Meditations

Social interaction is an odd thing. It is the way by which humans function, but at the same time, it is so inherently dishonest for all but a few people here or there. We are driven by the need for positive perceptions of ourselves and reputations, so we tend to blunt our true selves in search of a truly inoffensive character. Naturally this does not extend to all people, at least on the conscious level of realizing they do it, but for the most part, it has become a standard of my life.

In ways, the ability to engineer ourselves towards some purpose gives us an advantage. We get to portray all of our fine aspects and hide the poor ones, or perhaps even create entirely new aspects for the sake of show. This is a tad cynical, but the world is a tad cynical, what with the globalization of image and attached concepts. It is difficult to strictly and patiently adhere to anything these days, we are such a schizophrenic society. At the same time, we are told to be true to ourselves by the wisdom of literature and philosophy, but what we are shown day to day through commercialism is so entirely contradictory.

What I have fashioned for myself is an image that causes people to underestimate me, the proverbial jester, so to speak. I originally created this persona back when it was becoming common knowledge that I was elitist. I was not elitist, it just so happened that I was introverted and did not usually feel inclined to share certain things with people. I still do not feel inclined to do so, so instead I distill things through the device of humor. This may seem intellectually dishonest, and it likely is. I sometimes feel bad about being this way, but so it goes. My fashioned disguise has its down points, so I'll count that as my penance for not being entirely candid.

Being underestimated is a two-edged sword. At the same time, it is an advantage for me because it means that I can slide in under the radar, while also being the mechanism through which most mockery directed at me is created. That is a natural aspect of being underrated, but most of the time, the mockery still hurts me. Whether it be my pride or the understanding that I don't deserve it because I generally hold good intentions, I do not know. Usually it does not bother me too much, but sometimes when I am not in the mood for such things, it breaks down my external tendencies and brings back my natural inclination to be quiet and introspective.

To tell the truth, I'm torn over the mere discussion of these ideas. I wish I were not so conscious of my motivations for every single action and course I take, but I am bereft of spontaneity, it seems. Of course I do random things, all the time in fact, but they only really seem random. There is a tangible level of observation and execution in the things I do. I'd actually be interested in shedding my external appearances, if not for the fact I think they've become too ingrained on my own actions. Memory itself is easy to alter, physical memory and conditioning is another thing altogether.

These meditations are probably fruitless, and will likely only serve to muddle my own concepts, but for the purpose of my sanity, they have to be said periodically. Rituals and habits are some of the greatest driving forces of humanity, so who am I to break with tradition?

Heads you live, tails you die.
Watch the copper piece gracefully fly.
Through the night air, lighted by moon
Your fate, it seems, will be decided soon.

Funny how life can be decided on whims,
By pieces of copper rolling 'round on their rims.

I have once again passed this site by with a period of absence that is quite considerable. That is something I never intend, nor plan, to do, but somehow it always seems to keep occurring. I apologize. On another hand, I will be taking the tone and intent of my writing down an entirely new road altogether, if I can manage to maintain my intellectual dedication for more than a month at a time.

I have been back at college now for exactly one month. It has been, all things considered, a very good month of life. I have met again with all my college friends, I have three pleasant, if not interesting roommates and one of my very good friends from Auburn has chosen a path that has led him to the same college as I. Furthermore, I have begun to enjoy a level of popularity and activity which I have never experienced in my past. I am president of my dorm, officer in other organizations and an active student on campus.

However, I am still mildly dissatisfied with my life. Mostly because my moral sense of being has seemingly eroded from beneath me. And nothing in the conservative right sense of morality, but rather in the foundation of my principles. I have been having fun, but I question whether or not my actions have undermined the character of my being.

Thus, I give you my meditation. Marcus Aurelius had his meditations, as did Descartes. I'm sure that my use of the term will only highlight my intellectual inferiority relatively compared to those two great philosophers, but at least it will give me an angle. I have a headache now though, so I will relent from saying more till later.

Actually, let me explain.

James Kilpatrick is a columnist for the Sun Journal, and probably several other papers in this country (on the order of 500, apparently), and writes editorials covering the national court system along with his less-widespread column called "The Writer's Art". This latter column appears Sundays on the Perspective Section backpage, a few rows underneath Dave Barry. To make a long story short, this man has caused me to loath a good number of aspects of the current literary academics. Among these aspects, elitism, arrogance and general nit-picking.

Mr. Kilpatrick writes this weekly article on his perceived felonies against the written word. Picking out such topics as redundancy in language and use of clichè in writing. This Sunday's article ripped to shreds the phrase "it remains to be seen", stating that any event that has not yet to occur remains to be seen, thus it is a pointless and amateurish phrase. He mocks several major and respectable publications for using such a phrase, and extends it to general literature and public figures. His egotistic assault on the phrase is one of the greatest examples of academic snobbery, that turn off the public to intellectuals and the like.

He ignores, for the sake of his petty and misguided abuse, the use of vernacular, and the fact that many people ill-use the english language as a means to be better comprehended by their peers. Contradictory sayings, enigmatic phrases and overused clichès compose a great part of our vernacular, regardless of Mr. Kilpatrick's exhortations and condemnations. It would seem that he would be better left to analysis of the courts, rather than extend the lawyer mentality to the quirks and foibles of the English and American language.

Mr. Kilpatrick, I use such phrases and sayings to increase the readability of my writing, rather than construct the impenetrable forcefield that you seem to expect of sophisticated literature. Every time I read a hopelessly pretentious and pedantic piece of writing, I shall think of you and your colleagues, and how you have befouled what otherwise might have been an enjoyable hobby or trade.

You should take tips on writing from the articles printed above yours, namely, those of Dave Barry. Because he sure as hell knows what he's doing better than you do.

-An Irate Reader

Must find more natural method of writing.

Must not unintentionally mimic writers I read, thus rendering my work null.

Must find interesting subject, and apply style creatively to make subject worth reading about.

Must gain endurance to write a long time on such a subject and develop it.

Must learn to drop everything and write right when I have a good idea, instead of 'waiting till later'.

Must remain disdainful of James Kilpatrick and his literary fascism.

One down, several to go.

Amusing Quote of the Day:

A little background. James is a friend of mine that works at Pizza Hut with me (oh, how I loathe to admit I work at Pizza Hut), and we do some pretty odd shit when we're bored. Hence, we've both pretty much progressed to our completely crude and callous methods of humor. Today, he came to work with a mild hangover and was bitching about it for a good portion of his shift. Boy, did he look like shit! His eyes were red, constantly half-closed against the fluorescent lights of the Hut, and it was fairly amusing to see him as such.

At one point, this happened-

James (speaking to me while I'm on the phone waiting for a customer to figure out what the fuck they want to eat, dumb bastards can't decide before they call): Hey, Nick, I'm gonna go get a shotgun, put it in my mouth and have you pull the trigger so I stop feeling like shit.

Nick (distracted and not really paying attention to what he is saying): You lazy bitch, use your fucking toe to pull the trigger.

I get the biggest kick out the fact I didn't even realize I was going to say it till I already had, so it was my natural response to a request for assisted suicide. We got a good laugh out of that.

Beyond that, I worked for 8 hours today, so I really don't have much else to relate. I'm almost finished Bluebeard, is about all.

Something must be wrong with me and my brain ---
if I'm so patently unrewarding.
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that
way --- and my zero to your power of ten equals
nothing at all.


Lately, I've been having difficulty writing on this site, though I've had multiple different ideas and thoughts to communicate to the precious few who might give a damn (at current estimate, I imagine maybe three people read this sporadically-updated pile of sod), I just haven't had the emotional gusto to do so. So it goes, oh well.

My bike was stolen, right out of my garage. I bought it at the beginning of summer and had ridden it maybe a half a dozen times. It cost me 75 bucks, and now it's gone. Just when I was beginning to think I lived in a decent neighborhood, humanity proves me wrong. It doesn't really bother me too much, seeing as how I had been forcing myself to ride it, without deriving the satisfaction from the activity that I used to derive as a kid. Apparently I've outgrown that also.

I've read 6 Kurt Vonnegut books in the past three weeks. Cat's Cradle, Player Piano, Breakfast of Champions, Timequake, Galapagos and Slaughterhouse Five(for the second time). Friends of mine, and some acquaintances, rightfully lauded him as one of the authors that I should begin reading. Something I don't understand though, most of those who recommended him told me to focus on his early work and only read his later work as an afterthought, because it had gotten so weird. I have read his first book (Player Piano) and his last (Timequake) and while I love both books, I like the writing style of late Vonnegut much more than early Vonnegut. It is also evident in Breakfast of Champions. I love his chaotic method of treating the world, it's so human.

Probably why my own attempts at writing have failed thus far, they haven't been true to my actual style, I've been trying to manufacture good tales. And while it is possible to manufacture good writing, it is so much easier if you're just honest with yourself.

Not to mention, I'm only 19. He wrote his first book in his late twenties when he was already married and possessing of children. He had been writing copy ads for an advertising firm. I can handle waiting and letting my skills develop independently. If I did too much now, I would just be parroting authors I read in school.

My mind is wandering though, I suppose I'm done for now. At least I posted.