"Upon further review, yesterday was perfect."
That is correct, sir.
I woke up, well rested, at noon thirty Saturday afternoon. Shower, shave, banana. Brian drove again today. I was looking forward to driving a little --- I like driving distances at night, and there was a chance that was going to happen. Still, Brian explained that it was all part of his master plan. Sparky needs to die a beautiful death. We picked Ryan up and headed towards Columbus. 71 runs straight through Cincinnati, so we decided to stop in to see Ben for a bit. The weather was fantastic. We got taco bell, and my order was four dollars exactly on accident. The midget behind the counter was amused at how excited I was about the price and he gave me a free soft drink.
We discussed summer plans, which sound like they might entail lots of driving to Cincinnati, and even more apartment parties. We also played with a ball in Ben's apartment, which should not have been nearly as much fun as it was.
We continued back on our way to Columbus. The venue we went to was very cool. It was a basement bar, and very intimate. Animals as Leaders was so insane. The lead guitarist was a black guy with an 8-string guitar. He was nuts. I loved watching him play because he would do these absurd runs on the guitar, and look so intense and suddenly he would look at the ground and smile as if he had just realized how amazing what he was playing was and he couldn't help but smile. Darkest hour played next, and they played an awesome set. They played The Sadist Nation, A Thousand Words to Say But One, Convalescence, Demons, two songs off their new album, and closed with Doom Sayer.
We walked out of the pit to the bar, and what do I see on television? UK loosing. Oh. My. God. John Wall and Liggens had fouled out, they were down by six and there was less than 30 seconds left. Oh, Bobby Huggins.
We drove back through Cincinnati and met up with Ben again. He used his ID and bought a case and talked our way into a party, which was fun.
It was a pretty great day, all in all. We hung out with Ben's future roommates and and stayed over at his apartment until this morning. Ben is coming back on Wednesday for Easter.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Repost.
This is a recycled version of something at least one person already read. I'll add in new material to keep it fresh, but I liked a lot of it before. Most of it will be the same.
I've been talking a lot about dreams with people recently. Sleep is oddly satisfying, though it seems to me that I only get it in bursts anymore. 5 hours of sleep is considered a full night's worth --- for me anyway. My sleep schedule for the past two days? In bed by four thirty, just before the sun starts to peek out at the houses. Awake by eight. Stay up long enough to wreck the place. Back to sleep until eleven. Wake up, get dressed, drive to school, sleep walk for four hours. Drive home. Dinner at five, nap until six. Work at eleven, home by six, sleep until ten. Here I am.
I love sleeping because it comes so naturally now. There was a time I would go days without sleeping; as many as three or four at a time. It would always seem like longer. All the days and colors would start to blend together and my eyes would sag. Everything felt like it was second hand; like I was experiencing an echo of life, somehow. Now, sleep comes when I ask it to. I can sleep on command. Lay on my left side, count to fifty. Roll to my right, count to forty. Lose focus, regain focus, roll back to the left, flip my pillow, close my eyes, and sleep. Like the combination to a lock.
I wonder if where I am in the world has any effect on my dreams. South, at noon on a beach, when my pillow is damp with sweat, and my skin is crisp in the sun. North, at midnight in a snow storm, when my blanket cocoons me against prying cold, reaching to separate my bones.
Sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I imagine the world as a giant glass eye, that reflects us into space. I imagine that we are really something greater than layers of skin draped over feeble skeleton. That we are reflected so minusculely that something ital becomes lost in the translation. That maybe we are stars, or something greater than stars, compressed to an infinitesimally smaller size. The concept of being transferred into dust and sound; slowly resonating vibrations. And maybe dreaming is the appeal to our potential --- a state where we no longer have to negotiate the delays of time and distance.
Our minds are made up of principally the same things. We are all built from the same moving parts, and if I were to lay out on a table all the brains of all of your loved ones, you would not be able to separate one from the next. They are all just masses of cells; concentrations of atoms to make tissues and fluids. The firing of electrical signals. Atoms. Electricity. These things have tendencies, and maybe that is why we all have such common experience. We're all thinking the same things at some point or another, so what is the dividing line between where we are and collective consciousness? If space is nothing, and all that is between stars is space, then there is nothing between the stars. So do they touch? If space is all that separates my thought from yours, are they touching?
I had a dream about a girl who I never met. We were sitting on a bed that was mine, but wasn't, in a room that was mine, which I had never been in. I could see out into the neighborhood that was somehow familiar and completely foreign to me, and everything was comfortable. We sat indian style on the mattress and the covers pooled around our hips and touched my waist like ocean waves. She had a face I can't remember, but would recognize. A white cardigan, and a shirt which matched her dark-rimmed glasses. Green eyes behind corrective lenses. Shafts of light came through the window and landed on my lap. She said she could teach me to play the violin, and I told her I could bring her summer time. This all felt oddly heavy. I was in love with her.
When I woke up it occurred to me for the first time in my life that was I dreaming about someone I had never seen, or met, or heard of. I realized that this person was or will be real, almost certainly. Somewhere, sometime this girl is real. All of the people I have ever dreamed about are potentially real people with experiences and thoughts, and ideas, and lives entirely their own. But how do I know them well enough to visualize them? How can these people be real to me in dream, but not in consciousness?
Do they dream about me?
For the majority of my life I recognized dreams as arbitrary. Every dream was like an episode of Will and Grace; controversial, but mundane. Forgettable. Unimportant. My friends say they don't dream anymore, but I think that they just don't remember. One of them said that this blogging thing sometimes feels like talking to god. I sort of feel like maybe dreaming is like god casually talking back.
I watched waking life, once. I feel asleep, which I find some irony in. It was the most self-indulgent movie I have ever watched, and I hated every second of it.
I've been talking a lot about dreams with people recently. Sleep is oddly satisfying, though it seems to me that I only get it in bursts anymore. 5 hours of sleep is considered a full night's worth --- for me anyway. My sleep schedule for the past two days? In bed by four thirty, just before the sun starts to peek out at the houses. Awake by eight. Stay up long enough to wreck the place. Back to sleep until eleven. Wake up, get dressed, drive to school, sleep walk for four hours. Drive home. Dinner at five, nap until six. Work at eleven, home by six, sleep until ten. Here I am.
I love sleeping because it comes so naturally now. There was a time I would go days without sleeping; as many as three or four at a time. It would always seem like longer. All the days and colors would start to blend together and my eyes would sag. Everything felt like it was second hand; like I was experiencing an echo of life, somehow. Now, sleep comes when I ask it to. I can sleep on command. Lay on my left side, count to fifty. Roll to my right, count to forty. Lose focus, regain focus, roll back to the left, flip my pillow, close my eyes, and sleep. Like the combination to a lock.
I wonder if where I am in the world has any effect on my dreams. South, at noon on a beach, when my pillow is damp with sweat, and my skin is crisp in the sun. North, at midnight in a snow storm, when my blanket cocoons me against prying cold, reaching to separate my bones.
Sometimes, just before I fall asleep, I imagine the world as a giant glass eye, that reflects us into space. I imagine that we are really something greater than layers of skin draped over feeble skeleton. That we are reflected so minusculely that something ital becomes lost in the translation. That maybe we are stars, or something greater than stars, compressed to an infinitesimally smaller size. The concept of being transferred into dust and sound; slowly resonating vibrations. And maybe dreaming is the appeal to our potential --- a state where we no longer have to negotiate the delays of time and distance.
Our minds are made up of principally the same things. We are all built from the same moving parts, and if I were to lay out on a table all the brains of all of your loved ones, you would not be able to separate one from the next. They are all just masses of cells; concentrations of atoms to make tissues and fluids. The firing of electrical signals. Atoms. Electricity. These things have tendencies, and maybe that is why we all have such common experience. We're all thinking the same things at some point or another, so what is the dividing line between where we are and collective consciousness? If space is nothing, and all that is between stars is space, then there is nothing between the stars. So do they touch? If space is all that separates my thought from yours, are they touching?
I had a dream about a girl who I never met. We were sitting on a bed that was mine, but wasn't, in a room that was mine, which I had never been in. I could see out into the neighborhood that was somehow familiar and completely foreign to me, and everything was comfortable. We sat indian style on the mattress and the covers pooled around our hips and touched my waist like ocean waves. She had a face I can't remember, but would recognize. A white cardigan, and a shirt which matched her dark-rimmed glasses. Green eyes behind corrective lenses. Shafts of light came through the window and landed on my lap. She said she could teach me to play the violin, and I told her I could bring her summer time. This all felt oddly heavy. I was in love with her.
When I woke up it occurred to me for the first time in my life that was I dreaming about someone I had never seen, or met, or heard of. I realized that this person was or will be real, almost certainly. Somewhere, sometime this girl is real. All of the people I have ever dreamed about are potentially real people with experiences and thoughts, and ideas, and lives entirely their own. But how do I know them well enough to visualize them? How can these people be real to me in dream, but not in consciousness?
Do they dream about me?
For the majority of my life I recognized dreams as arbitrary. Every dream was like an episode of Will and Grace; controversial, but mundane. Forgettable. Unimportant. My friends say they don't dream anymore, but I think that they just don't remember. One of them said that this blogging thing sometimes feels like talking to god. I sort of feel like maybe dreaming is like god casually talking back.
I watched waking life, once. I feel asleep, which I find some irony in. It was the most self-indulgent movie I have ever watched, and I hated every second of it.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Third blog in 24 hours.
Just some thoughts to close the day.
When I try to sleep, I wrestle with thoughts. I recognize how little I know about the people I claim to love; those I hold close to me. In true solipsist tradition, I don't know anything about anyone except how they effect me. But assuming they are real, they know no more about me. This both complicates and simplifies our relationships.
When I sleep, I revel in the moment just before sleep consumes me. I am, for a moment free from the gravity of reality, and the serendipity of my dreams. That level of freedom seems irreplaceable, but when I run at night, I get something close around mile three.
Life so far has been about progression. Graduate from first grade to second. From elementary school to middle school. From High school to College. What is next? Grad School? Law School? Something, surely. What yet, I'm not certain.
Basically, I hope what is dead stays gone, though. We can't go back to the past, no matter how much fun coloring may have been. Memories need to stay memories.
Something is building a house in my sinus cavity.
Just some thoughts to close the day.
When I try to sleep, I wrestle with thoughts. I recognize how little I know about the people I claim to love; those I hold close to me. In true solipsist tradition, I don't know anything about anyone except how they effect me. But assuming they are real, they know no more about me. This both complicates and simplifies our relationships.
When I sleep, I revel in the moment just before sleep consumes me. I am, for a moment free from the gravity of reality, and the serendipity of my dreams. That level of freedom seems irreplaceable, but when I run at night, I get something close around mile three.
Life so far has been about progression. Graduate from first grade to second. From elementary school to middle school. From High school to College. What is next? Grad School? Law School? Something, surely. What yet, I'm not certain.
Basically, I hope what is dead stays gone, though. We can't go back to the past, no matter how much fun coloring may have been. Memories need to stay memories.
Something is building a house in my sinus cavity.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Windows work both ways
Allegiances are a complex animal, but somehow we all understand how they work.
People important to you seem to fall under the cloak of your charity and sympathy.
Those close to them are invited to join. Its a wonderful system we use to determine who we love and who we trust and who we praise. It simplifies things that are of such a complicated nature.
So what happens when people no longer fall under this veil of amicable thought? Well, a shepherd tends to his flock. The most permanent fixtures take precedents, and you hold up the weakest heads. I suppose you take it on faith that those closest to you were either left or leaving for a reason. It never gets any easier, knowing a shadow, and permanency almost never paints itself in shades of gray.
That having been said, current social standings have no effect on things I may have said in the past. I'm not much of a liar. I spent my childhood being lied to, and I would do well to stay as far away from that childhood as possible. What I say now relative to what I have said in the past is a function of where my allegiances lie. If this implies guilt, we are all guilty.
Even so, I have never spoken without evidence to frame my words around. And If you find yourself with a swiss army knife and a bottle of something, I can round up some spray paint and a new deck of cards.
People important to you seem to fall under the cloak of your charity and sympathy.
Those close to them are invited to join. Its a wonderful system we use to determine who we love and who we trust and who we praise. It simplifies things that are of such a complicated nature.
So what happens when people no longer fall under this veil of amicable thought? Well, a shepherd tends to his flock. The most permanent fixtures take precedents, and you hold up the weakest heads. I suppose you take it on faith that those closest to you were either left or leaving for a reason. It never gets any easier, knowing a shadow, and permanency almost never paints itself in shades of gray.
That having been said, current social standings have no effect on things I may have said in the past. I'm not much of a liar. I spent my childhood being lied to, and I would do well to stay as far away from that childhood as possible. What I say now relative to what I have said in the past is a function of where my allegiances lie. If this implies guilt, we are all guilty.
Even so, I have never spoken without evidence to frame my words around. And If you find yourself with a swiss army knife and a bottle of something, I can round up some spray paint and a new deck of cards.
Monday, March 22, 2010
I'm looking at my syllabi for my classes. I have about 8 of each class left before I'm done with this section of my life. That's four weeks. Spring Break is over, which is terrible. I'm looking at the papers that have page numbers and assignment's due dates, and I'm realizing a lot of these things were crafted to be worked on during the break. That is absolutely diabolical.
They KNEW better. They knew I wasn't going to work. Also, I think I may be sick. Which is so lame.
I'm listening to a mashup of Golddigger and Beethoven's 5th, which is less lame.
To Do List
read 105 pages of Clinch's Finn
read Singer's Utilitarian approach to world hunger (again? probably not).
8 Page paper analyzing theory of McCuller's plays vs. her novels.
figure out what the hell is going on in critical thinking.
shower, shave, and feel less shitty so i can go to work.
They KNEW better. They knew I wasn't going to work. Also, I think I may be sick. Which is so lame.
I'm listening to a mashup of Golddigger and Beethoven's 5th, which is less lame.
To Do List
read 105 pages of Clinch's Finn
read Singer's Utilitarian approach to world hunger (again? probably not).
8 Page paper analyzing theory of McCuller's plays vs. her novels.
figure out what the hell is going on in critical thinking.
shower, shave, and feel less shitty so i can go to work.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I promise I will type the best I can.
I am probably still drunk. I almost absolutely drove home; once by proxy, and once in my own car.
A recap is in order, I do suppose --- a summation of SB-0'10.
I am the best of friends; I am the worst of friends.
Some nights the 25 feet which your headlights illuminate becomes the entirety of the world, and on those nights. every pair of headlights belong to aan officer of the law.
This is alright, because on those nights Adrienne knows what I want, and is more than willing to help me find the son of god, or a bride to buy.
There are people I love, and worry about some of them. I am happy for others, and miss one or two. One more often than the other. I wish he would come back to us.
Also, I want to voice publicly (seeing as how im drunk (thats, right, double drunk parenthetical coherency)) that if my parents actually feel like my sister going to sullivan for nanny'ing is better than my putting myself through college (and eventually law school), and that a bowling tournament is better than ambition to complete the iron man competition, then fuck them. so hard.
i have grown so far beyond that; but it wouldnt hurt for you to help me out and say things to me.
i can barely read what im writing, and i can hear birds chirping more clearly than the keys pecking.
I am probably still drunk. I almost absolutely drove home; once by proxy, and once in my own car.
A recap is in order, I do suppose --- a summation of SB-0'10.
I am the best of friends; I am the worst of friends.
Some nights the 25 feet which your headlights illuminate becomes the entirety of the world, and on those nights. every pair of headlights belong to aan officer of the law.
This is alright, because on those nights Adrienne knows what I want, and is more than willing to help me find the son of god, or a bride to buy.
There are people I love, and worry about some of them. I am happy for others, and miss one or two. One more often than the other. I wish he would come back to us.
Also, I want to voice publicly (seeing as how im drunk (thats, right, double drunk parenthetical coherency)) that if my parents actually feel like my sister going to sullivan for nanny'ing is better than my putting myself through college (and eventually law school), and that a bowling tournament is better than ambition to complete the iron man competition, then fuck them. so hard.
i have grown so far beyond that; but it wouldnt hurt for you to help me out and say things to me.
i can barely read what im writing, and i can hear birds chirping more clearly than the keys pecking.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Chi City. Chi City.
Yesterday morning we went to Chicago.
The intent was to go see a concert that Brian had intended on taking a girl to. Seeing as how when he made the decision to take her when they were dating and she now has a new boyfriend (according to facebook), he decided not to take her. So, being the good friends we are, Pat and I toughed out a six hour ride in a car through three states to see Copeland, I Can Make A Mess Like Nobody's Business, and Deas Vail.
We made it to the hotel and went down to a park and ride and figured out the Subway System. We were standing on the platform at Rosemont when Patrick observed that we had left the tickets to the concert in the glove box of the car. The walk down the stairs and thirty feet into the parking lot just didn't seem worth the effort. After a (very) brief cost-benefit analysis, we decided that there were many things in life better than Copeland's farewell tour (which none of us really cared about anyway) and they were probably located in Chicago's Inner-city.
Copeland would have come on around 8:45. At that point, instead of standing in the Metro under a wash of light, listening to Aaron Marsh pour his guts out about how sad he was that Copeland was coming to an end just before singing "Control Freak" to a room full of heart-broken girls, I was sitting on the lower west side of Chicago in a pizzeria called Coal Fire, eating my portion of a White Pizza and a Meat Pizza while I listened to Metallica, AC/DC, and Ted Nugent drift ambiently down through the mood lighting. We had a waitress who was cute, and nice, but nervous. She looked like she had a black eye, and liked to fix Patrick's hoodie and whisper things to him about how much our check was going to be. We figured she was in her mid-twenties. She was closer to forty, apparently.
It was a relief to find out I wasn't the only one who didn't care about Copeland that much. I would have wanted to leave half way through the show, no doubt, if I were expected to stand there. With a table, chairs, and drinks, I could have been reasoned with, but not going was probably the best thing we could have done. We had an absurd amount of fun.
They call it "The Windy City"
The intent was to go see a concert that Brian had intended on taking a girl to. Seeing as how when he made the decision to take her when they were dating and she now has a new boyfriend (according to facebook), he decided not to take her. So, being the good friends we are, Pat and I toughed out a six hour ride in a car through three states to see Copeland, I Can Make A Mess Like Nobody's Business, and Deas Vail.
We made it to the hotel and went down to a park and ride and figured out the Subway System. We were standing on the platform at Rosemont when Patrick observed that we had left the tickets to the concert in the glove box of the car. The walk down the stairs and thirty feet into the parking lot just didn't seem worth the effort. After a (very) brief cost-benefit analysis, we decided that there were many things in life better than Copeland's farewell tour (which none of us really cared about anyway) and they were probably located in Chicago's Inner-city.
Copeland would have come on around 8:45. At that point, instead of standing in the Metro under a wash of light, listening to Aaron Marsh pour his guts out about how sad he was that Copeland was coming to an end just before singing "Control Freak" to a room full of heart-broken girls, I was sitting on the lower west side of Chicago in a pizzeria called Coal Fire, eating my portion of a White Pizza and a Meat Pizza while I listened to Metallica, AC/DC, and Ted Nugent drift ambiently down through the mood lighting. We had a waitress who was cute, and nice, but nervous. She looked like she had a black eye, and liked to fix Patrick's hoodie and whisper things to him about how much our check was going to be. We figured she was in her mid-twenties. She was closer to forty, apparently.
It was a relief to find out I wasn't the only one who didn't care about Copeland that much. I would have wanted to leave half way through the show, no doubt, if I were expected to stand there. With a table, chairs, and drinks, I could have been reasoned with, but not going was probably the best thing we could have done. We had an absurd amount of fun.
They call it "The Windy City"
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Bock Bock
Bill and Ted had a time machine. All I have is this blog. We can work with it.
It is Sunday, somewhere around noon. I am approximately 2 hours away from inner-city Chicago. I'm going to see Copeland with Patrick and Brian. I'm okay with this. I am no more than three hours away from eating some sort of Chicago style pizza. Hopefully, this pizza has sauce on the top. Josh will be happy if it does. With any luck, We will approach the city skyline, and the windows will be down. We will be cruising at an average speed of 55 miles per hour. Seu Jorge's cover of Ziggy Stardust will be playing, and I will be happy.
This weekend should be fantastic.
Upcoming blogs:
Marketing of sports
The amount of reading and writing I have done this semester
Weezer, Pinkerton, and Rivers Cuomo
Irony and lying
It is Sunday, somewhere around noon. I am approximately 2 hours away from inner-city Chicago. I'm going to see Copeland with Patrick and Brian. I'm okay with this. I am no more than three hours away from eating some sort of Chicago style pizza. Hopefully, this pizza has sauce on the top. Josh will be happy if it does. With any luck, We will approach the city skyline, and the windows will be down. We will be cruising at an average speed of 55 miles per hour. Seu Jorge's cover of Ziggy Stardust will be playing, and I will be happy.
This weekend should be fantastic.
Upcoming blogs:
Marketing of sports
The amount of reading and writing I have done this semester
Weezer, Pinkerton, and Rivers Cuomo
Irony and lying
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