Took the MRT downtown today and saw some kids from middle school. Nine of them were there, and six of them I hadn't seen since we had our first reunion back in 10th grade. They were all at Gusto, some sort of restaurant specializing in hot dogs, run by (what I presume) was someone with a Simpsons fetish--there were life-size stickers of Lisa on the walls, and Simpsons DVDs playing on the television.
I'd forgotten to do my homework (i.e. study my middle school yearbook) before I went, and consequently when Beth asked me if I knew the names of the six people I hadn't seen in years, I didn't. It wasn't completely my fault; they were all girls, and looked as though they'd all spent a lot of time on their hair since we last spoke. (Meanwhile, all my hair did was recede, which they noted.) Which is to say, different, in the most general of terms. But I figured it out, eventually.
[Chinese names don't translate too well into English blogging.] One of them, who was one of my best friends back in the day, and is now interning at a hospital, said that he wanted to apply to JHU's Public Health graduate program after working for a couple of years--it would be funny if I ended up staying in Baltimore, and running into him there a few years down the line. That guy and another kid from his school apparently walked (as in on foot) across all three of the cross-country highways in Taiwan, took two and a half months, camped out by breaking into elementary schools and sleeping in the classrooms. One of them is studying finance in Vancouver. One of them talked about circumnavigating the island with her boyfriend on bikes. One of them was doing astronomy research at the Academia Sinica. Another guy who was one of my good friends said he was going to serve his time in the military after he graduated, then try to draw comics for a living.
Seems they're all living fulfilling, happy lives (as far as I can tell)--which, to be honest, wasn't the impression I got when I talked to them in high school, and immediately after. Everyone's finally figuring out what they want to do with their lives, getting the most out of it--starting to feel like I can relate to them once again, after spending most of high school and college in separate states of mind. (I remember asking a couple of people what they did with their senior years in Taiwanese high schools, and "read novels" "played video games" "studied" was pretty much all I got.) I know I'm in the same generation as them, but--damn, kids grow up fast. And now I don't think I'd mind spending time around them, so much--I hadn't really called the last couple of times I was back--me and my presumptions--but I might start calling again.
They kept yelling at me to get MSN Messenger, so I did. Typing in Chinese is weird. Especially when I'm trying to talk in English on AIM at the same time.
Guess I ought to get a move on, eh? Things have really changed. I mean, I knew that, but damn. I've fucked up things (I was reading through some of the very first Invisible Bullets entries today, and damn if I didn't say some horrible and inconsiderate things about/indirectly directed towards people who certainly didn't deserve it), but maybe nobody cares anymore. There's worlds out there and lives I could be living. Not that what I've spent the last two seasons doing is worthless--far from, and I should know--but I should attempt the extraordinary once in a while, or at least believe in the possibility thereof. Maybe Chicago counted. I'm still too good at being a square, though. The science stuff is what gives me confidence these days. There's both good and bad to that...
I was sorting through my old books, adding stuff to my Librarything catalog today, and I found Jostein Gaarder's Maya, which I realized I had never actually finished reading. Sophie's World put the word "existential" in my vocabulary, for whatever that was worth. I'm kind of excited to start again on reading it, and possibly actually finish it this time.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Day 7
Today is a good day to write an entry, if only because The Notwist have a great song by the same name (Day 7, Shrink). It's also a good day, because tomorrow will be day 8. Of 16. 50% means that, rounded, I am already gone. And that's rather preferable.
Though tomorrow I do get to see some faces I haven't seen in years. I'm just not sure which ones they will be, yet. Beth, definitely. My mother still thinks she's a manipulative...but I won't try to guess the names I'm sure she's called her, secretly. That's none of my business. What is my business is I don't like people underestimating my capacity to maneuver.
Jesu is playing at Black Cat on October 18. They are going to level that place. I'm going to that, even if nobody else is. (Nobody else likes electronic doom-shoegaze anyway.) The songs from the Jesu/Eluvium split are great...very concise and poppy vs. the sprawling Sundown/Sunrise. I also like that the beats are starting to have more variety (kind of ironic that the beats are more interesting when programmed drums are used).
My black suede Converse lows with the black stars (now discontinued, alas) have been walked into the ground. They haven't started ripping yet, what with being made of solid suede and all, but the soles on the outsides of my feet have been ground down to nearly nothing. So today I went out and got some new sneakers. Canvas this time, but black nonetheless. I got high-tops as an innovation, and while the first two extra pairs of eyelets are nice in and of themselves (the last one feels kind of weird), I must admit I was reminded of Professor Doug Barrick's preference for highs over lows in the store; I can't remember exactly how many times he asked some kid wearing Converse under long pants, "are those highs or lows?" and then uttering a disappointed "aww" when the shoes were, inevitably, revealed to be lows (lows dominate disproportionately, it seems), but it was at least a couple. One can't blame me for idolizing the man somewhat: I like biophysics and Dinosaur Jr., but I've never ripped pieces from my own shirt to stuff my ears at their shows. Especially not in the 1980s.
Was digging through some of the accumulated refuse I have lying around the house and found some old Lits. I had a few left over from when I sent a bunch out with my college applications. Jesus--what shite writing. Can't believe I was so emotionally invested in every single line of every single story and poem, too. I did find a couple of Andrew's old stories which brought back memories. There was one about getting lost driving in Jersey--something many of us shared in many different combinations of characters. I suppose, having been a bunch of kids in whose lives nothing ever happened, it was inevitable that we would write stories with similar plotlines (that is to say, very little or none).
I looked through the yearbook from Lawrenceville 2003. Over the years I gradually realized how out of my element I was at that school, even more than I knew while I was there. Being a boarder and only interacting with the other kids in the context of school obscured the vast discrepancies between my background and history, and theirs--cultural, geographical, social, economic, and so on. I knew I went to the same school as (mostly) rich suburban white kids, but the meaning of it never really hit me until I left. I'd always just left it at being slightly out of step. I remember, back in 10th grade, reading an entry (this was back in the Opendiary era)--I think it was by Ben--about Ben and Marshall and maybe some other guys holing up in a hotel room in NYC, going on a bender and calling girls, and I remember that I wondered whether it was all some kind of bizarre metaphor, or a chronicle of actual events. How silly I was. The metaphor thing seemed pretty likely to me back in the day (the chroniclers of Classes 2002 and 2003 were notorious for indecipherable entries), but now the actuality thing seems just as likely, and the fact is, that was probably it. Anyway, in retrospect, "out of step" is not as accurate a description of my perspective when I was at Lawrenceville as "impossible to relate"--with the exception of certain characters (whose names one needs not pronounce as one pronounces the names of the dead, the dusted, the only remembered), I had about as much clue about what was going on in other people's lives as the protagonist of a David Lynch movie. It wasn't until senior year that I started to suspect the extent of my lack of understanding, and dark undercurrents and other such things, which everyone else knew by virtue of our class having only 150 people but I simply could not see, and of course by then it was too late, and all I could do was graduate.
That's all four years gone, though, and in a certain way makes me more grateful that I ended up in Baltimore, instead of New York, or Philadelphia, or wherever. Grateful that I ended up in a relative backwater, underdog of a city. I can't keep up with the money, or the culture, or the anything, and I don't think I ever will. I'm mundane, and the only principle I have for self-presentation is I refuse to spend any effort on it. This is why I live the boring scientist life. Nobody cares what I wear to work, and none of my colleagues smoke. Zero.
In other news, I've been reading A Haunted House, which I bought for IFP 2, but we never ended up using. And young Virginia Woolf was cute.
Though tomorrow I do get to see some faces I haven't seen in years. I'm just not sure which ones they will be, yet. Beth, definitely. My mother still thinks she's a manipulative...but I won't try to guess the names I'm sure she's called her, secretly. That's none of my business. What is my business is I don't like people underestimating my capacity to maneuver.
Jesu is playing at Black Cat on October 18. They are going to level that place. I'm going to that, even if nobody else is. (Nobody else likes electronic doom-shoegaze anyway.) The songs from the Jesu/Eluvium split are great...very concise and poppy vs. the sprawling Sundown/Sunrise. I also like that the beats are starting to have more variety (kind of ironic that the beats are more interesting when programmed drums are used).
My black suede Converse lows with the black stars (now discontinued, alas) have been walked into the ground. They haven't started ripping yet, what with being made of solid suede and all, but the soles on the outsides of my feet have been ground down to nearly nothing. So today I went out and got some new sneakers. Canvas this time, but black nonetheless. I got high-tops as an innovation, and while the first two extra pairs of eyelets are nice in and of themselves (the last one feels kind of weird), I must admit I was reminded of Professor Doug Barrick's preference for highs over lows in the store; I can't remember exactly how many times he asked some kid wearing Converse under long pants, "are those highs or lows?" and then uttering a disappointed "aww" when the shoes were, inevitably, revealed to be lows (lows dominate disproportionately, it seems), but it was at least a couple. One can't blame me for idolizing the man somewhat: I like biophysics and Dinosaur Jr., but I've never ripped pieces from my own shirt to stuff my ears at their shows. Especially not in the 1980s.
Was digging through some of the accumulated refuse I have lying around the house and found some old Lits. I had a few left over from when I sent a bunch out with my college applications. Jesus--what shite writing. Can't believe I was so emotionally invested in every single line of every single story and poem, too. I did find a couple of Andrew's old stories which brought back memories. There was one about getting lost driving in Jersey--something many of us shared in many different combinations of characters. I suppose, having been a bunch of kids in whose lives nothing ever happened, it was inevitable that we would write stories with similar plotlines (that is to say, very little or none).
I looked through the yearbook from Lawrenceville 2003. Over the years I gradually realized how out of my element I was at that school, even more than I knew while I was there. Being a boarder and only interacting with the other kids in the context of school obscured the vast discrepancies between my background and history, and theirs--cultural, geographical, social, economic, and so on. I knew I went to the same school as (mostly) rich suburban white kids, but the meaning of it never really hit me until I left. I'd always just left it at being slightly out of step. I remember, back in 10th grade, reading an entry (this was back in the Opendiary era)--I think it was by Ben--about Ben and Marshall and maybe some other guys holing up in a hotel room in NYC, going on a bender and calling girls, and I remember that I wondered whether it was all some kind of bizarre metaphor, or a chronicle of actual events. How silly I was. The metaphor thing seemed pretty likely to me back in the day (the chroniclers of Classes 2002 and 2003 were notorious for indecipherable entries), but now the actuality thing seems just as likely, and the fact is, that was probably it. Anyway, in retrospect, "out of step" is not as accurate a description of my perspective when I was at Lawrenceville as "impossible to relate"--with the exception of certain characters (whose names one needs not pronounce as one pronounces the names of the dead, the dusted, the only remembered), I had about as much clue about what was going on in other people's lives as the protagonist of a David Lynch movie. It wasn't until senior year that I started to suspect the extent of my lack of understanding, and dark undercurrents and other such things, which everyone else knew by virtue of our class having only 150 people but I simply could not see, and of course by then it was too late, and all I could do was graduate.
That's all four years gone, though, and in a certain way makes me more grateful that I ended up in Baltimore, instead of New York, or Philadelphia, or wherever. Grateful that I ended up in a relative backwater, underdog of a city. I can't keep up with the money, or the culture, or the anything, and I don't think I ever will. I'm mundane, and the only principle I have for self-presentation is I refuse to spend any effort on it. This is why I live the boring scientist life. Nobody cares what I wear to work, and none of my colleagues smoke. Zero.
In other news, I've been reading A Haunted House, which I bought for IFP 2, but we never ended up using. And young Virginia Woolf was cute.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Scene From July 16, 2006
"Suggest that humanity commit mass suicide to beat Death at his own game."
Heh!
Heh!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Couldn't Bear to Shout It Out
Though I did not know it at the time--"time" being either when Tobin Sprout wrote these words, or 2003-2004, when they would've applied to me--but these lyrics from "Ester's Day" (Guided by Voices, Bee Thousand) describe my last year or so of high school fairly well:
"Brought up on the road/A sparkle-shiny diner/Is the home for wayward minor/In a flying car that seems/To whisper in an ear/Let's just go get out of here..."
Didn't really anticipate this bit of high school nostalgia. I even remember being in high school and wishing I were in college already. I got that wish, obviously. I was talking to Maria about the nature of nostalgia just now; it's not so much a matter of wishing to regain the times, places, events, or even people, at least for me. Because those things are very obviously not coming back. More my own state of mind I miss, which is something far more personal, subjective, and as such isolated. Maybe something was lost during the process of moving from the past into the present. [Or as Granger eloquently stated: "Will Chang in high school was like, 'I have feelings. I'm depressed.'" As opposed to now.]
Asked Maria if there was a cure for loss of sentimentality; she said that there was no hope, other than convincing oneself one was a tree. Such are the conversations that we have when one of us is drunk at 4AM. It would've been even better if I'd also been drunk, and it had been 4AM here as well.
I've not much to say about the past more recent than 2004 or 2005. Say what you will, but I miss feeling like the facts and incidences of my life were significant on some transcendental level. I grew up, it's true, but the truth is, it kind of sucks. Granted, it has its perks. I've just gotten somewhat bored with them by now.
[Later.]
You know you can't live at your parents' house anymore when your mom doesn't think it's okay for a 21 year old guy who's made 3 years in Baltimore without incident to take a walk with headphones in a park in residential Taipei at 9PM. Or for the same guy to go to bed after midnight. Staying in peak possible health isn't the only thing in the world that matters--other things include stumbling across a middle-school couple in a darkened corner off of the courtyard, remembering when you were their age, and things mattered; wandering in circles for an hour listening to Four Tet, passing by the 15-year-old looking kid sitting hunched under a tree with his head in his hands as "And They All Looked Broken Hearted" plays; having a meaningful conversation with one of the only people who can tell you "I understand" and you'll believe it, though she's on the other side of the world; and writing these words. I have nothing to say to anyone who cannot understand that fact. Though it's probably only true when you're 21, and even then, paradoxical for one who's lost two family members to sickness.
One week at a time, I think, will henceforth be the limit.
PS: Maria: i think if you wrote fiction i would want to read it
"Brought up on the road/A sparkle-shiny diner/Is the home for wayward minor/In a flying car that seems/To whisper in an ear/Let's just go get out of here..."
Didn't really anticipate this bit of high school nostalgia. I even remember being in high school and wishing I were in college already. I got that wish, obviously. I was talking to Maria about the nature of nostalgia just now; it's not so much a matter of wishing to regain the times, places, events, or even people, at least for me. Because those things are very obviously not coming back. More my own state of mind I miss, which is something far more personal, subjective, and as such isolated. Maybe something was lost during the process of moving from the past into the present. [Or as Granger eloquently stated: "Will Chang in high school was like, 'I have feelings. I'm depressed.'" As opposed to now.]
Asked Maria if there was a cure for loss of sentimentality; she said that there was no hope, other than convincing oneself one was a tree. Such are the conversations that we have when one of us is drunk at 4AM. It would've been even better if I'd also been drunk, and it had been 4AM here as well.
I've not much to say about the past more recent than 2004 or 2005. Say what you will, but I miss feeling like the facts and incidences of my life were significant on some transcendental level. I grew up, it's true, but the truth is, it kind of sucks. Granted, it has its perks. I've just gotten somewhat bored with them by now.
[Later.]
You know you can't live at your parents' house anymore when your mom doesn't think it's okay for a 21 year old guy who's made 3 years in Baltimore without incident to take a walk with headphones in a park in residential Taipei at 9PM. Or for the same guy to go to bed after midnight. Staying in peak possible health isn't the only thing in the world that matters--other things include stumbling across a middle-school couple in a darkened corner off of the courtyard, remembering when you were their age, and things mattered; wandering in circles for an hour listening to Four Tet, passing by the 15-year-old looking kid sitting hunched under a tree with his head in his hands as "And They All Looked Broken Hearted" plays; having a meaningful conversation with one of the only people who can tell you "I understand" and you'll believe it, though she's on the other side of the world; and writing these words. I have nothing to say to anyone who cannot understand that fact. Though it's probably only true when you're 21, and even then, paradoxical for one who's lost two family members to sickness.
One week at a time, I think, will henceforth be the limit.
PS: Maria: i think if you wrote fiction i would want to read it
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Six Steps Back
Well, here I am. One would think either the fact that I lived here on a permanent basis for a decade of my life, or the fact that I've visited back periodically for the other decade would make visiting here easier, but the fact is, I haven't felt at home at "home" for the past four years or so. I've really latched on to Baltimore in a way that I never did with Lawrenceville; it probably has something to do with how I didn't really live in a bona fide "dorm" after freshman year, and got to wander around the city (not to mention there actually being a city to wander around), something you just don't quite do when you've got curfew every day of the week, even if your friends roll up in SUVs to drive you to a diner where they chain-smoked and you chain-drank coffee, and everyone dreamed of being writer bums.
So, now as then, I look to my own words for solace (I do have my old Murakami collection here as well). My grandmother (mother's side) is getting somewhat stranger with the years; she always calls me "son," as if there weren't another generation in between us, and as if she doesn't have an actual son who is a member of that generation. Truth be told, she's probably counting on me to come through where he refused to (i.e. have children), and I'm not too comfortable with that. Of course, the same fundamental conditions of life that isolate us as individuals by freeing others from our expectations of them also frees us, in turn, from their expectations of us. There's a bittersweet epiphany if there ever was one.
Not sure what to do about Ben. Kid's a total nihilist. Only things that seem to interest him are comic books and video games. I was into comic books and video games (and other time-wasting crap) back in the day, but never to his extent. Also, angry at the world, apparently. I was never a rebellious teenager, so I can't even recall what it was like to figure out how to react to him. (Neither can my mother, apparently.) This is actually kind of bad...
On a separate note, I've been listening to a lot of Four Tet lately (mainly because Kieran Hebden uses Audiomulch, which I have just started exploring); a lot of the songs from the Rounds album are fantastically memorable, and it might end up becoming a significant album in my life. But I've also been revisiting some latter-day Autechre albums, namely Confield and Untilted; now that I've actually some sort of an idea how they actually made those beats, it absolutely boggles my mind. (Here I was thinking beats were all MIDI notes into drum machines...)
It seems that every time I start to figure out a new instrument, I become really fascinated with virtuoso performances of said instrument: for example, my Squarepusher and Pinback obsessions when I first got decent at bass, and I did go through a shred phase back when I started getting good at electric guitar--hell, I even went to a Yngwie J. (I remember my old guitar teacher saying: "Why does he need the 'J.'? Are there actually other Yngwie Malmsteens out there?") Malmsteen concert back in the day (though obviously my standards for listenable music has changed). I don't care about playing lots of notes on guitar anymore (all I do is play weird chords), and I'm more laid back about the feel and complexity of playing bass...hopefully with time I'll be able to settle into a comfortable pace with drum programming.
I do miss having my guitar though. It's kind of hard to think about music without it. Just got the itch today to make some granular pads, too...
Every time I come back, I count the days until I go back to Baltimore. Literally. I've got a little line of text somewhere that says "Day X/16," and I change the value of "X" daily. Today is day 4.
Being able to sleep a lot does make things easier, though.
So, now as then, I look to my own words for solace (I do have my old Murakami collection here as well). My grandmother (mother's side) is getting somewhat stranger with the years; she always calls me "son," as if there weren't another generation in between us, and as if she doesn't have an actual son who is a member of that generation. Truth be told, she's probably counting on me to come through where he refused to (i.e. have children), and I'm not too comfortable with that. Of course, the same fundamental conditions of life that isolate us as individuals by freeing others from our expectations of them also frees us, in turn, from their expectations of us. There's a bittersweet epiphany if there ever was one.
Not sure what to do about Ben. Kid's a total nihilist. Only things that seem to interest him are comic books and video games. I was into comic books and video games (and other time-wasting crap) back in the day, but never to his extent. Also, angry at the world, apparently. I was never a rebellious teenager, so I can't even recall what it was like to figure out how to react to him. (Neither can my mother, apparently.) This is actually kind of bad...
On a separate note, I've been listening to a lot of Four Tet lately (mainly because Kieran Hebden uses Audiomulch, which I have just started exploring); a lot of the songs from the Rounds album are fantastically memorable, and it might end up becoming a significant album in my life. But I've also been revisiting some latter-day Autechre albums, namely Confield and Untilted; now that I've actually some sort of an idea how they actually made those beats, it absolutely boggles my mind. (Here I was thinking beats were all MIDI notes into drum machines...)
It seems that every time I start to figure out a new instrument, I become really fascinated with virtuoso performances of said instrument: for example, my Squarepusher and Pinback obsessions when I first got decent at bass, and I did go through a shred phase back when I started getting good at electric guitar--hell, I even went to a Yngwie J. (I remember my old guitar teacher saying: "Why does he need the 'J.'? Are there actually other Yngwie Malmsteens out there?") Malmsteen concert back in the day (though obviously my standards for listenable music has changed). I don't care about playing lots of notes on guitar anymore (all I do is play weird chords), and I'm more laid back about the feel and complexity of playing bass...hopefully with time I'll be able to settle into a comfortable pace with drum programming.
I do miss having my guitar though. It's kind of hard to think about music without it. Just got the itch today to make some granular pads, too...
Every time I come back, I count the days until I go back to Baltimore. Literally. I've got a little line of text somewhere that says "Day X/16," and I change the value of "X" daily. Today is day 4.
Being able to sleep a lot does make things easier, though.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
As Serious As Your Life
Last weekend was a spontaneous trip to New York City. One night only. Crashed at Lindsay and Sam's place. Saw Vi too. Caught up with Tenev and James at the Natural History Museum. Later that night I went to their house in Brooklyn, where Tenev and James lived with their band's guitarist Ryan, and recorded a bass part for one of their songs. Ryan and James seemed to like it. Then we headed back to Manhattan to go to some bar in Union Square; everyone was wearing collared shirts, in case we decided to go to a place that had a dress code, but I hadn't brought a collared shirt of any sort to New York. Borrowed one of Ryan's, but my New Balances still showed. Fortunately the place we went to wasn't anything classy, after all. Peter bought us car bombs; however, eventually they got bored and headed back to Brooklyn. I was crashing at Lindsay's in Tribeca, so I opted to stay in Manhattan; Lindsay was still at a party in Brooklyn, so I found myself with a couple of hours to spare to wander Manhattan, alone. I decided to call up Jai, whom I hadn't seen in nearly three years; it was an out-of-the-blue thing, as nobody except Lindsay, Tenev, and John really knew I was going to be in New York. I met her outside a club on 8th Ave. She was drunk and up against a wall with a guy she introduced to me as her "promoter friend." We went back to Union Square to get her a sandwich, and then we sat around and talked about the past three years. She told me about her troubles with her brother, and her ex-boyfriend in Korea, with whom she had an obsessive long-distance relationship; I told her about Patrice and the aftermath thereof. We found ourselves in similar places: needing to recover from being as overly critical of people and relationships, as we have become through our respective paths, and to relearn how to have unreserved feelings for someone again. It's not something I particularly want to admit, but compared to high school--when I was consistently in love with one girl or another for at least two years--I am, relatively speaking, somewhat emotionally deadened. But I suppose that's something that had to happen sooner or later. Like chicken pox. I have never had chicken pox. Neverless, when we parted at 4AM, after a carful of Asian guys drove by catcalling, it was an emotional parting. And Manhattan at 4AM did not feel like 4AM.
I've been tired all day. Probably had something to do with how I only slept four hours last night. According to plan, I'm going to the airport in just over ten hours, and I never sleep well before traveling; the prospect gets me wound up too much.
Actually, that only applies to traveling home. Left to my own will, e.g. any of the three trips I took this summer (Pitchfork, Pittsburgh, New York City), I'd just put all my toiletries in a plastic bag, toss that and a few days' clothing in a suitcase along with some books and maybe a CD wallet, and that would be that. Hell, I could probably make a weekend with nothing but a backpack. But with going home, presentation matters. I'm so compromising and non-confrontational at the worst of times.
But then, in the eyes of my mother, I'll always be only as old as when I left home, which was fifteen, inconsiderate, and still trying to grow out of the blank stare I'd probably had since birth. With her--as I suppose it is with everyone and their parents--I'll forever be proving myself, that I can accomplish things and meet deadlines without her reminding me all the time, that I can lead a civilized and hygienic lifestyle, that I eat all my daily food groups and won't starve, that I get enough sleep (or can make do without), etc. And it's not like "I'm alright" will ever suffice; it's like linear algebra all over again, rigorous proofs, show your work, and so on. If I don't spell it out for her, she just won't believe me, and sometimes not even when I do. And even those things I do prove myself capable of I have to re-prove time and again; you'd think that, seeing as I've already survived two years of not relying on the school to feed me, one should be able to take for granted I can cook for myself and get away with it, but you'd be wrong.
The truth is, I never had much of an inclination to prove myself to anyone else; it's only when people's opinions affect my opinion of myself that things start to matter, which isn't something that happens very often. I've no interest in proving to other people I can do things I myself know very well I can do. Of course, that's not something one can ever hammer into one's own mother's brain. I know very well that she does it because she feels that's what she must do to fulfill her sense of responsibility, being manically task-oriented and all--she's the kind of person who believes that one's raison d'être is derived from one's responsibilities, while I believe it's derived from one's impulses--but, heartless as it may sound, I don't feel like that should obligate me to act as though I were less than I know I am. Does that contradict my sympathetic ideal?
Paradoxically, I'm as much a confidant to her as anything else, and these days I have to explain to her how certain aspects of the world work more often than the other way around.
In any case, I wonder if it would be preferable to consider this trip just like any of the ones I mentioned, except longer, farther, and less fun. (Though that perspective certainly doesn't make it any more appealing.) I've got three days' clothing and my GRE studying material in my suitcase already; just need to get a CD selection together, make sure I've got my passport, computer and chargers, and I'll be good to go. I was going to disassemble my Jazz Bass copy and bring it back for Ben, but the neck would probably get fucked up in transit. It's probably best to not waste unnecessary time thinking about this shit; after all, the more I let myself worry, the more worry the issue will seem to warrant.
It looks as though I'll be very busy these next two weeks. Besides the aforementioned GRE studying, I've also got to crunch data for my project (for which I am apparently getting first author credit--yes!). Mikhail told me he wants to present it as a poster at artificial membranes workshop in Germany at the end of September, which means we have approximately two weeks after I come back to Baltimore before he and Edwin go to the workshop. Obviously not enough time to fit possibly near 200 sets of impedance spectroscopy data and make it presentable, especially considering the first week I'll be simultaneously jetlagged by twelve hours and trying to do last-minute preps for the GRE. Which, I suppose, means I shall be taking my work home with me.
I wonder if this means I'm turning into a workaholic. I'm turning into my uncle, at the very least; he carries his mathematics stuff every time he visits, or we go somewhere on vacation. Which didn't seem very reasonable when I was younger, but it doesn't seem so bad when I think about it now; after all, when I settle down (whenever that is), I don't want to switch gears multiple times in a single day, from scientist to husband (possibly) to father (possibly) to amateur musician to whatever, and back. I want unity; I want to be the same person no matter what I am doing; I want every aspect of my life to be underlaid by the same philosophy, sensibility, logic.
In that sense, at least, I suppose I am still somewhat immature.
And maybe I am getting used to research as a way of life. I spent all today in the lab, trying to fit model circuits to my impedance data, and my mind just couldn't focus for very long on the fact that I was going home in less than a day; all I could maintain my concentration on was the work. As if I shouldn't've in all likelihood gone home early to pack. Maybe that just makes me a routineaholic, I don't know. But I don't think I could get addicted to a routine of doing nothing. (I tried.)
I've been thinking about the civil service thing again. You know, that thing that male Taiwanese citizens are constitutionally bound to do. I know I said I was considering taking a year or two off before grad school to git'r done, but the more I think about it, the less appealing that seems. This science thing, right now, I feel like I want to do it, I feel like I can; I feel like trying to complete my PhD and getting a job that will get me an H-1 visa before age 30 is a fairly calculated gamble. I feel like this track I'm on is going too well to pause right now, even if only for a year or two.
But I may have another day. Word is that a major typhoon is blowing through Taiwan right now. If the flight's cancelled, I won't leave for another day at least. I am secretly hoping that will happen. Sort of like how I was secretly hoping I would miss the flight home and be stranded in New York, freshman year winter break. Still, there's not a whole lot in Baltimore for me in the near future. Most of the people are gone. I have a strange ambivalent feeling about this trip home: if it's long enough for me to get cabin fever, I'll be able to get work done, and if it's not long enough to get work done, it'll be too short to get cabin fever. (The possibility that it could simultaneously be long enough to induce cabin fever and be too short to get anything done in seems unlikely, irrationally.) Still, I think I'm growing out of the twice-a-year-two-weeks-each visitation quota. After I graduate (assuming I don't get shipped back), it's probably going to have to go down to two weeks a year.
Still, though. I won't really be blamed for treating every time I leave like it's the last time. For all I know, it could be. And with what I've seen, that can be a very persuasive argument. So I make sure my goodbyes are in place. And my journal entries, of course.
Not much left to say. Not much left to do but get my things together, and reassure myself that Baltimore and everything will still be around when I return, and that, if I'm fortunate, I'll still be around to return to it.
I've been tired all day. Probably had something to do with how I only slept four hours last night. According to plan, I'm going to the airport in just over ten hours, and I never sleep well before traveling; the prospect gets me wound up too much.
Actually, that only applies to traveling home. Left to my own will, e.g. any of the three trips I took this summer (Pitchfork, Pittsburgh, New York City), I'd just put all my toiletries in a plastic bag, toss that and a few days' clothing in a suitcase along with some books and maybe a CD wallet, and that would be that. Hell, I could probably make a weekend with nothing but a backpack. But with going home, presentation matters. I'm so compromising and non-confrontational at the worst of times.
But then, in the eyes of my mother, I'll always be only as old as when I left home, which was fifteen, inconsiderate, and still trying to grow out of the blank stare I'd probably had since birth. With her--as I suppose it is with everyone and their parents--I'll forever be proving myself, that I can accomplish things and meet deadlines without her reminding me all the time, that I can lead a civilized and hygienic lifestyle, that I eat all my daily food groups and won't starve, that I get enough sleep (or can make do without), etc. And it's not like "I'm alright" will ever suffice; it's like linear algebra all over again, rigorous proofs, show your work, and so on. If I don't spell it out for her, she just won't believe me, and sometimes not even when I do. And even those things I do prove myself capable of I have to re-prove time and again; you'd think that, seeing as I've already survived two years of not relying on the school to feed me, one should be able to take for granted I can cook for myself and get away with it, but you'd be wrong.
The truth is, I never had much of an inclination to prove myself to anyone else; it's only when people's opinions affect my opinion of myself that things start to matter, which isn't something that happens very often. I've no interest in proving to other people I can do things I myself know very well I can do. Of course, that's not something one can ever hammer into one's own mother's brain. I know very well that she does it because she feels that's what she must do to fulfill her sense of responsibility, being manically task-oriented and all--she's the kind of person who believes that one's raison d'être is derived from one's responsibilities, while I believe it's derived from one's impulses--but, heartless as it may sound, I don't feel like that should obligate me to act as though I were less than I know I am. Does that contradict my sympathetic ideal?
Paradoxically, I'm as much a confidant to her as anything else, and these days I have to explain to her how certain aspects of the world work more often than the other way around.
In any case, I wonder if it would be preferable to consider this trip just like any of the ones I mentioned, except longer, farther, and less fun. (Though that perspective certainly doesn't make it any more appealing.) I've got three days' clothing and my GRE studying material in my suitcase already; just need to get a CD selection together, make sure I've got my passport, computer and chargers, and I'll be good to go. I was going to disassemble my Jazz Bass copy and bring it back for Ben, but the neck would probably get fucked up in transit. It's probably best to not waste unnecessary time thinking about this shit; after all, the more I let myself worry, the more worry the issue will seem to warrant.
It looks as though I'll be very busy these next two weeks. Besides the aforementioned GRE studying, I've also got to crunch data for my project (for which I am apparently getting first author credit--yes!). Mikhail told me he wants to present it as a poster at artificial membranes workshop in Germany at the end of September, which means we have approximately two weeks after I come back to Baltimore before he and Edwin go to the workshop. Obviously not enough time to fit possibly near 200 sets of impedance spectroscopy data and make it presentable, especially considering the first week I'll be simultaneously jetlagged by twelve hours and trying to do last-minute preps for the GRE. Which, I suppose, means I shall be taking my work home with me.
I wonder if this means I'm turning into a workaholic. I'm turning into my uncle, at the very least; he carries his mathematics stuff every time he visits, or we go somewhere on vacation. Which didn't seem very reasonable when I was younger, but it doesn't seem so bad when I think about it now; after all, when I settle down (whenever that is), I don't want to switch gears multiple times in a single day, from scientist to husband (possibly) to father (possibly) to amateur musician to whatever, and back. I want unity; I want to be the same person no matter what I am doing; I want every aspect of my life to be underlaid by the same philosophy, sensibility, logic.
In that sense, at least, I suppose I am still somewhat immature.
And maybe I am getting used to research as a way of life. I spent all today in the lab, trying to fit model circuits to my impedance data, and my mind just couldn't focus for very long on the fact that I was going home in less than a day; all I could maintain my concentration on was the work. As if I shouldn't've in all likelihood gone home early to pack. Maybe that just makes me a routineaholic, I don't know. But I don't think I could get addicted to a routine of doing nothing. (I tried.)
I've been thinking about the civil service thing again. You know, that thing that male Taiwanese citizens are constitutionally bound to do. I know I said I was considering taking a year or two off before grad school to git'r done, but the more I think about it, the less appealing that seems. This science thing, right now, I feel like I want to do it, I feel like I can; I feel like trying to complete my PhD and getting a job that will get me an H-1 visa before age 30 is a fairly calculated gamble. I feel like this track I'm on is going too well to pause right now, even if only for a year or two.
But I may have another day. Word is that a major typhoon is blowing through Taiwan right now. If the flight's cancelled, I won't leave for another day at least. I am secretly hoping that will happen. Sort of like how I was secretly hoping I would miss the flight home and be stranded in New York, freshman year winter break. Still, there's not a whole lot in Baltimore for me in the near future. Most of the people are gone. I have a strange ambivalent feeling about this trip home: if it's long enough for me to get cabin fever, I'll be able to get work done, and if it's not long enough to get work done, it'll be too short to get cabin fever. (The possibility that it could simultaneously be long enough to induce cabin fever and be too short to get anything done in seems unlikely, irrationally.) Still, I think I'm growing out of the twice-a-year-two-weeks-each visitation quota. After I graduate (assuming I don't get shipped back), it's probably going to have to go down to two weeks a year.
Still, though. I won't really be blamed for treating every time I leave like it's the last time. For all I know, it could be. And with what I've seen, that can be a very persuasive argument. So I make sure my goodbyes are in place. And my journal entries, of course.
Not much left to say. Not much left to do but get my things together, and reassure myself that Baltimore and everything will still be around when I return, and that, if I'm fortunate, I'll still be around to return to it.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Yay
| How will I die? Your Result: You will die while saving someone's life. The most noble of all deaths. Your rewards will be great in the next life. You are most definitely a humanitarian. If not currently, you will be. To give one's life is a precious moment that will be remembered by friends and family for many decades. | |
| You will die in your sleep. | |
| You will die of boredom. | |
| You will die in a nuclear holocaust. | |
| You will be murdered. | |
| You will die in a car accident. | |
| You will die while having sex. | |
| You will die from a terminal illness. | |
| How will I die? Create a Quiz | |
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
If That's How It's Gotta Be
Last full week of summer vacation in Baltimore for me (going back to Taiwan next Friday) (oh Lord), three experiments away from collecting all the data I need for my project, and my lipid bilayers suddenly stop self-assembling. Which, in case none of that meant anything to you, is fucking great. And by great, of course, I mean not at all. Ever since I first played Super Mario, time limits have never served to my advantage.
Doing a bit better than as of last post, though. Feeling aimless, which I suspect is only compounded by the unrelenting humidity these past few days; there's been a visible haze outside quite literally continuously since the weekend, and even though it's only 28C outside now (yes, I think in Celsius), open window and fan do not suffice. Still, though, aimless is probably preferable to numb and doomed, which is what the last couple of entries would suggest.
Been listening to J Mascis & The Fog - Free so Free all day. Specifically, "If That's How It's Gotta Be" and "Set Us Free," over and over. These two songs just hit the spot today, somehow, especially the first. Of course, I've always been the type to project my own concerns onto other people's lyrics, so it sort of makes sense.
There's been this thing on my mind. Maybe this was brought on by reading one of Joe's recent entries. It's no secret I'm a music sentimentalist: certain songs and albums are "heavy" to me ("The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory" comes to mind), and I tend to refer to music while writing about things that were happening as I listened to it (see: above, most journal entries since 11th grade). This has nothing to do with whether I listen to the band, or even consider them good, anymore: for example, I'm listening to Hell is for Heroes' "Retreat," and it's still "heavy," even though my post-hardcore days have been over for at least two to three years now.
Sentimental tendencies are what made me start listening to a shitload of music in the first place, many years ago, and nostalgic associations are still what binds me most to songs and albums, even more than artistic appreciation or inspiration. I'll hear something and swear up and down that it kicks ass, but if I can't find a way to get sentimental about it, I'll stop listening to it eventually.
Some examples of associations:
1. various New Age stuff: ages 14-15, Evangelion fanboyism, escapism etc.
2. Travis - The Man Who: 10th grade and the end thereof.
3. Idlewild - The Remote Part: 11th grade.
4. Neutral Milk Hotel - In the Aeroplane Over the Sea: 12th grade, etc.
5. Guided by Voices - The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory: freshman year, first month or two with Patrice, etc. Was off-limits for a while.
6. Pavement - Slanted and Enchanted: the first Baltimore defence, summer 2005, commutes to and from the med school, etc.
This list ends after the end of freshman year, because there is simply not a whole lot more music for me to list; it seems that, after sophomore year, the number of sentimental musical associations tapered off sharply. Incidentally, this corresponds with the time that I first started listening to a lot of electronic music.
From here we may jump to one of three conclusions:
1. Either electronic music itself or the way I listened to it, is not conducive to nostalgia. I mainly started listening to Autechre, then Aphex Twin, then Squarepusher, then Boards of Canada because everyone from Miguel to Thom Yorke was listening to them. In other words: to see what the fuss was all about, and what of it I could steal for myself. In other words, critically. Maybe I never stopped listening to it critically, never gave it a chance to tether itself emotionally.
But there's also the possibility that it's simply harder to be sentimental about electronic music. I tried to make a playlist of electronic instrumentals that had sentimental value to me, and the only songs I could come up with were a couple Aphex Twin songs, a Squarepusher song, a William Basinski song (but from Melancholia, so somewhat different), and a Tim Hecker song. The question then is, why do I spend so much time listening to things I don't have a sentimental attachment to, and, more importantly, as I'm now making electronic music myself (or attempting to), what's the point of making music that I can't imagine other people becoming sentimental about? Nobody ever broke up with their girlfriend and cranked Selected Ambient Works vol. II for a week straight, did they? How do I get back from the pissing contest of look-how-many-weird-noises-I-can-make to being a sappy bastard?
I drop-tuned my guitar to DFCFGD last Wednesday on a whim, and within a few minutes I'd found two chords that, regardless of whatever effects I threw at them--distortion, delay, phaser--or not, were just emotionally expressive. They had the feeling of, "if I used this chord progression in a song, someone who listened to it would feel something." I wonder why something so easy on a guitar is so impossible on a laptop--all I ever get is, "maybe I'll sample this, it could be an interesting texture." Interesting is jack shit, really, when it comes to making an impression. My guess is that, without strings or keys (unless you are using a MIDI keyboard, in which case you are probably playing a softsynth, which is much more controllable but much less "experimental" than whacking a guitar signal through three different parallel granulators), it's hard to control elements such as harmony and chords.
I listened to The Notwist a lot last week, and a bunch of Morr Music stuff, who do manage to be sentimental in electronic music, but it seems most of those artists have one unprocessed element, usually vocals or guitar, that carries all the emotional weight, and all the digital elements are still relegated to texture. Of course, being the stubborn ass I am, I wonder if one could make the experimentalism carry the sentiment. Of course, the answer may very well be "no."
2. I myself have become overly critical. The past three or four paragraphs probably support this theory. Become too good at thinking twice and lost all my aptitude for blind emotional investment.
3. Both 1. and 2. are true.
There are exceptions, though. Mew's Frengers for example. Best days of last fall. Which was almost a year ago--Christ. Still, that's rock music.
Went to the Upright Citizens Brigade show at the Baltimore Improv Festival with Sarah K. and Jessica on Saturday. I'm always at least okay when Sarah K.'s around. Jessica asked me if she was still "special," and I said yeah, I guess so. It's just there are so few people whom I can be around indefinitely without becoming exhausted eventually, and that counts for something. Also I'm still somewhat fond of her, but whatever, it's not like that ever bore up to any thinking.
Jessica thinks I'm sad about everything all the time. Untrue. I am sad about some things sometimes. And, I suppose, a few select things most of the time, repeatedly, but still, that is not everything all the time.
Doing a bit better than as of last post, though. Feeling aimless, which I suspect is only compounded by the unrelenting humidity these past few days; there's been a visible haze outside quite literally continuously since the weekend, and even though it's only 28C outside now (yes, I think in Celsius), open window and fan do not suffice. Still, though, aimless is probably preferable to numb and doomed, which is what the last couple of entries would suggest.
Been listening to J Mascis & The Fog - Free so Free all day. Specifically, "If That's How It's Gotta Be" and "Set Us Free," over and over. These two songs just hit the spot today, somehow, especially the first. Of course, I've always been the type to project my own concerns onto other people's lyrics, so it sort of makes sense.
There's been this thing on my mind. Maybe this was brought on by reading one of Joe's recent entries. It's no secret I'm a music sentimentalist: certain songs and albums are "heavy" to me ("The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory" comes to mind), and I tend to refer to music while writing about things that were happening as I listened to it (see: above, most journal entries since 11th grade). This has nothing to do with whether I listen to the band, or even consider them good, anymore: for example, I'm listening to Hell is for Heroes' "Retreat," and it's still "heavy," even though my post-hardcore days have been over for at least two to three years now.
Sentimental tendencies are what made me start listening to a shitload of music in the first place, many years ago, and nostalgic associations are still what binds me most to songs and albums, even more than artistic appreciation or inspiration. I'll hear something and swear up and down that it kicks ass, but if I can't find a way to get sentimental about it, I'll stop listening to it eventually.
Some examples of associations:
1. various New Age stuff: ages 14-15, Evangelion fanboyism, escapism etc.
2. Travis - The Man Who: 10th grade and the end thereof.
3. Idlewild - The Remote Part: 11th grade.
4. Neutral Milk Hotel - In the Aeroplane Over the Sea: 12th grade, etc.
5. Guided by Voices - The Goldheart Mountaintop Queen Directory: freshman year, first month or two with Patrice, etc. Was off-limits for a while.
6. Pavement - Slanted and Enchanted: the first Baltimore defence, summer 2005, commutes to and from the med school, etc.
This list ends after the end of freshman year, because there is simply not a whole lot more music for me to list; it seems that, after sophomore year, the number of sentimental musical associations tapered off sharply. Incidentally, this corresponds with the time that I first started listening to a lot of electronic music.
From here we may jump to one of three conclusions:
1. Either electronic music itself or the way I listened to it, is not conducive to nostalgia. I mainly started listening to Autechre, then Aphex Twin, then Squarepusher, then Boards of Canada because everyone from Miguel to Thom Yorke was listening to them. In other words: to see what the fuss was all about, and what of it I could steal for myself. In other words, critically. Maybe I never stopped listening to it critically, never gave it a chance to tether itself emotionally.
But there's also the possibility that it's simply harder to be sentimental about electronic music. I tried to make a playlist of electronic instrumentals that had sentimental value to me, and the only songs I could come up with were a couple Aphex Twin songs, a Squarepusher song, a William Basinski song (but from Melancholia, so somewhat different), and a Tim Hecker song. The question then is, why do I spend so much time listening to things I don't have a sentimental attachment to, and, more importantly, as I'm now making electronic music myself (or attempting to), what's the point of making music that I can't imagine other people becoming sentimental about? Nobody ever broke up with their girlfriend and cranked Selected Ambient Works vol. II for a week straight, did they? How do I get back from the pissing contest of look-how-many-weird-noises-I-can-make to being a sappy bastard?
I drop-tuned my guitar to DFCFGD last Wednesday on a whim, and within a few minutes I'd found two chords that, regardless of whatever effects I threw at them--distortion, delay, phaser--or not, were just emotionally expressive. They had the feeling of, "if I used this chord progression in a song, someone who listened to it would feel something." I wonder why something so easy on a guitar is so impossible on a laptop--all I ever get is, "maybe I'll sample this, it could be an interesting texture." Interesting is jack shit, really, when it comes to making an impression. My guess is that, without strings or keys (unless you are using a MIDI keyboard, in which case you are probably playing a softsynth, which is much more controllable but much less "experimental" than whacking a guitar signal through three different parallel granulators), it's hard to control elements such as harmony and chords.
I listened to The Notwist a lot last week, and a bunch of Morr Music stuff, who do manage to be sentimental in electronic music, but it seems most of those artists have one unprocessed element, usually vocals or guitar, that carries all the emotional weight, and all the digital elements are still relegated to texture. Of course, being the stubborn ass I am, I wonder if one could make the experimentalism carry the sentiment. Of course, the answer may very well be "no."
2. I myself have become overly critical. The past three or four paragraphs probably support this theory. Become too good at thinking twice and lost all my aptitude for blind emotional investment.
3. Both 1. and 2. are true.
There are exceptions, though. Mew's Frengers for example. Best days of last fall. Which was almost a year ago--Christ. Still, that's rock music.
Went to the Upright Citizens Brigade show at the Baltimore Improv Festival with Sarah K. and Jessica on Saturday. I'm always at least okay when Sarah K.'s around. Jessica asked me if she was still "special," and I said yeah, I guess so. It's just there are so few people whom I can be around indefinitely without becoming exhausted eventually, and that counts for something. Also I'm still somewhat fond of her, but whatever, it's not like that ever bore up to any thinking.
Jessica thinks I'm sad about everything all the time. Untrue. I am sad about some things sometimes. And, I suppose, a few select things most of the time, repeatedly, but still, that is not everything all the time.
Friday, August 3, 2007
21
21. 21 is such a hyped number. 21 years. Legal drinking. 21st century. In which we are living. Etc. etc. Yet it is not until you get there that you realize nothing has really changed. Of course, me being me, I anticipated that, but still, it can be a little disheartening, just a little, especially when one has been hanging on by fingernails waiting for something to become different as long as I have.
Nothing, that is, except for the sensation of being closer. I don't know when, where, or what it's going to be, but I have been anticipating a point in the not-so-distant future, upon reaching which I will simply crack, snap, and lose what remaining capacity I have for love and happiness, the last remnants of the forces holding my body and mind together. So easy to get to feeling like dried-up branches and withered shadows. I don't know what will happen after that. I don't know if anyone will care.
I'm usually okay at the very least. But sometimes I find myself intoxicated, shivering despite the summer heat, having fallen asleep without meaning to, and needing to find my way home, and after those times I'm never sure whether that state is a creation of intoxication or simply a revelation of it.
Certain people are no longer where I last left them. Not anything I could've done anything about. Can't do anything about anything. What is there to do? but to tap one foot on top of the other, and pronounce, "jolly good." Smile and pretend I don't remember anything at all. Remember, "you mean everything to me"? Just in my imagination.
I've been told I need to move. Can't. Nothing to move on to.
Sometimes I get this feeling that I had one chance for loving someone in a completely unhesitant, unquestioning way, and I blew it; henceforth no affection shall not be accompanied by skepticism and self-doubt.
I need to leave, I think. I need to get to a state of mind where this will all seem like such a terrible dream. Not be reminded at every turn. Not what I need now.
Reading something. I probably should not. Possibilities that might have been wasted for me a long time ago. Natural and real, but not for you and I. But now's not the time for clumsy Smiths references; now's time for Joy Division. Closer. Procession moves on, the shouting is over.
Maybe more sober and/or optimistic in the day?
Nothing, that is, except for the sensation of being closer. I don't know when, where, or what it's going to be, but I have been anticipating a point in the not-so-distant future, upon reaching which I will simply crack, snap, and lose what remaining capacity I have for love and happiness, the last remnants of the forces holding my body and mind together. So easy to get to feeling like dried-up branches and withered shadows. I don't know what will happen after that. I don't know if anyone will care.
I'm usually okay at the very least. But sometimes I find myself intoxicated, shivering despite the summer heat, having fallen asleep without meaning to, and needing to find my way home, and after those times I'm never sure whether that state is a creation of intoxication or simply a revelation of it.
Certain people are no longer where I last left them. Not anything I could've done anything about. Can't do anything about anything. What is there to do? but to tap one foot on top of the other, and pronounce, "jolly good." Smile and pretend I don't remember anything at all. Remember, "you mean everything to me"? Just in my imagination.
I've been told I need to move. Can't. Nothing to move on to.
Sometimes I get this feeling that I had one chance for loving someone in a completely unhesitant, unquestioning way, and I blew it; henceforth no affection shall not be accompanied by skepticism and self-doubt.
I need to leave, I think. I need to get to a state of mind where this will all seem like such a terrible dream. Not be reminded at every turn. Not what I need now.
Reading something. I probably should not. Possibilities that might have been wasted for me a long time ago. Natural and real, but not for you and I. But now's not the time for clumsy Smiths references; now's time for Joy Division. Closer. Procession moves on, the shouting is over.
Maybe more sober and/or optimistic in the day?
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