Soliloquy

Seven people with seven voices sat down to discuss the matter at hand. One was silent but wise. One was wise but childish. One was childish but resolved. One was resolved but vicious. One was vicious but sharp-eyed. One was sharp-eyed but arrogant. One was arrogant and lonely

and lost

and confused.

Which of the seven voices prevailed?

Smile With Your Eyes

How (not) to smile, via this link.

Great. Now I'm paranoid about my smile.

Doesn't help that when I tried to ask my sister about it just now, all my pent-up anxiety from perusing countless images of friendly fangs and ecstatic eyes decided to explode suddenly into a fit of maniacal laughter. Ah well. I guess it can't be helped now...

In any case, Mr. Meyer's right. Unless you're really hoping to snag that lead role in a local horror film, please -- please -- for the love of all that lies this side of uncanny valley, remember to smile with your eyes.

Key word being "with".

Nobody Knows

Sun been down for days
A pretty flower in a vase
A slipper by the fireplace
A cello lying in its case

Soon she's down the stairs
Her morning elegance she wears
The sound of water makes her dream
Awoken by a cloud of steam
She pours a daydream in a cup
A spoon of sugar sweetens up

And she fights for her life as she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain as it pours
And she fights for her life as she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught by a thread
she pays for the bread and she goes
Nobody knows

Sun been down for days
A winter melody she plays
The thunder makes her contemplate
She hears a noise behind the gate
Perhaps a letter with a dove
Perhaps a stranger she could love

And she fights for her life as she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain as it pours
And she fights for her life as she goes in a store
Where the people are pleasantly strange
And counting the change as she goes
Nobody knows

I love this song so, so very much. It's beautiful and bittersweet and yet strangely hopeful all the same. Contemplative and quirky. Upbeat. The stop-motion music video adds yet another layer of beauty to the art. The lyrics are (I think) purposefully vague about the woman's exact circumstances: is she suffering from depression? Loneliness? Cancer? Grief? The simple wear and tear of life? Nobody knows -- and yet, maybe, we all share a little bit of that fight inside. We all recall a variation of that winter melody, distorted even so from time, and understand.

Of course, most of the time we ignore our shared human  experiences...

...but I like to think that when it really matters, we're able to remove those self-imposed mirrors and look appreciatively through the eyes of another. See their pain and their joy, their color-tainted perspective and evolving views, and really know them. Want to know them better. Appreciate the loving care that went into shaping them and continues to shape them. Because no human is ever remotely the same. No human is ordinary. C. S. Lewis expresses this far better than I can:

"There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations -- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit -- immortal horrors or everlasting splendors."

Backtracking a bit... This reminds me of a song by mewithoutyou.

A cat came drifting onto a porch from the outside cold
And with eyes closed, drinking warm milk from my bowl,
Thought:
"Nobody hears me (nobody hears me)
As I crept in so soft!
And nobody sees me (nobody sees me)"
As I watched six steps off
Like the peacocks wandering the walkways of the zoo
Who have twice the autonomy the giraffes and tigers do
Saying:
"No one can stop me (no one stop me)
No one clips my claws
now everyone watches me (everyone watches me)
Scale these outside walls!"
Oh, you pious and profane,
Put away your praise and blame,
A glass can only spill what it contains
To the perpetually plain and the incurably inane:
A glass can only spill what it contains!

That's not all of the song... there's another really awesome bit that say 'we're like children dressing in our parent's clothes' and a whole verse that talks about questioning the Unquestionable, who "makes no reply". (The song as a whole reminds me of Til We Have Faces.) But I only listed the relevant parts.

I pity that cat in particular. Something about him hurts... His proudly proclaimed independence contrasts bitterly against his utter dependence on the narrator. Not to mention his self-imposed blindness to the truth, his adamance that no one knows, that his seeming longing against the loneliness. He wants to be independent and yet he wants to belong. I don't know... maybe I'm reading too much into him. Maybe I identify with him too strongly. But every time I read that poem (and I do consider it more of a spoken poem than written lyrics), I desperately want to hug that cat and take it home with me. I want to see him, the real him in the glass.

My thoughts seem to be very scattered today. I'm avoiding the subject. The truth is, I'm disturbed, like most people, by the elementary school shooting this morning. (Massacre, more like.) It was a tragic loss of human life. An unforgivable crime. What kind of monster murders little kids? And yet... I can't bring myself to feel anger or even indignation against the gunman. I feel hurt, betrayed, and heartbroken, yes... But I can't bring myself to feel anything more than disappointment toward the murderer himself.

A friend of mind posted this (and I quote) on Facebook this morning: "Anyone who thinks it's okay to kill innocent children should die a very slow, morbid death themselves."

No less than 5 people 'liked' it. In all honesty, this made me just as sick as the shooting itself.

What the gunman did was undeniably wrong, deserving of the utmost punishment. And yet... he was human, just like any of us. Any single one of us could turn out just like him. And to me... the kind of thinking in that status is hypocritical. What is the difference between wishing death on another human being and carrying that wish through? The difference between thought and action, certainly... but then there still remains the desire at the core of each, and that desire is one and the same. And it's not justice that's being wished for. It's the power to decide who dies and who lives, and at what expense. It's sadism.

The saddest part is that there is no difference between the gunman and anyone else in the world. He only acted on his baser instincts. I don't mean this to be cynical. In fact, I want it to be the opposite. No one knows what their neighbor has done or might do. No one knows. But are we very much aware of the kind, selfless things anyone does either? The very same hand that takes a life might also save it. Both are entirely within our capabilities. If one tiny detail today, yesterday, twenty years ago had been changed -- today might have turned out very differently. Lives didn't have to be destroyed.

No one knows.

Do we want to know?

Fun with Synonyms!

 I haven't posted in a while, it's true. A lot of the stuff I originally published here was written during bouts of depression, and it shows. The posts were tense, agitated, terribly confused. Reading over some of them, I can see myself fumbling about in the dark, kicking against anything in hopes of determining my whereabouts. It didn't reflect the real me. Since maybe May, I've been meaning to delete this and start another blog -- a blog that doesn't reveal such a rough patch in my history -- for a long while now, but... something held me back. Maybe it's nostalgia, maybe it's that inner writer's voice that urges me to never delete anything I've written no matter how crappy said writing is, maybe I simply feel a sense of attachment to that girl who was once a frail and broken me... In any case, here I am once again in my corner of randomness. Expect to see more posts from me on a regular basis. Or don't. I suppose it doesn't matter either way.

But to get to the post. "Fun" is most likely false advertising here. But maybe you'll find my challenge fun regardless...? Anyway, I've been having some trouble figuring out a viable synonym and Bro. Google's giving me a headache. Maybe someone with an extensive vocabulary and a dislike of the utter the blandness of political correction will come along and help out..

My word is: badass. Don't laugh. The word has become ingrained in my vocabulary, to the point that I increasingly have to derail my train of thought in the middle of a sentence to avoid splattering the hillsides with some sensitive person. And while it's arguably quite kind of me to show this consideration, the end result is that my train still ends up lying in a smoking heap of foolishness while the person on the tracks points and laughs at my utterly failed sense of direction. It's embarrassing. I so dreadfully dislike derailment. (Hurrah for alliterations! :D)

The problem is that I can't find a worthy substitute. Imagine if there was controversy around the word "ecstatic". Would "pleased" or "excited" do as a substitute? Of course not! I have found no equivalent words for the noun form (with the exception of a certain word involving someone's mom, which I do not feel compelled at all to use). As an adjective, "indomitable" seems to be a close substitute, but it seems pretentious in actual conversation and I'm afraid I might not be pronouncing it correctly. "Bodacious" might also work, but it seems a bit silly in context, and "audacious" is overused. "Intrepid" is another commonly cited adjective, but I'm not sure it carries the same weight. "Insurmountable" does carry a similar weight, but it has different implications.

My most common recovery words include "brilliant" and "awesome", but the overuse has killed any weight they once had. I've considered bringing "frigid" back with some slight alterations. [More specifically, just the other day I mused about the correctness of both the terms "refrigerator" and "frigerator" (the difference being one cools and the other cools again), and the waste of breath it takes to say "I refrigerated it". I thought it would be much more convenient and practical to use "fridge" itself as a verb, as in "I fridged it." That got me thinking about the potential a verb like "fridge" could hold. It's short, concise, rejected by spellcheck when written the past term (and thus "cutting-edge"), solid yet question-provoking, and it bears resemblance to f-substitutes. (And we all know that faux curse words are hilarious.) The pronunciation of "fridged" also strongly resembles that of a quickly spoken "frigid", making it something of a portmanteau of the two words. I'm intrigued by it.] Essentially, both "fridged" and "frigid" as an adjective would refer to something so incredibly cool (pun intended) that you can only appreciate the extent of its awesomeness after the fact. (This definition, of course, draws from the usage of "fridge" in the names of the phenomena "fridge logic" and "fridge brilliance", in which you notice the plot holes or plot genius, respectively, of a movie only after it's over and you've headed to the fridge.) "Fridge" as a noun, therefore, might refer to a person who invokes this reaction -- making a "fridge" essentially a badass. But naming people after kitchen appliances doesn't exactly invoke a sense of awesomeness. So maybe "fridge" refers to the phenomenon itself, and the person who invokes this feeling is instead a "fridger". However, in this case the word seems to resemble certain other words too closely. 'Fridgator", a portmanteau of "fridge" and "matador", could be a viable alternative... but I find the word begins to border the ridiculousness of forced slang at this point. *sigh*

Maybe I should start outsourcing to other languages? Surely one culture out there has a non-offensive term of respect for an incredibly skilled and talented someone? An honorific, maybe? Internet slang? ("Leet"? "Beast"? "The bomb"? Ugh...)

Gah. I sincerely hope my stupid ruminating obsession with words will be alleviated/useful when I start studying linguistics next year...

Experience with a 3-Day Fruit Fast

Song of the day: Breathe Me (Sia)

Broke my first 3-day fruit fast today. Well, fruit feast might be more descriptive. I dearly love fruit. [insert lopsided grin]

What's a fruit fast, you ask? No, I'm not cutting fruit out of my diet. It's like a "real" fast, except I still ate (raw) fruit during the fasting period. Why? Well, I've been wanting to fast for a while now, but I was hesitant to try it because fasting can be dangerous if not done properly. Also, I'm kind of skinny and [cough] I was afraid my parents would think I'm having weight perception issues. Heh.

I saw fruit fasting as a perfect compromise.With a fruit fast, I would be eating during the (longer) fasting period, but fiber is still supposedly easier to digest than fat/protein/etc. And fruit isn't addictive like other forms of food. So I'd still be able to detox, which is when the body dumps toxins acquired through food into the bloodstream for removal It does periodically throughout the month on a small scale, but fasting triggers detoxing in large amounts. I'd also be able to break myself of some food addictions and prove that I have some willpower in me yet.

There are some amazing benefits to proper fasting. Most people report improved mental clarity, a feeling of internal and external "cleanness", increased energy, and better sleeping patterns after ending a fast. While I'm pretty healthy (and haven't experienced any insomnia in a long while, thank goodness), I have been feeling fatigued for tha past months. I've had some major improvement since I started paying more attention to nutritional requirements and excercise (and-- let's face it-- optimism), but I still hoped a fast would increase my energy levels.

My fast was harder than I had expected in some ways and easier than others. My parents were supportive and bought me lots of bananas and oranges (but not apples, because lately the ones we've bought have been going bad within just a few days). Unfortunately, I quickly became bored of the limited selection.

I ate five bananas, four oranges, a can of pineapple, a cupful of frozen blueberries, and a few sips of unsweetened green tea on the first day. ("Yuck!" at the last one-- I'm a true southerner in that aspect.) I tried to hit my daily caloric requirement, but fiber just doesn't pack enough calories. :P Most of the day was uneventful, except that I was literally craving "real" food. Oh, and my dad decided to cook some of the best-smelling porkchops. (I could taste it in the air every time I bit into my orange! Extremely unfair.) Around noon, I was craving fish in particular, but by evening my mental feast switched to pasta. Jogged a bit in the afternoon. I started to develop flu-like symptoms around 8pm: fever, headache, dizziness, general fatigue, and a disgusting white coating on my tongue. That made me happy, since it meant that I was in fact detoxing; I'd started to fear that my fast was a dud. I went to bed relatively earlier at 10pm.

The second day was much harder. Although I no longer craved food, I was very hungry (and bored). I ate four bananas, four oranges, and another can of pineapple. The flu symptoms were gone to be replaced with a general feeling of irritability. It never climaxed to anything significant, but I was certainly ticked with some people. I also became frustrated at the perceived lack of results. Stayed up a while with my sister, then went to bed at midnight and fell asleep within seconds.

Yesterday was hard. I didn't eat until 2pm because I was trying to stretch out my dwindling supplies. My family was stressed when I woke up, which in turn made me extremely moody. I even considered quitting my fast a day early, because of the "poor" results, but Dad encouraged me to keep at it. After a trip to the grocery store with my dad and sis that afternoon, I calmed down and reverted more or less to my usual self. Tomatoes and cucumbers (botanically fruits, though often called vegetables because of their use in savory dishes) helped un-sweeten my palate. [I'd forgotten how amazing tomatoes are, even commercial ones. I'm planning to grow some this year.] Altogether, I think I ate two tomatoes, a cucumber, and three bananas.

So! Today was my first day off the fast. The first noteworthy thing is that I now have heightened senses of smell and taste (though maybe that's all in my head?) as well as a rediscovered appreciation for the pure variety of food. My stomach shrank a bit during the fast, but I don't mind too much. I'm not sure if my weight changed-- it probably did-- but since weight loss was far from my goal, I didn't bother to measure. I'm not moody in the least, and I have no idea if my energy or sleeping habits have been affected. Anyway, I'm not sure if any of these effects are lating, or if there are any more that I've missed, but there you go.

Altogether this was an interesting experiment, though I'm not sure if I'm going to repeat it. I don't want to ruin my love of fruit and I especially don't want to upset my weight. Maybe if I'd taken a week or so beforehand to prepare and slowly wean myself off food, it would have been easier. One plus is that I don't have caffeine addiction, so it wasn't hard to miss my daily cup of coffee. For anyone thinking about taking a fruit fast, make sure you do some basic research first. Everybody's different, and some people (like those with diabetes or liver problems) put themselves at addition risk with these fasts. Anywho. Definitely something to look into.

* * * *

Oh yeah. There was something else I wanted to mention. A while ago, I did some research into recommended diets for people like me who have trich (trichotillomania or "hair pulling" is a disorder similar to OCD). At the time, I'd laughed a bit in ridicule/despair at the items on the list (Eggs? Caffeine? Raisins? Peanut butter?!) and realized I would never be willing to cut those foods out from my diet. However, I grudgingly noticed that while on this fruit fast, I didn't have a single urge to pull. I don't think I never realized what a constant presence trich has been in my life until it was no longer there.  Even when I was moody on the second and third days, I had no urges. It was weird. Liberating.The only time I did experience some slight urges was at the end of the third day... after I had eaten tomato seeds, a "trigger" food. [face palm]

Now I realize that I really am going to have to cut out these food eventually, or else surrender myself to trich... And I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

Nothing Sucks More

Just saw a friend's Facebook status that read: "Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong."

This made me roll with laughter, especially since this friend of mine is very intellectual (read: nerdy. But in a good way). He's the kind of person who has an internal need to be Absolutely Right. I can very easily picture the humiliation and complete irritation he would experience in such a situation: a teeth-clenching, fingers-digging-into-the-table, suppressing-the-urge-to-call-the-opponent-a-Nazi-and-be-done-with-it sort of feeling. 

And I can totally empathize with him. I love debates (though mine might technically be called "discussions" as the setting is much more relaxed). However, unless I have adequate time to rationally internalize the argument, my points tend to come off as more of a scattered rant than a structured argument. I'm just a tad too emotional. In other words, I generally tend to lose to the cool-headed intellectual types. And it really. Freaking. Sucks. 

[Digressing rant: After all, people rarely debate to actually exchange ideas. That's just a cover. More often than not, debating seems to simply be an ego parade. The prize is, of course, bragging rights-- the title of intellectual superiority. See also: Chess. And Mensa, for that matter.]

Obviously, it's not pleasant to come out on the losing end of a debate with the label "intellectually inferior" slapped across your forehead. Especially when, halfway through, you realize that your argument is not only fundamentally flawed but /just plain wrong/, and that from now on, you can only attempt to bail bucketfuls of water out of a ship that is halfway to Davy Jones' locker. All the while knowing that /you're the one who gouged the hole in the boat in the first place/! Talk about embarrassing...

In many ways, I agree with my friend's statement. Yet upon second reading, the fact that he described it as the worst feeling in the world disturbed me. Yeah, okay, I understand it's just a status, and that people exaggerate all the time (I'm often guilty of this; just take a look at the last couple of paragraphs)... but I get the feeling that this kid really meant it. And that saddens me. Sure, it wounds the ego to be proven wrong... but, honestly, I think we could all stand to deflate our egos a bit. Sometimes-- and I hesitate to say this, as it smells vaguely of rainbow optimism-- I think we learn more from being proven wrong than right. That sort of situation develops character and, hopefully, humility. It reminds us that others' opinions can be valid too. Sure, it'd be great to be right all the time, but we're human. It's impossible to have all the answers. 

That beautiful passage at the end of the book of Job comes to mind. Luckily, we don't /have/ to have all the answers. We just have to have faith in the One who does. 

In loose association, I've been in bed with the flu for the past couple of days. During the moments when my brain did /not/ feel like syrup, I read random online articles on my iPod to pass the time. Morbid, nightmare-inducing ones about strange illnesses and brutal crimes. It wasn't until several hours later that I realized what a horrible mistake this was. Last night I had a recurring dream /four times/ in which everyone I knew came down with a horribly fatal illness. By stroke of luck, my dream-self managed to discover a cure right before the End, and promptly gave it to my fellow diseased. They all died anyway-- except, by cruel fate of dreaming design, myself. I was left alone, eyes twitching, wondering whether my "cure" would have restored them if they had only received it sooner, or if it had in fact actually killed them. (In some versions of the dream, I had tested the cure on myself several hours before I could administer it on others, and this time gap was supposedly the reason I lived while the others died. In other versions, I only theorized that the cure would work, and due to limited supplies, sacrificially administered my own dose to someone else-- and thus by cruel twist of irony became guilty of accidental murder. Note the similarities to the previously posted dream.)

This is still related, honest! (Now you see why I'm not a particularly good debator.) Anyway, the point of that story, other than to get those nasty dreams off my chest, is to introduce the feeling of the inevitability of death that's been coloring my thoughts all day. 

[Another digression: You know the side effects listed in drug commercials that always seem worse than whatever the drug is actually supposed to cure? It always cracks me up a little when one of the side effects is 'increased risk of death': "Awww, crap. Now I have a 110% chance of death!]

Fever tends to make everything seem more melodramatic than it really is. In any case, this paranoia will probably wear off once I'm no longer sick, but it /is/ incredibly odd to think that one day, I'll cease to exist in an earthly sense. If my life was a book, it would be going and going-- a tedious novel full of insignificant and misleading subplots that never really develop into anything-- and then, suddenly, it would stop. In mid-sentence. Just like that. And no one would know the real ending until their own story was over and they were no longer subject to the bonds of chronological narration or earthly existence themselves. And to think that my story might be meaningless upon re-reading. It's mind-warping. Sure, the real ending would ultimately redeem it... yet, call me selfish if you want, but I'd like to give back a little first. Or, rather, pass on some of what's already been given to me (somewhat like a dam letting water pass through it). I don't want to just /go/; I want to do something Important first. I want to die with purpose.

And so (returning to the original topic), in light of this frame of mind, it seemed to me abundantly clear how the status would have read in an alternate universe:

"Nothing sucks more than that moment  before death when you realize that your entire life was pointless."

This Is Halloween

Hehehe. Slap-happy right now.

Earlier today, I all of a sudden got Tim Burton's "This is Halloween" from The Nightmare Before Christmas stuck in my head. Cannot wait until December to record the movie on my DVR! *huggles dearest Jack Skellington*

Anywho, I thought I'd go ahead and post the brilliantly creepy lyrics (which are epic to sing, by the way). Hurray for October morbidity! I think I'm going to create a monster playlist now... Maybe I'll post it later. :P

Boys and girls of every age
Wouldn't you like to see something strange?
Come with us and you will see
This, our town of Halloween...

This is Halloween, this is Halloween
Pumpkins scream in the dead of night
This is Halloween, everybody make a scene
Trick-or-treat 'til the neighbors gonna die of fright

It's our town, everybody scream!
In this town of Halloween

I am the one hiding under your bed,
Teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing red

I am the one hiding under your stairs
Fingers like snakes and spiders in my hair

This is Halloween, this is Halloween
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween

In this town we call home,
Everyone hail to the pumpkin song

In this town, don't we love it?
Now, everyone's waiting for the next surprise

'Round that corner and hiding in the trash can,
Something's waiting now to pounce, and how you'll
Scream! This is Halloween,
Red 'n' black, slimy green
Aren't your scared?
(Well, that's just fine)

Say it once, say it twice
Take a chance and roll the dice
Ride with the moon in the dead of night

Everybody scream, everybody scream!
In our town of Halloween...

I am the clown with a tear-away face
Here in a flash and gone without a trace

I am the "who" when you call, "Who's there?"
I am the wind blowing through your hair

I am the shadow of the moon at night
Filling your dreams to brim with fright

This is Halloween, this is Halloween!
Halloween! Halloween! Halloween! Halloween!
(Halloween, Halloween..)

Tender lumplings everywhere,
Life's no fun without a good scare
That's our job, but we're not mean
In our town of Halloween

In this town, don't we love it now?
Everyone's waiting for the next surprise
Skeleton Jack might catch you in the back, and
Scream! like a banshee
Make you jump out of your skin

This is Halloween, everybody scream!
Won't you please make way for a very special guy?
Our man Jack is king of the pumpkin patch
Everyone hail to the Pumkin King now!

This is Halloween, this is Halloween!
Halloween! Halloween! Halloween! Halloween!

In this town we call home,
Everyone hail to the pumpkin song

La, la, la, la-la (....)

Nightmare

Had a series of nightmares yesterday morning. Pretty shaken up. I found the last one to be particularly upsetting, so I attempted to write it down in order to come to terms with it. Honestly, I'm not sure if it helped. In any case, here's my scribbled account of the dream. Maybe I'll come back in a few days and post an interpretation of it.

* * * *

            I find myself in a new dream, although later I am unable to recall exactly where one dream ended and the next began. I am seated in a basketball stadium. It is well-lit, and not as large as, say, Rupp Arena, but large enough in my own mind. I am not really paying attention to the game, but I do enjoy soaking up the exciting aura of the crowd. I become aware that some of the fans sprechen Deutsch. What’s more, I find that I can understand snatches of their conversations, and I spend the next few minutes translating their small talk with fascination.

            The basketball stadium is in Germany, I realize, though a tourist-friendly section; many are also speaking English. I am thoroughly enjoying myself, when I see several uniformed Germans enter the stadium. A sense of clarity comes over me. I immediately gather up the five or six children in my care (I was not previously aware of their existence; now they are all I can think about). I lean in and whisper in their ears.

            Children, I say in English. We must hurry away from here. They nod. Their anxious little eyes dart toward the soldiers.

We quickly exit the building. I fear that the Nazis (another flash of insight deems them to be so-- terribly stereotypical, I know) will be upon us in a moment. I have absolutely no lucidity at this point. I am not even aware that I am dreaming, which is a major departure from my usual dreaming patterns. As such, I am at the complete mercy of my dreaming self.

I tell the children that we must leave the country. My stomach sickens as I realize how far it is to the border, but I try not to let my hopelessness show. One of the children, a little boy of about five that strikingly resembles a younger Tyler [my brother], protests that he will never be able to travel that far. Another child (this one a girl of about ten) snaps back that she’s not going to be the one to carry him. It would only deplete her strength, and then they’d both be dead. Two of the other young children join the Tyler-child’s pleading. The older children complain, unsympathetically, that the younger ones will only slow the group down.

Despite initial misgivings, I realize that they are right. Bringing the younger children will only bring a death sentence upon the entire group; yet I can’t abandon the younger children to their fate, either. I tell the older children to shut up the hell up. Fear has made my temper short. I tell the younger children that they will have to keep up. I tell them that there will be no one to carry them when exhaustion overtakes their frail little bodies. I promise that no one will be left behind, and secretly wonder if this is the right thing to do.

Time is running short. We have tarried too long. I grab the hand of one of the younger children (a little girl of about four) and hurry from the place. We are not traveling nearly fast enough. There is nothing I can do about this.

We have not gone far when we hear signs of a chase. My heart sinks; we will not escape on foot. I glance about, desperately, and spot some police vehicles that vaguely resemble motorcycles (though there’s something alien about them, too). I tell the children to grab some, though I know very well that they’re probably bugged. We set off again, two to a vehicle, in a matter of seconds, disguised as policemen. The children seem relieved at this turn of events, but I am more anxious than ever.

A chase scene ensues, the details of which are fuzzy. At some point, I become split up from the other members of my party. The majority of the Nazis follow them out of the city, while a few stragglers are left patrolling the city. I silently wish my companions the best of luck, and hope that they will be able to lose the soldiers in the countryside. Intuition tells me that no such happy ending will occur.

I realize, with dread, that my own partner-child is no longer with me. Instinctively, I pull into a side street. I look up and see the little girl (who does not have a red coat, I might add) standing on the edge of what seems to be a parking garage of sorts, though it is warped beyond recognition (and continues to change form while I watch). Even now, I lack any sort of lucidity.

A sense of déjà vu knifes me in the stomach. I have had this dream before—or else dreamt of having this dream. And I know the ending.

I scream, uselessly, Get away from there! Yet it is far, far too late. She teeters dangerously on the edge before losing her balance completely. Down, down, down she tumbles.

For a moment, the difference between life and death, success and failure, happiness and misery, is all up to me. I can change her fate. The impact from a three-story fall is enough to kill her, regardless of whether she hits pavement or lands in my arms. Yet, maybe, if I reach her in time, I can try to absorb some of the impact. Maybe if I can prevent her head from slamming into the concrete at sixty miles per hour, she’ll escape with only a few broken bones. After all, maybe she doesn’t have to die.

With these thoughts racing through my mind, I dive forward. With more energy than I’ve ever felt before, I soar through the air, arms outstretched, with my precious target in sight…

…and fall short. I stare, wide-eyed in horror. I am forced to watch as she lands only seconds later, barely beyond my reach. There is a sickening crunch as her skull cracks on impact. Flecks of blood spatter my face. I am dumbstruck.

Slowly, I begin to gather myself together. I drag myself toward her motionless body. Tears stream down my face. I scoop the crumpled form up, cradle her. Her head hangs oddly in my arms. I move one arm to better support it. It is smeared with blood that oozes from her skull. I am shaking with grief. I can hear police sirens, but they seem very far away now.

I look up. Through bleary eyes, I notice a woman sitting a few feet away. She is familiar, yet I do not fully recognize her. I sense she is only visible to me.

Why? I choke. Why can I never save them? I try so hard! Why do they always die?

She shakes her head sympathetically. She reminds me of the fairy that appears on the game over screen in video games.

This is the way things must be, she tells me. You were never meant to save them.

I sob harder. I want to tell her that she’s wrong, that things will be different if I try again, but I am vaguely aware that I have had this dream many times before. Sometimes, my choices are able to postpone the inevitable—sometimes I leave the stadium earlier, sometimes I hide instead of immediately running, sometimes I follow the girl into the parking garage—but I am never able to prevent her death.

I’m rocking back and forth, crushing her body against mine. I cannot stop shaking. As the dream begins to dissolve, lucidity dawns on me, but it is the bad kind. I feel that I am to blame for her death, that it was my dream presence that caused her to die. Worse, even upon waking, I cannot shake the feeling that the little girl was in some way real. I feel like a murderer. I’m unable bring myself to crawl out of bed for another two hours.

Morbidity of Physics

A deranged person (we'll call him Fred, 'kay?) steps off a 10-story building that's roughly 100 feet (about 30.48 meters) tall. The rate of acceleration due to gravity is 9.81 meters per square second. How long is the free-fall, and what is the final velocity right before impact?

Distance = 30.48 meters
Acceleration = 9.81 meters per square second
Time = ?
Final Velocity = ?

Alright. Time can be determined by finding the square root of twice the distance divided by acceleration. In other words:

Time = squareroot(2*distance/acceleration)

If we plug our known variables into the equation, we find that the length of the free fall is about 2.49 seconds. 

Two and a half seconds.

To get a proper feel for how eerily short that amount of time is, count the seconds out loud.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one- SPLAT.

Two and a half seconds before Fred's organs rupture instantly on impact. How utterly disturbing.

But wait, we haven't determined the final velocity yet! Maybe our buddy survived the fall after all...

Final velocity is determined by multiplying the rate of acceleration by time.

Final velocity = acceleration*time

If we plug our current variables into this equation, we discover that Freddy hit concrete at about 24.4 meters per second. Hmm. That doesn't sound too bad. Maybe we'll pick him up a gift on our way over to the hospital...

Oh, wait, I forgot. We Americans are little rebels, aren't we? Those numbers don't mean a thing in real life, because we don't use the metric system. How silly of me. Let me just convert that answer real quick...

Final velocity = 87.9 mph

Ohh... Well then. Come to think of it, this is a wonderful time of year to wear black...

Invisible Monsters Excerpt

Firstly, I'd like to say that I'm not in any way recommending this book. (Note: That was a subtle disclaimer right there. In fact, to spell it out more clearly, I'd strongly suggest not reading it unless you enjoy being  thoroughly disturbed. The story's a prime example of the genre "transgressional fiction", whose whole point is mainly to shock the reader. And believe me, it succeeds.)

Anyway, I've decided to post some excerpts from the first chapter of Chuck Palahnuik's "Invisible Monsters". Why? No idea, really. Partly, I'm just enthralled by what an epic hook the first chapter is. Normally I'm not a big fan by starting the narration at the climax of the story, but I thought really it worked in this book.

But more than that... I'm fascinated by the raw themes in this scene that also underlie the entire book. Again, I'm not reccomending the book in any way, but it did get me thinking. My initial reaction to the first chapter was, 'Why can't the narrator just say those three simple words? Brandy is dying; there aren't even any possible attached strings the phrase could cause. Please, just say, "I love you", and then Brandy will die in peace, and you can move on with your life. Don't let her die alone.'

As the narrator states towards the end of the story (and her resulting self-discovery): "I'm an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse."

As I read the book, it was numbing to think that anybody could be so cold and utterly selfish... (Terribly naive of me, I know.) Yet, at heart, I think we're all self-centered and depraved like that. Having said that... Transgressional fiction is probably extremely unrealistic in a pessimistic sort of way-- just as much as stories of unicorns are unrealistic in a touchy-feely sort of way. But hey, there's probably a grain of truth in every caricature.

Anyway. Enjoy.

Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who's dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.

Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where. Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking.

[...]

The only other character here is Brandy Alexander, who's laid out, shotgunned, at the bottom of the staircase, bleeding to death.

[...]

Then Evie starts to sob, standing there halfway up the staircase. Evie, that deadly virus of the moment. This is our cue to all look at poor Evie, poor, sad Evie, hairless and wearing nothing but ashes and circled by the wire cage of her burned-up hoop skirt. Then Evie drops the rifle. With her dirty face in her dirty hands, Evie sits down and starts to boo-hoo, as if crying will solve anything. The rifle, this is a loaded thirty-aught rifle, it clatters down the stairs and skids out into the middle of the foyer floor, spinning on its side, pointing at me, pointing at Brandy, pointing at Evie, crying.

[...]

It only looks like I'm crying when I put a handkerchief up under my veil to breathe through. To filter the air since you can about not breathe for all the smoke, since Evie's big manor house is burning down around us.

Me, kneeling down beside Brandy, I could put my hands anywhere in my gown and find Darvons and Demerols and Darvocet 100s. This is everybody's cue to look at me.

 [...]

Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.

[...]

Brandy, she opens one of her huge, ring-beaded hands and she touches the hole pouring her blood all over the marble floor. 

Brandy, she says, "Shit. There's no way the Bon Marche will take this suit back."

Evie lifts her face, her face a finger-painting mess of soot and snot and tears from her hands and screams, "I hate my life being so boring!"

Evie screams down at Brandy Alexander, "Save me a window table in hell!"

Tears rinse clean lines down Evie's cheeks, and she screams, "Girlfriend! You need to be yelling some back at me!"

As if this isn't already drama, drama, drama, Brandy looks up at me kneeling beside her. Brandy's aubergine eyes dilated out to full flower, she says, "Brandy Alexander is going to die now?"

Evie, Brandy and me, all this is just a power struggle for the spotlight. Just each of us being me, me, me first. The murderer, the victim, the witness, each of us thinks our role is the lead. 

Probably that goes for anybody in the world.

[...]

Anymore, when I see the picture of a twenty-something in the newspaper who was abducted and sodomized and robbed and then killed and here's a front-page picture of her young and smiling, instead of me dwelling on this being a big, sad crime, my gut reaction is, wow, she'd be really hot if she didn't have such a big honker of a nose. My second reaction is I'd better have some good head and shoulders shots handy in case I get, you know, abducted and sodomized to death. My third reaction is, well, at least that cuts down on the competition.

 [...]

My point is I know Brandy is maybe probably going to die, but I just can't get into it.

[...]

The rifle is still spinning on the floor, but slower and slower. 

[...]

This is your last chance, honey," Brandy says, and her blood is getting all over the place. She says, "Do you love me?"

It's when folks ask questions like this that you lose the spotlight.

This is how folks trap you into a best-supporting role.

Even bigger than the house being on fire is this huge expectation that I have to say the three most worn-out words you'll find in any script. Just the words make me feel I'm severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.

"Tell me, " Brandy says. "Do you? Do you really love me?"

This is the big hammy way Brandy has played her whole life.


[...]

"Even if you can't love me, then tell me my life," Brandy says. "A girl can't die without her life flashing before her eyes."

[...]

So of course this'll be all about Brandy, hosted by me, with guest appearances by Evelyn Cottrell and the deadly AIDS virus. Brandy, Brandy, Brandy. Poor sad Brandy on her back, Brandy touches the hole pouring her life out onto the marble floor and says, "Please. Tell me my life. Tell me how we got here. "

So me, I'm here eating smoke just to document this Brandy Alexander moment.

Give me attention.

Flash. 

Give me adoration.

Flash.

Give me a break.

Hansel & Gretal (According to Me)

This is a random muse that popped into my head today while doing homework, so I apologize if it seems a bit scatter-brained. I just had to jot it down.

Alright. So, first of all, I want to say that I love Grimm fairy tales. Disney waters most of their stories down far too much, while I prefer many of the original tragic endings to the reworked happy endings. To me, Grimm has a way of making magic feel very real... and altogether dangerous. However, even Grimms' stories are sometimes too simple for my taste.

The story of Hansel and Gretal is a good example. Ignoring the fact that the children/parents were gullible enough to try each of their corresponding find-our-way-home/lose-the-kids operations twice, the basic plot is okay-- but it could most definitely be improved upon. Personally, I think adding a demonic contract into the mix would spice things up nicely.

For example: "Anyone who eats of this house is cursed to remain inside the preset magical boundaries of the property. If the accursed ever steps outside the boundary of protection, he (or she) shall have his entrails brutally ripped out and devoured." Fun stuff, right?

Now then. The witch, while being the one who summoned the demons in the first place, ought to also be subject to the contract. Meaning that part of the contract's terms is that in exchange for their "loyalty" and protection, she's not allowed to leave either-- which is why she has to lure children to her in the first place. As soon as they so much as lick the charmed peppermint, they are trapped by the terms of the magical contract. If they try to leave, the demons will get them, and if they stay, the witch will hunt them down and eat their still-beating hearts to keep herself young.

Also, as an extra safe-guard, I think her house ought to contain slow-working poison that will kill the trespassor all by itself in about, oh, three days' time. That adds an additional sense of urgency to the classic fairytale.

Oh, and part of the demons' job should be to prevent adults from entering the witch's property, because 1) Their hearts aren't at all useful to the witch and 2) They're more likely to figure out how to break the contract, which would result in the demons' taking revenge on their master before returning to the etherworld.

Hmm. Yes. I like this version of the story much better. In the meantime, though, I suppose I'll have to make do with re-reading Jonathan Stroud's "Heroes of the Valley" (which I still consider to be a tale of 'boy who cried wolf' gone bad.)

For that matter, I could just watch Blair Witch Project again... Dear little stick people. I bet each one represents a different human she killed...

Acknowledging Flaws

"The first step to solving any problem is to accurately define the problem."

My dad told me those words of wisdom several years ago when explaining the correct way to troubleshoot a computer bug. I think I was eight at the time.

"You wouldn't believe how many people call our office, only to say 'well, my computer isn't working'. That's not helpful. There are countless ways a computer can 'stop working', and often it's actually an error on the user's behalf. Half of the time, the client simply forgot to click the OK button. Unless the client tells us exactly what the problem is: "clicked/typed such and such, expected certain response, but computer responded in such and such a manner that was undesirable", it is nearly impossible for us to tell them how to fix their 'bug'."

Those words have stuck with me through the years, and since then, technical difficulties have been considerably less frustrating. However, I don't think this wisdom applies only to the realm of computers.

In order to solve any problem in life, it's important that you first define exactly what the problem is, and (if possible) how the problem arose.

This is why in therapy groups, each of the members introduce themselves along with their problem. "Hi, my name is [insert here], and I've been an alcoholic/drug abuser/mentally ill/etc. for the past [insert time frame here]."

The simple act of acknowledging a problem is an essential part of the recovery process. However, as with many things in life, that's easier said than done. For some people (ahem: me), self-imposed ignorance is a critical coping mechanism. Whether this is out of an unhealthy desire for perfection, or fear that there is no solution, or simply sheer pride, I'm not sure.

The fact of the matter is that this kind of thinking is terribly skewed. For one thing, the idea of perfection in humans (at least, while on earth) is laughable. We all fall miserably short. However, there is hope for some improvement... if we know what we're dealing with. Acknowledging our flaws enables us to adress them, counterbalance them-- or at the very least, strips them of some of their power by naming a nameless beast. Even if there isn't anything that can be done about it (and there almost always is), having an identified problem is often much less overwhelming than dealing with generalized failure. Too often we equate 'sometimes failing' to 'being failures'.

As for pride... Well, that's a whole topic in itself.

In short: It's not necessarily wrong to have problems, but it's what we do with them that counts.

Death Note Philosophy

So. I've always been a huge fan of anime (i.e Japanese animation), but I've never gotten around to watching a show from beginning to end-- until recently, that is. Over the course of the past few months, my lousy Internet has allowed me to sneak Death Note episodes in here and there. I must say (though this might partly be due to the sheer amount of time I devoted to watching, not to mention forever loading and re-loading, the episodes):

I'm rather impressed with it.

Don't let the animation fool you into thinking this is a kids' show. In Japan, cartoons are for adults as well. Many anime shows contain dark themes, and Death Note is certainly not an exception.

Although the show is 37 episodes long and does an excellent job of keeping the viewer's attention with multiple plot twists (not to mention the intensity of the underlying battle of Good vs. Evil), the premise is fairly simple. One day, in the midst of disgust at the sheer brokenness of the world, a student named Light Yagami stumbles upon a blank notebook. On the inside cover, a few odd but straightforward rules are found. There is a single underlying rule that all the others serve to detail:

The person whose name is written in this book shall die.

At first Light dismisses the book as an immature prank, yet he is unable to completely forget about it. Insatiable knowledge of the book skirts the edges of his consciousness, until his curiosity eventually wins the better of him. He writes in the death note, using the name of a local criminal. Sure enough, the man dies of a heart attack as predicted.

Light immediately decides that it was a mere coincidence. Yet his curiosity is stronger now, and a few days later he finds himself experimenting with it again on another local criminal. The second man also dies. This time, the death is caused by a freak automobile accident-- exactly as specified in the note.

Horrified, Light is now convinced that the note is real. Which means he has just killed two men, murdered them in cold blood just as surely as if he had held a gun to their faces. And yet, as soon as these thoughts enter his mind, more come to replace them. After all, he reasons, isn't this what he's always wanted? The ability to cleanse the world of all that is evil and ugly, to make wrongdoers suffer for their crimes, and to protect the innocence of the helpless? The death note is a blessing in his hands, not a curse. Thus begins his spiralling descent into the grip of absolute power.

Am I a little obsessed with the show's concept? Most definitely.

Regardless, the questions the protagonist wrestles with throughout the entire series are deep ones: Do some people deserve to die; and if so, who gets to make that judgement call?

Yes, I'm sure you're remembering certain lessons from Sunday School when you were a kid. Good. Now I want you to really think about it. If you were given the ability to punish criminals for their wrongdoings, would you? More importantly, if you alone decided what was worthy of death-- if moral wickedness and innocence was defined solely by you-- would your judgements be righteous? Or would you be no better than those very criminals deemed 'unfit for life'?

In the case of Light Yagami, the god-like power of the death note slowly corrodes each of his ideals one by one, until it ultimately destroys him.

"Anything obtained by killing people can never bring true happiness." -Mr. Yagami (Light's dad)

"This isn't divine judgement. It's the work of some childish killer who's playing at divine retribution. That's all." -Ryuuzaki (L)

"No matter how gifted you are, you alone can't change the world." -Ryuuzaki (L)

"Humans are so... interesting!" -Ryuk

((If anyone wants to see a condensed version of Light's transformation from idealistic schoolboy to complete psychopath, this is an excellent amv. Flobot's "Handlebars" is most definitely a fitting song choice...))

Imperfections

Another song. Yeah, I know, it's starting to get old. I'm planning to post several non-lyrical topics within the next couple of weeks, don't worry. In the meantime...

This one is from the quirky British artist, Tom Milsom. If you can overcome the forced rhymes, peculiar choice of instruments, and somewhat childish themes, his songs are really quite endearing and I whole-heartedly thank the friends who introduced me to his music.

"Imperfections" is one of Milsom's more serious songs. For some unknown reason, it's been stuck in my head all afternoon. (I blame the rain. Melancholy is difficult to avoid in such weather, I've found.) The simple piano chords in the background set the mood nicely. Sure, the song's far from perfect... but that's what I love most about it. <3

Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only I can see.
The world moves on, but you stand still.
You say there's always time to kill
When there's a thousand pretty things to see.

Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only you could be.
I love you more than words could say,
But you keep pushing me away
For someone who loves you less than me.

His imperfections make him beautiful (to you).
Each sorrow puts him deeper in your heart. 
And every time he almost dies,
I die a little more inside
As you and I drift slowly more apart.

Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only I can see.
And it turns out that my biggest imperfection
Was dreaming all the time of you and me...

The Pessimism of Ryan Ross

In his song, "Build God, Then We'll Talk", songwriter Ryan Ross truly outdid himself with satirical brilliance. Shortly before the album was written, he had discovered that his girlfriend was cheating on him, and as such, much of the album's content is a sort of emotional retaliation. Out of all the songs, however, "Build God" is by far the most elegant.

The song itself is quite tragic. The only character with any sort of decency is the narrator, who bitterly laments the darkness of humanity- yet is unable to change anything. The rest of the cast includes an ex-Catholic woman, an unscrupulous lawyer, the wife who feigns ignorance, the constable who discovers the affair, and the resulting child who is given no choice in the matter of existence.

It's these substandard motels on the corner of 4th and Freemont Street
Appealing, only 'cause they're just that un-appealing
Any practiced Catholic would cross themselves upon entering
The rooms have a hint of asbestos and maybe just a dash of formaldehyde
And the habit of decomposing right before your very eyes
Along with the people inside

What a wonderful caracature of intimacy
Inside, what a wonderful caracature of intimacy

Tonight's tenants range from: a lawyer and a virgin
Accessorizing with a rosary tucked inside her lingerie
She's getting a job at the firm come Monday
The Mrs. will stay with the cheating attorney
Moonlighting aside, she really needs his money
Oh, wonderful caricature of intimacy

And not to mention the constable, and his proposition for that "virgin"
Yes, the one the lawyer met with on "strictly business"
As he said to the Mrs: Well only hours before,
After he had left, as she was fixing her face in a compact
There was a terrible crash (there was a terrible crash)
Between her and the badge, she spilled her purse and her bag
And held the "purse" of a different kind-
The one with the people inside

What a wonderful caricature of intimacy
Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy

There are no...
Raindrops on roses and girls in white dresses
It's sleeping with roaches and taking best guesses
The shade of the sheets and before all the stains
And a few more of your least favorite things

As it's fairly obvious what the song is about, I won't bother going into much detail with interpretation. Because of certain lines in the lyrics, it's likely the young woman needed money to support her drug addiction (most notable in this line: "between her and the badge, she spilled her purse and her bag"), but the point is debatable. The best part of the song is, of course, the climax, which beautifully sums up the fall of innocence- by (mis)quoting The Sound of Music, no less.

Yet underlying the story is a tragic theme of defeatism: "It doesn't matter what you do in the end, because you're screwed either way." This is all very well in the name of Art, but is end-all pessimism a thing we should encourage? Are we sure that Art is enough removed from Reality (and vice versa) that it will not taint our opinions of the world?

As a chronic pessimist, I feel partially at blame by encouraging (even admiring!) this type of artistic negativity. However, some hope may be taken in quotes such as this:

"Art does not give real things or imitations of real things. The thing that art gives is strained first through the artist's selections and judgments, and then through the specific techniques with he used to present them. If you are to enjoy an art, you must first accept its terms." -Thomas Hart Benton

Hush, Moon

Came across this song ("You Are the Moon") by The Hush Sound a few days ago. Beautiful imagery...

Shadows all around you
As you surface from the dark
Emerging from the gentle grip
Of night's unfolding arms
Darkness, darkness everywhere,
Do you feel alone?
The subtle grace of gravity,
The heavy weight of stone
You don't see what you possess,
A beauty calm and clear
It floods the sky and blurs the darkness
Like a chandelier
All the light that you possess
Is skewed by lakes and seas
The shattered surface, so imperfect,
Is all that you believe

I will bring a mirror,
So silver, so exact,
So precise and so pristine,
A perfect pane of glass
I will set the mirror up
To face the blackened sky
You will see your beauty every
Moment that you rise

Realising Reality

While skimming through some recent mod picks, I came across this short story. Its interesting plot and use of unreliable narration makes it one of the better shorts I've read in a while. The bit about the psychologist's report reminds me of the movie "Shutter Island". Lunatic or genious? There seems to be quite a fine line between the two...

Quiet Things

A couple days ago, I downloaded Brand New's "The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows" after hearing it in a mashup song with Dashboard Confessional. Already, it's become one of my all-time favorites... and I have a feeling that some of the band's other songs are soon to follow. Here are the lyrics:

We saw the western coast
I saw the hospital
Nursed the shoreline like a wound
Reports of lover's tryst
Were neither clear nor descript
We kept it safe and slow
The quiet things that no one ever knows

So keep the blood in your head
And keep your feet on the ground
Today's the day it gets tired
Today's the day we drop out
Gave up my body and bed
All for an empty hotel
Wasting words on lower cases and capitals

I contemplate the day we wed
Your friends are boring me to death
Your veil is ruined in the rain
By then it's you I can do without
There's nothing new to talk about
And though our kids are blessed
Their parents let them shoulder all the blame

So keep the blood in your head
And keep your feet on the ground
Today's the day it gets tired
Today's the day we drop out
Gave up my body and bed
All for an empty hotel
Wasting words on lower cases and capitals

I lie for only you
And I lie well...
Hallelu...

I've heard a lot of different interpretations for this particular song, and each of them are powerful and moving in its own way. Brand New really displays songwriting brilliance in this song. To me, it means something along these lines:

"We saw the western coast. I saw the hospital; nursed the shoreline like a wound." The first line is a metaphor about the end of a couple's relationship. He's known for a while that their marriage was hanging by a thread, but he kept trying to 'nurse it back to health'. Now, he realizes that it's over for good, and he starts to reminisce over the time they spent together.

In the beginning of their relationship, the young couple made some bad desicions and she conceived before they were married. "Reports of lover's tryst were neither clear nor descript" refers to the rumors that had begun to circulate about it, while the next line, "we kept it safe and slow" is their adamant refusal to confirm these rumors to anyone. "The quiet things that no one ever knows" contradicts the previous (false) statement, and is the underlying theme in the song. The narrator is sadly remembering his early mistakes, and the suffering he had to face by keeping them a secret.

"I contemplate the day we wed." Self-explanatory: he now recalls their wedding day. "Your friends are boring me to death." By this time, he had already begun to fall out of love with her, but he had to go through with the rushed wedding anyway, in order to cover up their mistakes. "Your veil is ruined by the rain" is an omen of the trouble that was to come.

The miserable years of their marriage scrape along slowly. "By then, it's you I can do without. There is nothing new to talk about." It is clear that there is no longer any love in their relationship. "Though our kids are blessed" (with the gift of life), "their parents let them shoulder all the blame." The parents blame the kids for their forced marriage and the resulting unhappiness.

The chorus seems to be a note he's left for his wife, telling her that he's finally leaving. "So keep the blood in your head, and keep your feet on the ground" is him telling her to stay calm and not flip out over the announcement. (It could also mean that he's asking her to avoid committing suicide, in which case they were going through a rockier time than the song lets on.) "Today's the day it gets tired; today's the day we drop out." He's just become emotionally drained, and is finally calling it quits. "Gave up my body and bed all for an empty hotel." Instead of filing an official divorce claim, he's decided to just leave. He's giving up his body (wife) and bed (home), and is going to wait things out at some lonely hotel room while he figures out the rest of his life. "Wasting words on lower cases and capitals" is his guilt at writing all of this stuff down in a note, instead of telling his wife how he feels. It was this evasive nature that caused them trouble in the begining, and yet even now he can't bring himself to break the lifelong habit.

"I lie for only you. And I lie well. Hallelu." Most of all, he wants her to know that the reason he put up with it for so long was for her sake. He managed to convince everyone else that their facade of a happy marriage was true-- and now he regrets those lies. The sarcastic "hallelu" is his bitter conclusion to the story.

This song evokes so much emotion, and is so beautifully written. Brand New performs emo music at its best: no suicidal screaming, no manical bashing of mics into walls, just a few guys singing about the struggles of life. In the end, that's what the genre is really about.

I Heart Algebra

Ahh. It's my first day back in dear, sweet Algebra, and I've already realized why I missed it so much. Unlike geometry, it's practical. Sure, I can see where geometry would be useful to a surveyor, architect, pool player, or some other such geometrically-inclined professional, but Algebra is actually applicable to me, now.

For instance, take this supposedly illogical math problem:

x = x + 1

Wait just a second! you say. At first glance, this problem looks impossible. It doesn't take a math whiz to realize that any number plus one will no longer equal itself. Oh, but wait. Herein lies the beauty of math.

To demonstrate the problem in its application, let's pretend we are going to create a simple text-based computer game using visual basic. To beat the game, you have to answer three questions correctly in a row. "X" is defined as the number of correctly answered questions. At the beginning of the game, the player has zero correct answers.

x = 0

The player launches the game, and he or she is presented with one of various pre-defined randomly selected questions. In this example, the first question is "What is the capital of Djibouti?" The correct answer is Djibouti. The code for this particular question would look something like this:

answer = inputbox("What is the capital of Djibouti?")
       if answer = "Djibouti" then
       AddScore()
             else
       Reset()

If the answer is anything other than "Djibouti" (aka if the answer is wrong), the player is sent to the function Reset(). In this case, Reset() consists of little more than x = 0. This (gasp!) resets the player's score to 0, no matter what. Reset() then sends the player back to the questionaire function.

If the answer is correct, the player is sent to AddScore(), which contains that tricky little math problem we discussed at the beginning of this post.

x = x + 1

This is read as "the value of x is equal to the previous value of x plus one". Remember, x was set to 0 at the launch of the game. The script will therefore interpret the problem as follows:

x = 0 + 1 (or) x = 1

In our game, AddScore() also checks if three questions have been correctly answered in a row.

if x = 3 then
       WinGame()
             else
       Questionaire()

If the number of correctly answered questions is equal to three, a congratulating message will appear. If not, the game loops back to the question function. In our case, the value of x is only equal to one, so we must ask the player more questions.

Pretend the player answers the next question correctly. The code in function AddScore() still reads x = x + 1, but now the program interprets it as:

x = 1 + 1 (or) x = 2

Because x does not equal three, the function loops back to Questionaire() and asks another question. If the player answers the next question incorrectly, x resets to 0 and he or she must start from scratch. In this case, we'll pretend that the player has answered their third question correctly. x = x + 1 is now interpreted as:

x = 2 + 1 (or) x = 3

X is now equal to three, so the player wins! This is a rough example of how an algebraic problem can be applied in a computer program, but you get the general idea.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. I'm a total, complete dork. I won't deny that. And I won't stop loving Algebra. <3

Hello, World

Basically, this post is supposed to introduce my blog and such. I could do that, but there are so many interesting, random things I could be posting instead. So I've decided to keep this short.

This is my random life, my random interests, my not-so-random beliefs. Welcome to Teenage Randomity.