I want to tell 16 year old me to chill the fuck out. Fondle some legs. Drink some beer.
Don't smoke weed though because all of your guilt and regret will hone in on the top of your brain with the pinpoint devastation of a laser, making all the more apparent your loneliness
as you sit stranded on stools, thinking about your life.
If I were to talk to 16 me I'd let him know what game to spit, what girls to talk to, what medusas who make him stone-cold to the core to avoid because he doesn't really believe in bros before hoes you know. If a girl has your tongue tripping over itself she's not the one you're looking for homes, I'd say as I'd pat his shoulder and flash him a smile. I'd talk to him with an irreverence reverberant of grandparents he never had.
I'd tell him to buy clothing with better material because he's going to go through a lot and shit rips easily, man.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
aSas
On the topic of talking to her and deciding I could take on the entire world in that single instance:
WHAT UP HOMES I FEEL YOU ON HOW YOU FEEL BUT YOU GOTTA GET OVER IT YA KNOW
Whenever I hear a particular guitar strumming it tends to make the waves in my heart move a little bit stronger and recede a little bit slower, each time its coming and going uncovering more memories I wanted to bury in the sands of forgetfulness. A chord here, a smile there. A strum here, a laugh there. There I am were at my best; thinking back on it makes me feel worse. In a quiet melody I see traces of faint memories I would like to leave behind. Time capsules or disgraced mementos, buried treasure or hidden traumas: unearthing history brings out the best and worst in all of us.
(What the fuck, you're too young to be so sentimental at your age. You know this, right?)
I'm old enough to know the more pressing issues of life but still too young to be completely rooted in the process. Questions without answers without knowing who or what is testing you; it's a terrifying thing to be involved in. The consequential anxiety derived from this awkward point in my life drifts silently in my conscience mind, with whispers of the precariousness nature of life always shaking my soul, keeping me from sleep. Growing up means recognizing just how infinitesimally small our understanding of life is, how our so-called boundless imaginations cannot even scratch the surface of the underlying tapestry of this world we're bounded to. To be knowledgeable is to realize that essentially you know nothing of the circumstances you're thrown in.
You don't think that's a petty way of looking at things? And even if you were to think in this way then why would you care so much about finding more about this world?
Despite the fact that everything bound by this realization should be rendered small, inconsequential, and especially insignificant I cannot escape the strangle of certain memories of attempting to define the boundaries of my soul; their fingers clasp tightly around the neck of my subconscious. The white light of fires I don't want to revive smolder in the unlit corners of what I believe to be my mind. They are the now incorporeal refuse of a dream that will never substantiate itself, now simply ghosts that dance around the delineation of my nostalgia and regret. I grasp at their ethereal tails only to have them slip between the cracks of my fingers, mocking my very human attempts to confine something much bigger than me. And yet I still try to conquer them so, with the verve of Alexander the Great without realizing that his greatness is simply our own device and creation and in the greater scheme of the universe he is an atom like the rest of us.
So?
So what I'm attempting to get at is that there is something much bigger that seems to propel us through life, some synapse or function within the brain operating ourselves in a machine, a complex to which we as cogs will never be able to fully comprehend. We see our gears rotating, the gears rotating with us, but will we ever see what the heck we're propelling in our efforts? Nope, no, nunca, never. C'est la vie, such is life.
Okay then.
Okay then. Back to the point of this: our pursuits in life are simply attempts at understanding what is what, or deluding us into thinking so. Or maybe it really is a way of comprehending what all of it means. It's the processing of a metonym: using constituents to define the very structure it composes. It's a gigantic jigsaw puzzle where we're using the corner pieces to guess the whole picture, and who the heck knows we may be right. David took down Goliath. Maybe within the puny scopes of our understanding we can define the impossible, who's to say. There's been stranger things in life.
What was my attempt anyway? My alchemy was love, or the defining of, as a means to understand what life was about. It is the will of the youth defy life through transfigurations; it is the will of the old to defy life through acceptance. By attempting to define the question is the route I took; by accepting life as unstable is the act of defiance you took. But back to the topic at hand. I tried so hard to understand her, and I learned a lot about her, but I never really understood the depth of her. I never felt that I really knew the essence of her. What she was continued to elude me constantly.
What was worse still was what I thought would be an anchor to hoist myself down in the chaos of life ended up being unraveling my understanding of self even more. I'd see my reflection in her eyes and obsess over whether it was really "me" talking to her, or the "me" that was just accustomed to her personality. What in turn was supposed to be a process of understanding ended up throwing my perception further into chaos. Trying to soak in the reality of this world only eluded my senses further. I don't understand how someone can define life on such uncertain terms such as love and truth, virtue and meaning.
I think the root of your disillusionment is that you guys didn't end on good terms.
...
...Maybe you shouldn't worry so much.
...
...And try to sleep more.
(notes on a therapy session between a self and his self 10 years into the future)
WHAT UP HOMES I FEEL YOU ON HOW YOU FEEL BUT YOU GOTTA GET OVER IT YA KNOW
Whenever I hear a particular guitar strumming it tends to make the waves in my heart move a little bit stronger and recede a little bit slower, each time its coming and going uncovering more memories I wanted to bury in the sands of forgetfulness. A chord here, a smile there. A strum here, a laugh there. There I am were at my best; thinking back on it makes me feel worse. In a quiet melody I see traces of faint memories I would like to leave behind. Time capsules or disgraced mementos, buried treasure or hidden traumas: unearthing history brings out the best and worst in all of us.
(What the fuck, you're too young to be so sentimental at your age. You know this, right?)
I'm old enough to know the more pressing issues of life but still too young to be completely rooted in the process. Questions without answers without knowing who or what is testing you; it's a terrifying thing to be involved in. The consequential anxiety derived from this awkward point in my life drifts silently in my conscience mind, with whispers of the precariousness nature of life always shaking my soul, keeping me from sleep. Growing up means recognizing just how infinitesimally small our understanding of life is, how our so-called boundless imaginations cannot even scratch the surface of the underlying tapestry of this world we're bounded to. To be knowledgeable is to realize that essentially you know nothing of the circumstances you're thrown in.
You don't think that's a petty way of looking at things? And even if you were to think in this way then why would you care so much about finding more about this world?
Despite the fact that everything bound by this realization should be rendered small, inconsequential, and especially insignificant I cannot escape the strangle of certain memories of attempting to define the boundaries of my soul; their fingers clasp tightly around the neck of my subconscious. The white light of fires I don't want to revive smolder in the unlit corners of what I believe to be my mind. They are the now incorporeal refuse of a dream that will never substantiate itself, now simply ghosts that dance around the delineation of my nostalgia and regret. I grasp at their ethereal tails only to have them slip between the cracks of my fingers, mocking my very human attempts to confine something much bigger than me. And yet I still try to conquer them so, with the verve of Alexander the Great without realizing that his greatness is simply our own device and creation and in the greater scheme of the universe he is an atom like the rest of us.
So?
So what I'm attempting to get at is that there is something much bigger that seems to propel us through life, some synapse or function within the brain operating ourselves in a machine, a complex to which we as cogs will never be able to fully comprehend. We see our gears rotating, the gears rotating with us, but will we ever see what the heck we're propelling in our efforts? Nope, no, nunca, never. C'est la vie, such is life.
Okay then.
Okay then. Back to the point of this: our pursuits in life are simply attempts at understanding what is what, or deluding us into thinking so. Or maybe it really is a way of comprehending what all of it means. It's the processing of a metonym: using constituents to define the very structure it composes. It's a gigantic jigsaw puzzle where we're using the corner pieces to guess the whole picture, and who the heck knows we may be right. David took down Goliath. Maybe within the puny scopes of our understanding we can define the impossible, who's to say. There's been stranger things in life.
What was my attempt anyway? My alchemy was love, or the defining of, as a means to understand what life was about. It is the will of the youth defy life through transfigurations; it is the will of the old to defy life through acceptance. By attempting to define the question is the route I took; by accepting life as unstable is the act of defiance you took. But back to the topic at hand. I tried so hard to understand her, and I learned a lot about her, but I never really understood the depth of her. I never felt that I really knew the essence of her. What she was continued to elude me constantly.
What was worse still was what I thought would be an anchor to hoist myself down in the chaos of life ended up being unraveling my understanding of self even more. I'd see my reflection in her eyes and obsess over whether it was really "me" talking to her, or the "me" that was just accustomed to her personality. What in turn was supposed to be a process of understanding ended up throwing my perception further into chaos. Trying to soak in the reality of this world only eluded my senses further. I don't understand how someone can define life on such uncertain terms such as love and truth, virtue and meaning.
I think the root of your disillusionment is that you guys didn't end on good terms.
...
...Maybe you shouldn't worry so much.
...
...And try to sleep more.
(notes on a therapy session between a self and his self 10 years into the future)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
lol wuzzat
It seems like everyone's getting up while I'm still trying to sleep in. I don't get how everyone can wake up so early either! I keep hearing alarms in my head too, but I haven't felt a particular urgency to answer them until now. It makes me want to hit the snooze button on life. I know that it'll continually ring and I will inevitably wake up. I'll have to answer that ringing in my head eventually. Shuffle out of my bed and take responsibility and seize the day and all that. But dammit, come on. Let me sleep in a little longer. Have you been outside at all? The sun hasn't even risen yet!
Time is ticking, ti-time is ticking ticking, time is ticking, ti-time is ticking away! One year ago I was in fifth grade and committed to getting into Harvard, one month ago I was a junior in high school obsessing over my SATs and trying to get into Northwestern, and one week ago I was ditching all of my obligations to see some girl because I settled on going to UCI. Yesterday I was a starry-eyed freshman amazed at how huge the campus was. And today? I'm a second year stressed on some midterm I'll forget about as soon as I finish taking it.
What the heck happened to you Rante!? At some point in my life, when I listened to bands I loved in high school and realized how shitty they were now, when I decided to reread my favorite novels and realized how boring I found them, when I stopped seeing people from high school because I just didn't get them (and them me) anymore, I changed. I don't want to admit it but I did. I look at old xanga posts and think to myself, "woooow really man. You're such a tool." It seems like I'm lost in transit. Everyone woke up and went to college, everyone boarded the train on time, and everyone is speeding off to the next stage of their lives. And you? You're still trying to rub the drowsiness out of your eyes. Sheesh, get on the ball man.
People have either: A) pursued their subject of study with such a vivacity as meant to accomplish dreams or B) so indulged in the irresponsibility acquired in their high school that college is the catalyst for fucking your life up even more. I shouldn't say either, either. I mean, people don't necessarily fall in one category or the other; there are a bunch of people that fall in the cracks in between, doing a little of both, leaning one way or the other. It's just that category A) and category B) are the most apparent in my scope of vision.
To all those writers and poets and musicians and doctors and lawyers and veterinarians and teachers and all those others involving themselves in a profession that will both fulfill and substantiate their lives, aka those pursuant of a dream:
You bastards! Do you realize how lucky you are?! Be thankful!
I'm sorry. I'm just really jealous.
I figured that if I pursued my interests something would pop up eventually. Out of all the subjects in school, I enjoyed reading and writing the most, so I put two and two together and declared myself an English major. It's not like I have much else. I don't have the patience to commit science to memory, I get my numbers mixed up and can't do the math, and I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face for social studies. How about a foreign language? Homie I haven't even mastered English yet; why go for a second language when you hardly know the intricacies of the first?
But anyway, with no real plan in my head, I hoped that by following the faint etchings of my major I'd stumble upon something that would bring some definition to my life. As if one day goals and dreams just drop into someone's head and they see their life plans in moments of brilliance. "You mean it's not that easy? Aw, shucks." Perpetual motion is non-existent. There is no such thing as a thing that substantiates itself. For every reaction there is an impetus behind it.
If anything, being an English major has managed to make me worse off. I mean, I still legitimately enjoy what I learn. I don't, however, like my peers. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely great English majors. Nice people. Decent folk. Basically, I'm not saying that every person is reprehensible; it's like life. There's good and bad people. It just seems that in every class I'm stuck with the bad portion of it.
English in UCI, despite the fact that it's nationally ranked, within the single digits, and has prestige in both its staff and its program, is the major within the school with the highest admission rate. It's something that confuses me. With a relatively high number of applicants and a great program, it makes sense that... it'd be less selective than lower ranked schools? But anyway, all of the negative archetypes of people associated with my major are here. There are the people that raise their hands in class to use their desks as podiums, expounding to the professor about their very wrong opinions to practice being the professors they aspire to be, the girls who want to write the next Twilight saga, the smug assholes who describe themselves as well-read and articulate, and of course, the aspiring writers who think themselves akin to Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Steinbeck as they bask in the glory of their latest, masterfully written Star Wars fiction. Watch out America. Your literary landscape is about to be broken with FANFICTION.
Ahem. Excuse me though, that criticism is neither here nor there. I thought I'd find someone that would understand me but so far I haven't. Within a major that loses cultural/social relevance everyday, wouldn't you be more freaked out for your well-being? In a specialization that finds itself increasingly unimportant, wouldn't there be any one person in any of my classes who are as freaked out in life as me in finding a job to anchor some stability on? Apparently not. Everyone seems pretty satisfied with their lot; everyone seems pretty assured that their dreams will work out. I talked to a professor about this, about this mounting crisis of joblessness and futility and whatnot that buzzes incessantly in the back of my mind, and when I told her I was a sophomore, she simply said it was too soon for my to be worrying about all of that.
Is there a specific time when I'm supposed to worry? Am I not old enough to worry, is that it?
Haaaaaaaaah. Maybe I'm taking life too seriously.
Someone told me that as long as I keep my grades up and study hard opportunities will shine like diamonds to me. But will they be the opportunities I want? What the heck DO I want?
When I was 16 all I really wanted in life was to live quietly with a girl I liked in a cozy apartment in the city. After my shitty 9-5 job I'd spend the rest of the day with her cooking, talking, and reading. But that kind of thinking is both naive and foolish, I'd find out later. Later being now. A hah hah.
Hmm. Writing this made me feel better. I feel that it's losing a lot of momentum and I should just let it end early before it crashes. It's kind of aimless, but I hope it was written nicely. What I mean to say is, dreams are very nice things and I really should find one to pursue seriously. I think I'm going to try to invest myself more in English and pursue a master's at the very least. Maybe the stars will align and illuminate the way I'm supposed to go or something, who knows.
Time is ticking, ti-time is ticking ticking, time is ticking, ti-time is ticking away! One year ago I was in fifth grade and committed to getting into Harvard, one month ago I was a junior in high school obsessing over my SATs and trying to get into Northwestern, and one week ago I was ditching all of my obligations to see some girl because I settled on going to UCI. Yesterday I was a starry-eyed freshman amazed at how huge the campus was. And today? I'm a second year stressed on some midterm I'll forget about as soon as I finish taking it.
What the heck happened to you Rante!? At some point in my life, when I listened to bands I loved in high school and realized how shitty they were now, when I decided to reread my favorite novels and realized how boring I found them, when I stopped seeing people from high school because I just didn't get them (and them me) anymore, I changed. I don't want to admit it but I did. I look at old xanga posts and think to myself, "woooow really man. You're such a tool." It seems like I'm lost in transit. Everyone woke up and went to college, everyone boarded the train on time, and everyone is speeding off to the next stage of their lives. And you? You're still trying to rub the drowsiness out of your eyes. Sheesh, get on the ball man.
People have either: A) pursued their subject of study with such a vivacity as meant to accomplish dreams or B) so indulged in the irresponsibility acquired in their high school that college is the catalyst for fucking your life up even more. I shouldn't say either, either. I mean, people don't necessarily fall in one category or the other; there are a bunch of people that fall in the cracks in between, doing a little of both, leaning one way or the other. It's just that category A) and category B) are the most apparent in my scope of vision.
To all those writers and poets and musicians and doctors and lawyers and veterinarians and teachers and all those others involving themselves in a profession that will both fulfill and substantiate their lives, aka those pursuant of a dream:
You bastards! Do you realize how lucky you are?! Be thankful!
I'm sorry. I'm just really jealous.
I figured that if I pursued my interests something would pop up eventually. Out of all the subjects in school, I enjoyed reading and writing the most, so I put two and two together and declared myself an English major. It's not like I have much else. I don't have the patience to commit science to memory, I get my numbers mixed up and can't do the math, and I don't think I'd be able to keep a straight face for social studies. How about a foreign language? Homie I haven't even mastered English yet; why go for a second language when you hardly know the intricacies of the first?
But anyway, with no real plan in my head, I hoped that by following the faint etchings of my major I'd stumble upon something that would bring some definition to my life. As if one day goals and dreams just drop into someone's head and they see their life plans in moments of brilliance. "You mean it's not that easy? Aw, shucks." Perpetual motion is non-existent. There is no such thing as a thing that substantiates itself. For every reaction there is an impetus behind it.
If anything, being an English major has managed to make me worse off. I mean, I still legitimately enjoy what I learn. I don't, however, like my peers. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely great English majors. Nice people. Decent folk. Basically, I'm not saying that every person is reprehensible; it's like life. There's good and bad people. It just seems that in every class I'm stuck with the bad portion of it.
English in UCI, despite the fact that it's nationally ranked, within the single digits, and has prestige in both its staff and its program, is the major within the school with the highest admission rate. It's something that confuses me. With a relatively high number of applicants and a great program, it makes sense that... it'd be less selective than lower ranked schools? But anyway, all of the negative archetypes of people associated with my major are here. There are the people that raise their hands in class to use their desks as podiums, expounding to the professor about their very wrong opinions to practice being the professors they aspire to be, the girls who want to write the next Twilight saga, the smug assholes who describe themselves as well-read and articulate, and of course, the aspiring writers who think themselves akin to Fitzgerald, Faulkner and Steinbeck as they bask in the glory of their latest, masterfully written Star Wars fiction. Watch out America. Your literary landscape is about to be broken with FANFICTION.
Ahem. Excuse me though, that criticism is neither here nor there. I thought I'd find someone that would understand me but so far I haven't. Within a major that loses cultural/social relevance everyday, wouldn't you be more freaked out for your well-being? In a specialization that finds itself increasingly unimportant, wouldn't there be any one person in any of my classes who are as freaked out in life as me in finding a job to anchor some stability on? Apparently not. Everyone seems pretty satisfied with their lot; everyone seems pretty assured that their dreams will work out. I talked to a professor about this, about this mounting crisis of joblessness and futility and whatnot that buzzes incessantly in the back of my mind, and when I told her I was a sophomore, she simply said it was too soon for my to be worrying about all of that.
Is there a specific time when I'm supposed to worry? Am I not old enough to worry, is that it?
Haaaaaaaaah. Maybe I'm taking life too seriously.
Someone told me that as long as I keep my grades up and study hard opportunities will shine like diamonds to me. But will they be the opportunities I want? What the heck DO I want?
When I was 16 all I really wanted in life was to live quietly with a girl I liked in a cozy apartment in the city. After my shitty 9-5 job I'd spend the rest of the day with her cooking, talking, and reading. But that kind of thinking is both naive and foolish, I'd find out later. Later being now. A hah hah.
Hmm. Writing this made me feel better. I feel that it's losing a lot of momentum and I should just let it end early before it crashes. It's kind of aimless, but I hope it was written nicely. What I mean to say is, dreams are very nice things and I really should find one to pursue seriously. I think I'm going to try to invest myself more in English and pursue a master's at the very least. Maybe the stars will align and illuminate the way I'm supposed to go or something, who knows.
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