the CD. Polewach, who would not touch the Flaming Lips, who probably gets mild stomach aches thinking about the Flaming Lips, who likely uses "Flaming Lip" as a derogatory term, did not have to be asked. I had no other friends here who would make even mildly likely candidates.
Several days went by (beautiful narrative device, that. Did anything happen in those days? Of course. I'm just not telling what). I was standing outside having a cigarette with Wes when a guy named Tom Gallo (my next-door neighbor, and a non-entity) walked up. I asked him if he liked the Flaming Lips. He smiled broadly and said, "No, but I know who does."
"Who?"
"I can't tell you, but I'll tell him to come to you."
"Eh."
I found out nothing for days. I saw men with long hair in white suits playing guitars out of the corner of my eyes, but when I looked it was only snow-covered trees. Fuzzy dancing animals greeted me as I got out of bed, and I knocked them over to get to my washcloths. No one came. I didn't want anyone to come. What if it was some guy trying to pick me up? What do you say to something like that?
Eventually, I asked Tom again. "You know Josh?"
"Yeah." He was another non-entity Annapolis transfer Junior, only in addition to being opinionless, he was oblivious. This made him the perfect comic straight man, as I could use him to set up as many jokes as I could fit into the space of a meal. I would not consider this talking to him. I did not greet Josh outside of the dining hall, any more than I greet the dog, Boston, who is constantly bouncing around Lowers, barking and looking ugly.
"It was him."
"Oh."
Then, later, when I told this to Jess, he said, "huh. You know, he seems like he's in the closet."
"Because of this, or you got that impression before?"
"I thought that before. He seems way inside the closet."
"Jesus."
"I wouldn't worry about it."
"Jesus."
Then, a few days ago (for the sake of being specific, I will say Tuesday, but I'm not sure it was Tuesday) I got up from listening to a CD (for the sake of interest, I will say it was Little Richard, and although it probably was Little Richard, I'm not sure) and walked over to the door (for the sake of interest, I will specify that the door is brown, because it is). Just before I got there, I noticed a CD someone had slid into my room through the crack. I picked it up and read, "Dear Greg, hope this song puts a smile on your face. :)" The CD contained only "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips. It did not put a smile on my face, for musical reasons, but regardless, I was terrified. "Oh my God! Is Jensen here? What's going on, is this an acid flashback or what?" You get the point.
So I called Jess, and Wes, and other people who's names end in "ess". They had not sent the CD. Polewach, who would not touch the Flaming Lips, who probably gets mild stomach aches thinking about the Flaming Lips, who likely uses "Flaming Lip" as a derogatory term, did not have to be asked. I had no other friends here who would make even mildly likely candidates.
Several days went by (beautiful narrative device, that. Did anything happen in those days? Of course. I'm just not telling what). I was standing outside having a cigarette with Wes when a guy named Tom Gallo (my next-door neighbor, and a non-entity) walked up. I asked him if he liked the Flaming Lips. He smiled broadly and said, "No, but I know who does."
"Who?"
"I can't tell you, but I'll tell him to come to you."
"Eh."
I found out nothing for days. I saw men with long hair in white suits playing guitars out of the corner of my eyes, but when I looked it was only snow-covered trees. Fuzzy dancing animals greeted me as I got out of bed, and I knocked them over to get to my washcloths. No one came. I didn't want anyone to come. What if it was some guy trying to pick me up? What do you say to something like that?
Eventually, I asked Tom again. "You know Josh?"
"Yeah." He was another non-entity Annapolis transfer Junior, only in addition to being opinionless, he was oblivious. This made him the perfect comic straight man, as I could use him to set up as many jokes as I could fit into the space of a meal. I would not consider this talking to him. I did not greet Josh outside of the dining hall, any more than I greet the dog, Boston, who is constantly bouncing around Lowers, barking and looking ugly.
"It was him."
"Oh."
Then, later, when I told this to Jess, he said, "huh. You know, he seems like he's in the closet."
"Because of this, or you got that impression before?"
"I thought that before. He seems way inside the closet."
"Jesus."
"I wouldn't worry about it."
"Jesus."
Friday, February 06, 2004
My life is boring. My thoughts are boring. Why are you even reading this? Shouldn't you be in bed recovering from nervous realizations about the inner workings of your mind? And why are you afraid of them just because they're "inner"? This is a sex thing, isn't it? Stop bringing these stupid problems to me. I'm not a psychologist. I'm a doctor, goddamit, a medical doctor. You want pills? I'll give you some fucking pills. Just please, please, stop whining about your mother!