9.14.11

Certainty
Sometimes it seems like the certainty of life is not like the certainty of death; you'd think God would give us more guarantees than one. Of course, He probably did, but who are we to remember?

You may counter with the point of revelation and I may agree with you; but I feel like explaining revelation is like explaining whats inside a black box that you cannot see and that belongs to someone else. Its like those people that make their own cars; sometimes you get to ride in it - blindfolded - but perhaps the only thing you really know about it is the incredible roar of the engine and the rush you feel when you're taken somewhere new. I guess the trick is to always have your thumb out; thumbs get tired though.

Ironic how it feels sometimes like the need for certainty only aggravates the fear of certainty. How certain are we supposed to be about things?

"Um, I think I'd like to wait on that," she said. I had just tried to kiss her, botched it, and asked her if I could have another go. I told her some load of crap about how that was okay - about how I didn't want her to get the wrong impression or anything. Ironic...

"Someone else took your place," she said. I had just explained to her that although I had not thought that I had been interested at first, as I got to know her I started to notice a feeling of...joy. And not joy in the sense of excitement, more like a peaceful joy, a kind of summer-evening contentment.

"I feel like I should wait for you," she said over the phone. I had just arrived home from school and was preparing to leave the country for two years. We had been talking for a while, mostly about the whole two-year thing. It seemed like it was pretty hard for her to let go; why wasn't it for me?

She's married now; their new child is beautiful.

"Why do I have to experience all of this? Is it, what, so I can write better?" she asked, somewhat rhetorically. I had just parked the car and was trying to think of the best cure for her ailment. I knew it then, but have since forgotten; funny how medicine seems to work better on the relatively young. Maybe my body is just building up immunities.

9.12.11

Brave
Hero-bashing seems popular these days; advocating for the non-existence of the dreams us children have dancing in our heads. Hawkeye says that, "Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, [a hero is] somebody who's tired enough and cold enough and hungry enough not to give a damn. I don't give a damn."

Once I was mountain-biking with some friends in a competition. At one point, we took a shortcut through some very difficult switchbacks. It was an intense climb, but I kept pushing harder. I pulled easily ahead of the others; at the top I let our a roar.

Later on, we took a wrong turn that put us about a mile off course. As we were walking back to where we had turned, my legs kept shaking and cramping; we had been out of water for a while. I was exhausted; angry. I wanted to have an excuse to quit. Finally, I threw down my bike and exclaimed that I was finished. "No you're not," a friend said. I picked up my bike and kept walking; ashamed.

There was a man in my mind both times. I hated him for being right and ignored him because he was. Why should I listen when its not what I want? Heresy.

Once during a class a boy in the back was asking a lot of questions; he was having particular trouble understanding that day. Another boy sitting just behind me was quietly laughing and whispering to the girl next to him. I felt this was unfair; it made me angry, but at the same time it felt slightly different from anger, almost...like a sadness. At one point I turned around and rebuked him. He was furious, I was...conflicted. He told me to "get off my high horse." Thinking about it still makes me angry and sad at the same time.

Its a long way to fall when you get bucked off your high horse.

One time I came to a four-way stop and got there just after the car to my left. He hesitated which annoyed me, so I cut in front of him. What do I care if he's too stupid to make a decision? As I passed him, he honked. I looked at him, flipped him off, and sped away. At the next stoplight, he got out of his car and approached me, furious. I had nothing to say; my mind searched frantically for justifications, excuses, lies.

Afterwards, I pulled into a nearby parking lot and wept.

Last night my roommate - who is studying to be a paramedic - needed to practice putting in an IV. I was annoyed that I would be put in such a position. As he stuck the syringe into my hand, pulled out the needle, and began to wipe up my blood, I noticed his hands were shaking. As I think about it now, I wonder: who was the one being brave?

9.9.11

 
I find myself afraid to look within and seek to define. Am I afraid I will be wrong? Yes. But what else am I afraid of? Perhaps I avoid the kitchen as much as possible because I still have not washed the dishes. I eat in my room these days.

Work
The hours I have spent in this office.

The song says: "I went to a whore; she said my life's a bore. So quit my whining cause its bringing her down. Sometimes I give myself the creeps." This part of this song always reminds me of the Catcher in the Rye, which is a book I didn't like because nothing happens.

Sometimes in life, nothing happens. And suddenly you find yourself not wanting anything to happen.

"Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me."

Friends
So many of my friends have come and gone.

I remember attending a party and, as part of a sort-of game, kissing a girl I didn't know. As I think of the kiss, I think of the feeling; though I do not think of the feeling then - which I think was mostly one of uncertainty - I think of what I want to feel now. The longing of a kiss; trying to remake the memory in my mind, add onto it, prolonging the scene and repeat it to try and grasp at something. And soon the kiss means more to me; she means more to me - or at least the idea of her means more, even though she, as I now hold her in my mind, does not exist; has no name; has no purpose except as the subject of my emotion; as the means for my mental expression.

A friend once approached me troubled; I told her it would all work out. I cried when she left.

It did end up working out though.

Religion
I see a chapel; two stories; beautiful brick. Its roof is rounded to give it a barn-like aspect; it has a large, round window at its front which looks out from the second story. I have never been inside the building.

The chapel is surrounded by low concrete walls that separate it from the buildings and houses adjacent. The walls are covered with graffiti, mostly indecipherable. But one phrase stands out: "Maradona es Dios y Messi es el Salvador." It is rather comical, but I wonder about the intention of the writer; what child is this?

Anger
I met with a leader of my local church - my bishop - and he asked me about my language. I told him it was improving. He told me that profanity was the attempt of a weak mind to express itself strongly. I just agreed with everything he said after that and it worked - I was out of his office in less than ten minutes.

I think I was actually was improving until yesterday; but my bishop will never know about yesterday.

Dreams
Two excerpts from a dream journal I used to keep:

"Night of 4/24/2008 - I remember teaching a little boy that 'bad words are for those who are afraid of life'. I remember seeing the boy later, as he was leaving, and reviewing that phrase with him."

"Night of 8/31/2008 - My dream was very movie like. I remember at the beginning of the movie there were two lovers. They were not human; more fish-like, and I remember that they somehow formed two children. I was one of those children and the other was my sister. We started to grow up, but then one night a fish came to where my sister and I were sleeping and took her. Somehow we got her back, but she was badly injured. My parents stayed with her while I went to find someone who could help her.

I think the first people I met were two women in a town next to where our house was. I remember that our house was very humble, but we lived next to a town with a lot of affluence; there were large buildings and even a cathedral. So I went to the town and found two women, but they were high on drugs and couldn't help. They recommended that I go find another doctor. I can't  remember the name they said, but I remember that they said that it would be difficult for me to convince this certain doctor to care for my sister. I went to find her anyway because such was my worry for my sister that I didn't care what it would take to heal her.

I remember finding the doctor to whom I had been referred and that, like I had been told, she was very reluctant to come with me. I remember talking to her for some time and trying to convince her. Finally, she agreed to come with me, but only after I went into some detail about the pain and suffering my sister was going through.

I remember we then flew back to where my house was. When the doctor I was with saw all the riches with which we were surrounded, she got very excited. I remember that one of the streets between two of the houses was actually made of diamonds. We landed and she began to look at the incredible riches all around us. My house was right around the corner and she finally came after my calling her several times.

When we got there I asked how my sister was and my parents responded that she was actually recovering. I remember her walking around; she still looked hurt and bruised, but she had obviously recovered. I remember thinking about how sure I had been during my search that only a doctor could save my sister. Then something very interesting happened. I remember my father asked the doctor if she wanted to keep and raise my sister. The woman was so touched that she began to cry and we all cried for joy with her. She said yes and that was the end."

9.7.11

I have decided to try and take a slightly new direction here in my blog. This new direction constitutes something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable as it has to do with being completely honest; with attempting to be genuine. I hope you will indulge me in this experiment.

You must understand that I am a performer; an actor. Since early childhood I remember passionately seeking the attention and approval of others. This has deeply affected my life, although I do not wish to imply as to whether these effects have been completely positive or negative. I would imagine that as it is with most things in life, so it is here: it has been both.

However, I do believe there are some ill effects that I have not come to terms with and reconciled. You see, the performer, in his rapture with approval, perpetuates within himself the idea of control, of power. He seeks to present a flawless character to his audience. And lest you be deceived, he does not always seek to present a perfect person, but a believable counterfeit to the audience's preferences; the art of the performer is to make you believe that he is what you - deeply or superficially - want him to be.

The performer therefore becomes an incredible liar. He learns early on that flat-out lies are easily perceived and so learns quickly how to emulate truth; how to twist it to his advantage. He becomes a disciple of exaggeration and bias. Soon he is the social chameleon, basing his actions and mannerisms on simple mental games that he continuously employs, reviews, and updates. He will observe all realms of human approval as a reference to update his methods. Religion, humor, fashion, culture, language, all are tools of the actor - means whereby he impersonates knowledge, stability, and superiority.

Eventually he begins to believe his lies; his performances become his character. He views himself as more than a man, as a prodigy. Audiences that disapprove are ironically viewed as subordinate by him; his tight sphere of approval has cemented his mental superiority and continually justifies his assumptions - conscious and unconscious - of righteousness and control. He is powerful in this sphere; in his sphere.

The greatest horror to the actor is to be embarrassed; to lose control over his sphere; to be wrong; to lose the approval of others, or at least the perception of approval. Thus, the fear of losing control dominates his life. He labels emotions as untrustworthy and passionately tries to suppress them. He inevitably views himself as a fixer: each situation is simply a problem to which his sphere has a solution. And always there is judgement: anything - people especially - that operates outside his sphere of security is viewed as a potential threat, as a possible means to embarrassment. The actor rejects these things and labels them; un-comfort to him is synonymous with "wrong".

And again, although internally the performer seeks to eradicate emotion (anything "surprising" or "unexpected" being viewed as irrational and dangerous) and dismiss empathy, he is wonderfully good at feigning these principles. He will smile and laugh and will feel nothing; he will wonder what possesses you to hurt while he tells you he understands. All reenforcing his sphere, creating the ghosts of personalities while emotionally and mentally imploding.

I am that man; an actor. As such I have struggled intensely with the idea of being genuine, with "being myself": my personality has always been a means to an end. Changing this about myself is, I think, something that would bring me great happiness and allow me to be the means of greater happiness in the lives of others. Perhaps this is part of what Christ meant when He encouraged us to lose our lives that we might find them.

For this purpose, I would like to consciously try to make my words here reflect the truth of myself: my thoughts, my emotions, my faults, my honest humanity. I cannot say whether this will help - perhaps it will simply turn into an actor's exploitation of quasi-truths - but I think that this unknown is actually the point: to allow any possibility to be.

8.25.11

Pop reviews: M*A*S*H (part 1)
Part one of my review will feature the first of three styles to which I think the show adhered: the comic.

Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper John McIntyre are featured here as spectators to the regular attempts of a lone Korean pilot (christened "Five O'clock Charlie" by the same) to bomb the 4077th's munitions depot. This photo and scene epitomizes the comic style of the first four seasons of M*A*S*H: a cultural phenomenon that would shake the world, thereby causing the moon to crash into Canada.

The first four seasons: these were the days of Executive Producer Gene Reynolds and head writer Larry Gelbart (the original developer of the series). As such, the script for each show seemed like a comedic masterpiece.

Not yet indulging in the endless puns and tongue-in-cheek one-liners of later seasons, these earlier comedy tones brought together an unlikely combination of witty remarks, practical jokes, deadpan gestures, and medical sarcasm - a mixture surprisingly un-jumbled and delightfully paced. Comedy, especially in pop cultural, is a difficult balance to produce - what between the words, the characters, and the situation - is it reactionary, situational, characteristic or uncharacteristic?

In M*A*S*H the writing shows its quality in the depth of its characters within the unpredictable nature of its setting. As a war-time comedy, one might expect frequent references to dark humor, but not so in M*A*S*H - the show instead would be better classified as a humor in the dark, a stunning representation of the purgatory-like nature of the situation: a battle to save lives amidst death.

The dichotomy of the setting allows the writers to highlight the same in the characters, each one uniquely portraying his or her disgust for war and simultaneous passion for life (the opposite being true for the show's antagonists). This leads to frequent emotional highs - both light and dark - for the characters and the audience, producing a combination which establishes of the humor of the series as an almost heroic achievement.

HIGH (beginning)
"Frank Burns [practicing his recitation for a film to be made about the 4077th]: 'These are the saints in surgical garb, dedicated surgeons, all volunteers. Every red-blooded American knows, if he is wounded, he will be in the strong, capable hands of a Yankee Doodle Doctor.'
Hawkeye, Trapper: A Yankee Doodle Doctor?! Stuck a feather in his nurse and called her macaroni!"

LOW (end)
"Hawkeye: Three hours ago, this man was in a battle. Two hours ago, we operated on him. He's got a 50-50 chance. We win some, we lose some. That's what it's all about. No promises. No guaranteed survival. No saints in surgical garb. Our willingness, our experience, our technique are not enough. Guns, and bombs, and anti-personnel mines have more power to take life than we have to preserve it. Not a very happy ending for a movie. But then, no war is a movie."

Genius.

- Sidney Freedman

7.29.11

Some old memories I thought you might enjoy :)

"Two households, both alike in dignity,

in Belfast city, where we lay our scene"

 "Put up your swords; you know not what you do"

"If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down."

 "B: Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

M: If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark."

"Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline.
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad."

"Why, is not this better now than groaning for love?"

"M: And but one word with one of us? couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. 

T: You shall find me apt enough to that, an you will give me occasion."

"A plague o' both your houses!
They have made worms' meat of me"

"P: Who began this bloody fray?

B: Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay"

Thanks, Mom :)

Thanks, guys - still my bros.

Thanks also to Whelan, Jamie, Carly, Tim, Kevin, and everyone else. I still look back on this experience with immense joy and delight - I may even recite some of the old lines to myself from time to time, but don't tell anybody ;)

6.9.11

Enjoy :)