Monday (Time for change.)

I was gonna type this whole big thing that was dripping with symbolism about some guy gearin' up to fight and then gettin' his ass kicked by a personified Monday, but that seemed contrived and I'm lazy.

I've often heard that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Now obviously that's not the medical definition, but it's still a pretty good barometer for mental health. According to that adage, I'm crazy in the coconut. And have been for quite some time now.

Today was supposed to be a big day. A good day. A fresh start. "The first day of the rest of my life." Instead it just got thrown in the pile with every other day I've ever wasted. I wanted to wake up at 9 or 10, go get my hair cut and then meet up with my sister for a spot of adventure ending sometime before 4 (when she goes to work.) After that I was going to walk around and look for places to work or do community service. Preferably both.

I ended up waking up at 3:30PM.

I have had a problem with sleeping since about sophomore year of high-school. Give or take a year. I never seem to be able to fall asleep at normal times and waking up before noon is near impossible. Except for when I lived in LA and woke up every day, on the dot, at 8AM with no alarm clock. Sun shinin', birds chirpin' and I'd just pop out of bed and proceed with my day. Back here in PA however, you'd be hard-pressed to wake me for anything. Free cheeseburgers, you say? They need time to cool, I don't like really hot food anyway.... Naked virgins eager for me? Let 'em wait a little bit longer, it'll build up the tension... Nuclear holocaust underway? I'm probably irrevocably irradiated now anyway, might as well enjoy some sleep while I can...

No matter the incentive I will rationalize a way to stay in bed. On-the-cusp-of-waking-Josh's logic is infallible. Of Vulcanic accuracy. This pattern of behavior has gotten me kicked out of school and fired from more than a few jobs. The exception to the rule was that damn LA, though. And my pre-high-school years. How come I was able to wake so easily then? And go to bed at a decent hour? Must be D.S.P.S. I concluded. Everything I read about it coincided with my preferred pattern of sleeping.

Inability to fall asleep before 2AM? Check.
Inability to wake before noon? Check.
Fruitless attempts at "resetting my clock" by staying up for a few days straight and then going to bed at a decent time? Check.

If I go to bed at say 5 or 6am, maybe even 7, I can wake up at noon no problem. Completely refreshed. I fall asleep quickly, sleep soundly and the very moment I open my eyes, I am awake. If I try going to bed at 11PM or midnight, I lay there for hours in the silent dark thinking about absolutely everything until maybe conking out around 4 or 5. Then next morning when my 3 alarms go off in one minute succession of each other, I have shut them off and laid back down without so much as a conscious thought going through my brain.

I've tried everything. Different job schedules like 2-10, drinking coffee in the morning, exercise... Nothing seems to change the fact that I simply do not want to get out of bed. Ever. I'm still in bed right now.

Before I discovered the parameters of DSPS I hypothesized a similar disorder. It seemed to me that normal people wake for 16 hours and sleep for 8. And for the average employed American that 8 ran from about midnight to 8AM. I however like to sleep for anywhere from 12 to 24 hours or more and wake for 24 to 48 or more hours. I simply have a longer cycle. Longer days, longer nights.

While I still think there is some validity to that, and also the DSPS, I think there is a more concise underlying problem. Indeed likely the root of all my problems.

There are simply too many variables to work through to observe an obvious pattern and I'm too deeply involved for an objective view but it would seem to me that about the time I discovered women, introspection and self-actualization was the same time my sleeping problem began. It'd be unfair to solely blame it on my first girlfriend for entering my life and it'd also be a cop out to just say it came with adulthood.

Up until about 16 or 17 I was the character many people remember me to be and I largely still consider myself to be. I was your typical bored smart kid. Your textbook case of intelligent class clown. I finished my work before everyone else and was left with a surplus amount of time to myself. So I became disruptive. Discovered the joys of making others laugh. Thus the Josh Vish many know and love was born. About that time is also when my grades started slipping. I was fiercely intelligent but self-destructively stubborn. Why should I do this tedious homework when I know I'll already get a perfect on the test? Foolish... My standardized testing scores were literally off the charts, my IQ test had me well above the genius bracket, and yet shortly after all this was discovered my grades slumped to average at best. Just barely passing by high-school. I'd ace the tests and get incompletes on the homework assignments. As + Fs = Cs. I didn't do homework because "my home time is my time."

What happened here? Is this the source of my cockiness? Did telling an 8 year old boy he is literally smarter than all the adults in the building and that he has more potential to increase his intelligence than 90% of the entire population, cripple him? Cripple me? Was I too immature to deal with such news? There is a difference between intelligence and maturity.

I STILL have this attitude that I can accomplish whatever I want, yet I barely ever try at anything. Anything I've ever seemingly "accomplished" has come to me naturally. Drawing was an innate skill that I honed during my free time in school, sure, but truth be told I never really had to work at it. Or being funny. It just came naturally. Losing weight and getting into shape, an admirable feat for sure but still it didn't require too much effort on my part. Maybe I'm selling myself short? I did after all put in the hours at the gym and monitor my eating with precision the rest of the day... it's just that.... it never felt hard. It never felt like work. I couldn't understand how other people who claim to want to be in shape weren't. It's so easy, it's so simple, I thought. How are they not getting it?

Ah ha, there's the rub. I've always followed the path of least resistance. I've never really been challenged in my entire life. Whether it's because I avoid challenges or because nothing is worthy to challenge me is up for debate. It is likely a combination of the two. I had even designed a quote to excuse my supposed overflowing talent yet lack of observable achievements:

When it's easy to do anything, it's hard to do something.

Why did I stop drawing? During my school years and my short run in the office world I drew habitually. Almost obsessively. Was it simply a way to escape the monotony of the day? When I have hours of free time now, I don't draw. In fact, I don't even entertain the idea of wanting to draw. The only time I want to draw is when there is something else I'm supposed to be doing.

Nowadays I don't understand how they could have thought I was so ridiculously intelligent. If I'm so smart, how come I'm such a loser? If all these people with supposedly inferior intellects are successful in modern society, why aren't I?

Simple. Because I don't want it.

Why don't I wake up? I don't want to.

I am a HUGE proponent that people will do whatever it is they actually want to do.

If you are overweight and can't seem to get in shape, it's not because you're doing something wrong, it's because you don't want it bad enough.

If I can't wake up on time, find and hold a job, move toward being a filmmaker, etc.. it's not because my approach is somehow flawed or because the world is against me, it's because at the core I don't truly desire it.

I was a fat kid for years. I never spoke of wanting to lose weight, I just did. One day I just got my act together and started doing what was necessary. BECAUSE I ACTUALLY WANTED IT.

This is my problem. At the core, I don't think I want to do anything.

When i was in jail, I modified my quote to:

I can do anything, I want to do something.

I have no clear-cut goals. I used to want to be a father. Part of me still thinks I do. Filmmaker, comedian, bodybuilder, artist... All these things I claim I want to be, I am making no moves toward becoming.

"Shoot for the moon land amongst the stars", I'm on the moon like, okay.... now what?! Why bother setting another goal if this one is so lofty for so many?

A good friend of mine once added an addendum to a popular quote:

"I think therefore I am... depressed."

I largely believe this to be the case. Too many times and from too many people I have been told that "You are too smart for your own good." I used to cite it as my tragic flaw, much to a former flame's behest. She'd conjecture with "It can't be your tragic flaw because that means it will ultimately lead to your downfall." To which I'd just stare at her blankly and wait for her to catch on. It goes back to "Thinking is the enemy of perfection." Our culture values careful planning and long-term goals. It looks down upon brash spur-of-the-moment decisions. Anything I have ever done, good or bad comes down to spontaneous decision making. The creation of this blog. This very entry. Drawing. Being funny. Losing weight. Gaining muscle. Making funny little skit videos. Nothing I have claimed to want or laid down plans for has ever came to fruition. Maybe normal people need more planning in their lives, but when you have a to do list that starts off with:

Open eyes.

Reach for phone to shut off alarm.

Stand up.

Shut off alarm on entertainment center.

Exit to bathroom.

Splash face with water....

Maybe it's time to just start shooting from the hip? How about, just wake the fuck up? Let things develop organically. I've never done that. I mean not really. Not as a rule of thumb.

People chastise "flying by the seat of your pants". Well guess what, if that's the only way you're going to fly, then maybe it's a good thing. Because planning to attach my trousers to an aircraft has just left me stumbling over details like What kind of pants? What material? What color? How big of an airplane? Maybe a helicopter instead? Maybe for me, and for some of us, flying by the seat of our pants is the only way to fly.

I have a good 15-20 writing projects lined up. Some fiction screenplays and some focused blogs. I rarely, if ever, work on them. This blog that I am typing right now though? Obviously getting done and certainly wasn't planned in advance. I told you what I was going to do. Write some fancy symbolic fight between me as a character and a personified Monday. Well that didn't happen. This did. So maybe instead of berating myself for not going with my original vision I should be congratulating myself for actually completing something.

Or is that just the part of me prone to follow the path of least resistance taking over again?

Water doesn't think about where it's going to flow next or how fast, it just does. A frog doesn't ponder how best to be a frog. "Should I sit on this lily-pad? Should I eat that passing fly?" It just simply is a frog.

So why is it so hard for me to "just be" Josh Vish?

Isn't all of this technically being me? Aren't I being me right now? I mean maybe water or a frog doesn't question its motives and maybe that's perfectly fine, but maybe this is what I'm supposed to do. Maybe this is how I be me. Maybe the only secret to me being me, or you being you, isn't some specific set of guidelines for behavior, whether self-created or not, but simply being at peace with everything you do.

So maybe the way I'll cure my "insanity" isn't by changing my methods, but by instead expecting the results I've already been getting and being content with them.

People think I don't try. I think I don't try. Maybe I've been trying too hard?

The difference between the young version of me that drew, made people laugh, got in shape, moved to LA, made short movies with people, etc. and the me that doesn't seem to be accomplishing anything I want is that he just did. He didn't obsess or plan, he did. "Just do it." in person form.

The difference between the me that wanted to write a clever narrative that would awe and inspire people and the me that wrote this blog is: that I actually wrote mine.

Instead of trying to sit down and figure out what I want from life in clear-cut black-and-white terms maybe I just need to let go and see where I head naturally.

I'm sick of saying I used to be this or I used to do that. Or I want to be this, I want to do that.

You know what?

I am.

And for once in my life, that's good enough for me.

It would be so nice to end it there. So movie happily-ever-after. But the sad fact remains that it doesn't end there. I simply do not know who I am or what I want to with my life. And until I figure that out, I am effectively paralyzed. Dead in the water.

"And where does the newborn go from here? The net is vast and infinite..."

My weekend.

So the other day my friend, Kevin, wanted to trek out to Washington to the Tanger Outlets to buy some boots at the Timberland store. He asked me if I wanted to come. After seven months spent almost entirely in my house and three months in jail prior to that, I heartily agree to most any offer to go out and about, and this was no exception.

Despite being in the negative monetary-wise (and with no income to speak of), I decided that picking up a pair of durable practical boots might lift my spirits. "Retail therapy", I believe it's called. If I am going to get a job or complete my community service in this weather, a nice pair of boots would be invaluable, as I have to walk most anywhere I want to go.

The day started off with us heading to Shadyside to send his Macbook Pro off to be fixed. I relish any opportunity to go to Shadyside, and was quite excited to be in the area. As far as PA goes, Shadyside is where all my swankiest happenings have happened. It's where the after-party for the premiere of Kevin Smith's Zack and Miri Make a Porno was held, and also where I met and briefly chatted with the uber-cute Jamie Chung, and a few of her Sorority Row castmates while they were here in Pittsburgh. Both occurred on the same night at Alto Lounge.

The day was progressing nicely. Weather was way better than it has been. That and the smiles and conversations shared with random mac-store workers and patrons were having quite the positive effect on me. I always forget what a fun, funny and witty person I can be until I'm out in public doing it unintentionally. It's like "Ooooh yeah.... this is who I am...." Continuing the whole theme of avatars and the Japanese concept of tatemae and honne, it's in situations like these that I learn the most about myself. I don't so much think that we as humans purposefully shift from a private to a public persona for any reasons like shame or anything, but more because THERE IS NO ONE TO INTERACT WITH WHEN YOU ARE ALONE. And therefore no reference points. Despite many people assuming I probably do (what with all the characters and voices I do) I rarely, if ever, talk to myself. I can count on my hand the number of times I've done it. When by myself I am quiet and calm, and I would imagine most people are. Certain attributes of my character are only observable when compared in relation to those around me.

When I'm by myself I tend to think of myself as an introverted, bookish, nerdy, intellectual artist. Bordering on neurotic and somewhat anti-social. A bit egotistical but also somewhat insecure. In a crowd, I am the life of the party. The Tyler Durden to my Narrarator. I am attractive, conversational, witty, intelligent and humorous. I'm a local celebrity, shaking hands and kissing babies. The center of attention. A natural born leader. Barack Obama in public, Charlie Kaufman behind closed doors.

Side note: I've determined that I'm either incredibly good-looking, incredibly weird-looking or incredibly ugly because no matter where I go, people eye-fuck the shit out of me. Or maybe I look like a celebrity. It might also be that I'm so highly animated. Who knows? In my younger days it used to perplex and encuriate me, but presently it just serves to fuel my ego and make me feel good about myself.

We left the Mac Store and then went to a place called Sushi Too. A small, cozy sushi-hole that's not bad for being located in Western PA. The food was dece and the service was prompt and courteous. One of the cute asian waitresses was staring a hole trough me the entire time. Again, providing confidence and happiness. It's so fun to share smiles and stolen glances with a woman you've never met before. It feels naughty yet innocent, special yet arbitrary all at the same time. Either way it's fun and I enjoy it. I've always had a thing for asian women, specifically Japanese and South Korean, but after my (HORRIBLE) breakup with my most recent ex, they've been somewhat ruined for me. She was South Korean and every time I eye an attractive oriental girl I can't but help to be reminded of her. As such I've mostly tried to shut off my affinity for females from the far east.

While eating, Kevin and I began to wax philosophical on the values of eating at a leisurely pace, nutrition and just food in general. Having a history in personal training, health and fitness, being a former fat kid and a fan of clean eating I was all too happy to discuss such things. He was biking in the summer and has been steadily increasing his kitchen-related activities, so he too was quite keen to speak about such things.

Not too long ago, I watched two documentaries titled Food, Inc. and The Botany Of Desire. Both featuring Michael Pollan. (Both excellent, and highly recommended.) And after he himself completed it, Kevin insisted that I read Food Rules. I had just finished The Omnivore's Dilemma and I loved it, so in following the Michael Pollan theme decided to take him up on it. It's a short read, and I banged it out quite quickly. It's mostly just common sense and stuff I already know, although it was worded more cleverly and succinctly. It was like the cliff notes' version of either of the movies or Omnivore's Dilemma. With all this in the air and in our minds, we mindfully ate sushi and talked about how nice it is to know where your food comes from and to eat at a comfortable pace.

From there we ventured directly to the Tanger Outlets. A huge outdoor mall housing many factory stores of popular companies whose products are typically marked up and sold in department stores at typical malls. Having been the middle of February, and having been one of the harshest winters on record in this area, left the place mostly uninhabited. A weird ghost-town effect was plainly noticeable. Such a large place that obviously makes SCADS of money and attracts hundreds of thousands of customers, with nary more than a few stragglers in addition to those working the stores. It was somewhat eery, but kinda cool. I would like to see it on a nice, warm, busy day. Must be hectic. And awesome. Kevin expressed a preference for its current state and the division between us grew ever more apparent to me. Talk of zombie invasion (there at the outlets) lightened the mood, but I still couldn't help seeing the vast disparity in our characters.

While at the Outlets, I was struck with the plights of the modern American citizen. Specifically those of an affluent woman. I have never felt so womanly in my life. I mean that in as negative a way as possible. Many aspects of stereotypically female behaviors I actually strive to embody and unconsciously already do: nurturing, caring, feeling, so on and so forth... But there are two sides to every coin, and as such I can also embody the negative stereotypes of women as well, whiny, moody, shallow and overly obsessed with appearance. That last one is what happened here.

I just wanted a pair of crisp dark denim jeans, that were somewhat form-fitting but not restricting. Loose, but not baggy. Fashionable, but not gay.

I'd like to start off by expressing my extreme distaste for two current trends in fashion.

First, and my most hated, pre-distressed/faded jeans.
Are you kidding me? You expect me to pay upwards of a hundred dollars for jeans that look beat-to-shit? Jeans I would throw out? Back in my day, holes in your jeans meant you were poor or dirty, likely both. I'll tell you what, you give me fifty bucks and I'll go get a pair of Levi's, wear 'em for three or four years and then give 'em to you. Deal? No? That's retarded? Silly? Why you want jeans someone else wore? EXACTLY. Pre-distressed and "vintage" t-shirts can suck my dick, too. If the shit I'm wearing is going to look like I've had it for years, then I want to have actually had it for years. Earn your stripes.

Second, skinny jeans for men.
What the fuck?! It's like we've now plunged this nations' male population into the same bullshit trap we've had our women in for years. For decades women have been oppressed by advertising and models telling them they should be able to fit into jeans that even a skeleton would have trouble sliding on. Now we're telling our men the same thing? I am a man, damnit. I have thick, muscular legs. What the fuck am I gonna do with a piece of material best suited to hold two broomsticks?! Get that shit out of my face. Here I am, a robust, muscular twenty-five-year-old male and I'm in a fitting room thinking "Maybe I should start running? Maybe I should modify my diet?" (Quick side note: I FUCKING HATE when people say they are "going on a diet". You are already on a diet, asshole. Whatever you eat comprises your diet.) Bullshit. That's just capitalist bullshit propaganda working its way into my head. And I don't appreciate it. FUCK SKINNY JEANS. Fuck 'em. Give me a pair of man-jeans.

I am the unwanted half-breed bastard child of the denim world.

In the fashionable, young, punky stores I could feel the eyes of the clerks and few patrons judging me.

"Get out of here, you muscular jock asshole." Their gazes said to me.

"We don't like your kind round these parts..."

Whereas in Casual Male XL, everyone's eyes were saying,

"Oh look at you, you skinny little faggot. Oh boo hoo, my arms are too long for shirts. Boo hoo, I can't find pants that are loose in the thighs but actually fit in the waist."

Tertium Quid again rears its ugly head. Has me thinking I'll just have to get rich and have everything custom made. That way I can also have everything be hemp.

The whole ordeal had me feeling really bourgeois and affluent.

Like seriously, is buying jeans or shoes really this big of a deal?
Really that important?

Just buy a fucking pair of pants or shoes and shut the fuck up already. Yeesh.

I went in with the attitude of survival first, fashion second. I wanted durable fitting jeans that I could still move around in and a pair of boots that would keep my feet dry without being or looking clunky. It ended up turning into a fiasco that many women immediately identified with, according to the comments on my facebook status updates throughout the day.

When jeans fit over my thighs and ass they are WAY too loose around my waist and look retarded. Frumpy. Like that bullshit trend among teenagers where they wear jeans three sizes too small but yet somehow still manage to sag. The other options are jeans that fit in the waist and either look like gangsta-ass gangsta baggy jeans, that would be entirely unpractical to commence any sort of physical activity in, or jeans so tight they look like they could be painted on. I seriously felt like I was going to need cut out of every "fashionable" pair of jeans I tried on.

The boots I didn't feel as girly about, but I was still quite disappointed. Having a wide foot really fucks you for most shoes. Your options are crush the sides of your foot or have enough space in front of your toes that you end up sliding all around inside and chafing the fuck out of your ankles. I chose neither. Again, maybe I'll just have to wait until I can have everything custom-made.

I ended up leaving without buying anything. Seeing as how as I have less than a dollar to my name (indeed negative dollars) it was probably better that way. It doesn't change the fact that I still need/desire a solid pair of jeans and boots.

The ridiculousness and triviality of these "problems" does not escape me. Whereas people are dying just to find clean drinking water I'm bitching about the waitress putting ice in mine when I specifically asked her not to. Ludicrous. Then again, "problems" are only relative anyway... Even though you might laugh at a person being upset over losing a million dollars when they still have ten million more I'm sure that person is still quite sad about it. And rightfully so.

It just seems silly to me to bitch about finding correctly-fitting pants when there are people in the world THAT DON'T EVEN WEAR PANTS.

At some point, Kov wondered aloud, "What if you were in an asexual homosexual relationship?" His delivery was genuine and I could see the irony had yet to dawn on him. I sat quietly and just stared at him, waiting for the pink elephant in the room to wave his way. It did eventually and we each shared a chuckle.

Asexual homosexual relationship? No thank you. I want a sexual heterosexual relationship. I love women and I miss sex. I miss cuddling even more. I also miss sharing the burden of daily life in a near-perfect harmonious relationship. I hate to do dishes, my x loved them. I love to vacuum, my x hated it. Sooooo she did the dishes and I vacuumed. Perfect. I want that sort of relationship again. Natural. Organic. Not forced. Each one picking up where the other one leaves off.

That feeling combined with all the sympathy I received after my trying-on-jeans escapade helps to reinforce just how much I want and need a woman in my life. Not just one I can live with, but one I can't live with out. I think I want to fall in love again. But a huge part of me knows I'm not ready. Thinks I will NEVER be ready, ever again. My last x destroyed my heart. Ripped it out of my chest and stomped on it. Then wore the blood-covered boots out and told everyone where it came from. I could go into further detail but I don't wanna sound like a whiny emo teenager. Bad shit happens to everyone, you deal with it and move on.

It's just kinda hard to move on when your faith in the entire human race has been all but obliterated.

I will not go off on a tangent about my x.
I will not go off on a tangent about my x.
I will not go off on a tangent about my x.
I will not go off on a tangent about my x.
I will not go off on a tangent about my x.

It's shitty, but I want like a "rental" girlfriend. I'm not ready to settle down yet, so looking for more serious options would be doing both parties a disservice. I eventually want a wife that I'm madly in love with and can raise children with, but I'm simply not ready for her yet. Or them. (Our future kids) I am still a child myself. I need to figure myself out and get my life together before I think about pursuing a life-time partnership. Or creating/molding lives with said partner. It just sucks because I know that if I had a strong woman to depend on, and share with, that I could much more easily get my life together. It's like needing a car to get a job, but needing a job to get a car.


Back to the avatar talk...
I LOVE that movie. Just as it as. As a standalone entertainment experience. But also (and maybe even more so) for the the thoughts and ideas it created in me. Not only the long-standing return-to-nature theme that has been prevalent in my life for so many years, but also the concept of avatars.

In LittleBiGPlanet the first customization I gave to my Sackboy left him looking like a blue lion-man with a smile. When I was younger I gravitated toward Kimahri Ronso when my friends and I played FFX. The Beast was my second favorite X-Men character. I'm pretty fast and agile for a big guy and even a touch graceful. Blue is one of my three favorite colors. These and a whole slew of other things just left me enamored with the concept of inhabiting a twelve-foot blue lion-person body after coming out of the theater for Avatar. So many connections between things in my life lead to being an anthropomorphic cat-man.

So all this factored in and combined with my recent awareness of my apparent split-personality has left me wondering how best to physically represent myself. How best to express my inner self with my appearance. I have many "set" characters that I can slip in to, and out of, at will. With ease, (Sometimes TOO easily, and maybe not so willingly according to others.) Some are established and easily recognized and just modified for my purposes. Others are of my own creation. Others still are unnamed and not distinctly divided from the rest. In a stereotypically vain move, I've taken to using many of my friends as outward representations of my character.

But despite all those people swimming around in my head (or maybe because of) a single "overlord" has yet to emerge. The ultimate symbol of Josh Vish-itude. There have been a few attempts, and I'm sure people I know have opinions on the matter, but the truth is, I don't feel I've completely realized who I am yet. As a character or in appearance.

I've decided to take it to the drawing board and to design myself from head to toe. From the inside to the out. To turn myself into an immediately recognizable symbol. An Icon. I want what I look like to represent who I am. In short, I will now be creating my own avatar. As best as I can with the options I've been given. Most people can immediately describe the character and/or appearance of say, Jesus or Goku or Superman or Bruce Lee when asked to do so. I want to be the same way. I want to be a household name. Like Coca-Cola or Arnold Schwarzenegger. A verb. I am well aware this is my ego talking and that such aspirations also inherently prove risky (on many levels) but regardless, this is how I feel. All humans want to be remembered as it is our most feasible chance at immortality. A legacy is far easier to attain than actual eternal life. I am no different.

In favor of brevity I will eschew talking about the character I aspire to embody and will instead focus on the outward appearance of my physical body.

I want to be tan, fit, lean and muscular. In addition to actually being athletic and powerful, I want to look it. Crisp, clean lines around neatly trimmed hair. As far as manner of dress. I want to be tactical, yet fashionable. Function first, fashion second.

In other Vish-news...
I am officially done inhaling combusted cannabis until I have secured a gym membership, the ability to get there and the time to use it. This requires a job and transportation. Neither of which I have now. You can't respectfully smoke marijuana without maintaining a productive lifestyle. In my opinion, at least. And right now I am just a bum. A typical stoner. NO MORE, I say. One blunt before a workout. Maybe a pipe on the weekends. No more chiefin' joints and smokin' roaches. No more midis. Only beautiful nuggets. Green. Colorful. Hairy. (just like me)

When I start living in a manner that I am proud of and pleases me, I will resume my willful habit. But first, I must prove myself. To myself.

Last night after getting some grub at Mad Mex with the pair of Kevs, Little Kev wanted to hit the town. Apparently Big Kev had made it seem like that was the plan, so when he was talking of heading home Little Kev was left wanting. So he asked me to head out and about with him. Again, I all too happily obliged.

We first went to Oakland and the Spice Cafe. It was too loud for normal conversation and after a water and contrived conversation with a waitress we decided to roll out. We then made our way to Shadyside. After parking, we putzed around and eventually came to Alto Lounge. There was a pleasant group of attractive young females cutting a rug on the dance floor and music of an acceptable volume. We stayed there for a bit and flirted with the bartender. A ridiculously attractive brunette dressed sportily. She helped us find directions (on her Macbook) to Shadow Lounge. And that is where we headed next.

This whole time we were chit-chatting away in the car as both of us are extremely talkative and passionate. A few common topics emerged. He was quite pleased with the feeling of adventure afforded to him by driving around somewhat aimlessly and eager to break into nightlife. Prior to my forced isolation, I was never much for the bar scene. I abhor tobacco and those that smoke it and for the most part don't even care to drink. I like beer and I drink it with meals, but I do it in the snobby sense. I say shit like, "Oh notes of cardamom..." or "These hops were harvested quite young..." Drinking for me is not "LET'S GET SHIT-FACED!!!" I have never understood that mentality. Beverage is beverage and regarded largely the same way I treat food. Regardless of these facts he chose me to be his liaison. Which I can certainly understand, giving where I grew up and my time spent in LA. And because of my unwilling segregation I've been desiring to go out more as well.

After parking we rolled up to the front door which was flanked by a few scattered groups. One such group of which was a trio of attractive ladies pleasantly puffing some pot right out in front. On my own I would've taken a hit for sure, but with Little Kev nearby I didn't want to chance making him feel awkward. He's only just breaking into the social scene and I anticipated he would have felt lost while I was shooting the shit with fellow smokers. This was later confirmed as accurate by him. We poked our heads in and after finding out there was a ten dollar cover for a place that would be closing in roughly a half an hour, we decided to bail. The victory was already won. Little Kev just wanted to know where the place was for sure and I was happy with the crowd I had viewed in my short time there. The lingering scent of cannabis smokily hanging in the air, and rhythmic beats I'd have no problem movin mah feets to, will surely bring us both back there soon.

I am ready and waiting for you, Monday.

Big things should be happening tomorrow and hopefully I'll get a chance to write about them soon thereafter .

Only one person in the world knows the answer to this.

For sure, I mean. I mean I know they know, and they know I know they know. I don't know about anyone else.

Q:
Why did I want to be a whale when I was a little kid?

Avatar

Seriously, I love Avatar, so much.

Yes James Cameron's Avatar.

But also the symbolism of avatars...

My chosen avatar would probably be something like a smiling 12 foot blue-lion man, maybe wearing a white beard... The closest I've come to discovering that was Kimahri Ronso. If only he was prone to smiling...

The Japanese concept of honne and tatemae perfectly coincides with Avatar and my life right now. We each have a true self and a public self. It's impossible not to.

Just like the first two times, I again noticed The Flaming "Horse". And it again reminded me of the flaming, machine-horse in The Animatrix - The Second Renaissance - Part II. This was my third time seeing it in the theater and all three times were in 3D. This, however, was my first time seeing it "enhanced".

This is what I "want to do when I grow up". Make movies. Motion-pictures, set to music.

Big. Epic. Colorful. Visual. Story-tales.

With symbolism and purpose.

Visual storytelling. A visual art. A visual medium. Should be kinetic. Pleasing to the eye. Not just good story/characterization. And vice-versa, shouldn't be just good writing, story and character, it should flow well and look good too. Otherwise, just read a book. Music is also key. They have to pair well. The synergy (or lack thereof) can make (or break) a movie. I know several movies that I love probably wouldn't hold as special a place in my consciousness if it weren't for the delightful soundtrack accompanying the events unfolding onscreen.

That's a lot of elements to alchemically combine.

Let the record show that I have watched the entire first season of Avatar: The Last Airbender and eagerly anticipate being able to watch the remaining seasons. I'm also fairly stoked for the live-action movie.

Tertium Quid

Tertium Quid -

1. Something that cannot be classified into either of two groups considered exhaustive; an intermediate thing or factor.

2. A third person or thing of indeterminate character.

One of the saddest things I have ever seen.

Procrastination

I think procrastination is an ugly word. I prefer the phrase "biding my time."

I created this blog over a week a go and have largely neglected it. Doing what I do best. Building it up in my mind until it became an endeavor so grand it was impossible to embark on it. I have big thoughts, big plans, big dreams, and this blog is a part of it. For the most part I detest blogs and those that do [maintain a blog.] Regardless, I decided there was at least some personal therapeutic value in maintaining one. Even if I don't become "internet famous" and have thousands of people e-mailing me, "OMG I feel all the exact same ways you do!!!1" regularly journaling should prove a nice way to organize my thoughts. To place them in a tangible form that I can view (semi-)objectively.

For as long as I can remember I've "bided my time." Even as a child, I spoke late, but when I eventually did, it was a full grammatically correct and accurately enunciated sentence. My ego and I like to think that this is a symbol for my overall behavior. A very positive way of writing off my habitual procrastination.

Ugh.

There's that word again. Maybe I just wasn't ready yet? Okay? Look at how much and how quickly I've typed this little bit. (You don't know, but I assure you this has flowed right off my fingertips in a manner of seconds.)

The entire purpose behind my starting this (despite a little spite aimed toward an unnamed individual) was to have somewhere to "rest". Somewhere to put all the thoughts and ideas that have not yet coalesced into a fictional narrative or poem or something. As a writer, I often spend good portions of my day poring over something I've written and trying to revise it. Either to shave it with Occam's Razor to something brief and concise or to expound upon something too glib. Or simply just re-wording something so that it sounds pleasant to the ear or looks cool to the eye. This was to be my escape. My vacation. I'm always going to write, it's just a fact of my life, but I don't always want to write under the pretense of trying to write SOMETHING. Maybe I just want to write to express myself. Directly. In the moment as it unfolds.

I'm gonna try not to fuck with fonts, or spacing or bolds or italics or anything, and any time I do is an example of where I have strayed from the path I've presently set down for myself.

If I want to create something beautiful or refined, then I will work on beauty and refinement. For now however, I just want to write. I don't have any one particular person that I can communicate everything I want to in this world, so this blog will become the perfect digital "friend" of sorts. An always-open ear. Nonjudgmental , no sass, no constructive criticism, no crippling praise. Nothing. Just a place to put words that NEED OUT OF MY HEAD.

"Thinking is the enemy of perfection."

Don't know who said that, but if it's true, then I personally am the personified enemy of perfection. I think more than anyone I know. I am often (and vehemently) told that I think TOO much. And to a degree, I agree. For a "character" viewed as I am, brash, bold, seemingly recklessly jumping into activity, the truth is, there is a secret process of meticulous analysis going on at all times. Sometimes to a debilitating degree. For a person that seems to "shoot from the hip" instead of thinking things through, you'd be surprised at how much I value simply shooting from the hip and how much I strive to do it.

Without my whims this blog would never have been created and I wouldn't be writing in it now. I'd still be waiting. For the perfect entry. Something symbolic, something transcendent. Something that would never transpire. So here I am. Fuck it. I'm just gonna type and type and type until I don't want to anymore, and if you don't like it, fuck you. This is not for you. It's for me. If you like it too, that's icing on the cake. Not the underlying goal.

And just like that "procrastination" has turned into "biding my time."

Me, Surrounded By Snow

SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW ME SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW