Book of Tangents

Preface

I've been thinking about starting this, a "mini-project" of mine, if you will, for a while now, and I'm just now getting around to it. The following literature (if you can call it that) will represent my candid thoughts and musings as they pass through my mind and diffuse through my fingers to this digital medium in an attempt to make any sense at all out of my seemingly sporadic thought process (chaos theory, anyone?).

Oh, a bit of a warning. I'm not sure exactly what might occur in this thread, so you are heretofore warned that what you read from now on is at your own discretion. I probably wont be obscenely vulgar, though. You also might encounter what would "vents" or "rants" here, so be ready for those. It has come to my attention that attempting to put the amorphous blob of my thoughts here in pixels undoubtedly brings along with it a nature that is quite amorphous in itself. Pretty much be ready for anything =P

Comments are appreciated, but please don't post them here =)

1979

"That we don't even care as restless as we are
We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts
And poured cement, lamented and assured
To the lights and towns below
Faster than the speed of sound
Faster than we thought we'd go, beneath the sound of hope"

Smooth chords roll over me, waves that bring in memories with the rising tide: choppy and jaded, crisp and refined-as something that has been fragmented-dashed beyond recognition-and pieced together again would be. Long summer nights spent calling for the despairing dawn; dazed afternoons meshed with bright stadium lights and evergreen grass grown old with fatigue; mosquito bites and camel-baks; eerie orange streetlights crossed with dismal gray overcast; lonely rural roads flanked by blankets of deep fog; sleepy bus rides and lustful cold creeping through clouded windows; soft rain bringing in calm to the lost child, tap-tap-tap; the bittersweet smell of reluctant acceptance of denial lingering, now fading, fading, fading, slower, softer...

"We were sure we'd never see an end to it all
And I don't even care to shake these zipper blues
And we don't know
Just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess..."

Stand and Deliver

And who among us can say that he is perfect? Is it not in our nature, in our conscience, to correct in ourselves what we deem to be fallible in others? Some would say so. But there is he who is the cynic, and he who is the obstinate. And who among us can strike harmony from two conflicting pitches? Surely none other than he that would persevere to make dissonance resound and carry forth in the same manner as that which our preconceived notions inform us is nothing short of splendor.

And he would stand and deliver:

Come, look at what we've done. Bring not your green hearts, but your green eyes instead; hatred oft born of envy is a perilous double-edged blade indeed. And so wrathful you would become, so lusting of sanguinary satisfaction, that come too late you will realize it is your own blood which has blinded you. But betrayal runs deep; these cataracts would show no quarter.

Edited Log 1: My Piece

[00] Ninja : Gah.
[00] Ninja : I don't want to leave home but I don't even know why -_-
[00] The Oracle : xD
[00] Ninja : I have to rid myself of this irrational "fear"
[00] The Oracle : XD
[00] Ninja : I have to find out what's anchoring me to this place and fix it.
[00] The Oracle : It's not irriational, idiot.
[00] The Oracle : And, yeah, I meant that.
[00] The Oracle : You'll be leaving HOME. The place you've resided with people yo ucan rely on .
[00] Ninja : Of course, the answer might well be simpler than I think.
[00] The Oracle : you can rely on*
[00] The Oracle : It's not a fear, it's just reasonable apprehension to the huge change that leaving will be.
[00] Ninja : Due to my many moves and escapades, my psyche rejects change as much as possible and seeks constancy (I don't even care if that's not a word).
[00] The Oracle : consistency?
[00] Ninja : Constant.
[00] Ninja : Different than consistent.
[00] The Oracle : Well, they cross definitions at point.
[00] The Oracle : points*
[00] Ninja : A very fine point.
[00] The Oracle : And that'd be one. XD
[00] Ninja : Of course, depending upon the viewpoint, a point is an indefinable figure of geometry. It can be as small or as large as one pleases.
[00] The Oracle : lulz
[00] Ninja : Earth is a point in the universe, I am a point on the Earth, a blood cell is a point in my body etc etc etc
[00] Ninja : For my purposes, I have chosen that point to be a minute one which does not coincide with my rhetoric.
[00] Ninja : Therefore, I have rejected the reality of language and substituted my own commonality.
[00] The Oracle : Ahh, avoidance.
[00] Ninja : (Slang)
[00] The Oracle : lulz
[00] The Oracle : You shouldn't be so silly.
[00] Ninja : Hmph.
[00] Ninja : Ahhh, but there's more to it that you don't know.
[00] Ninja : And, on that note, I bid you good night.
[00] The Oracle : It'd be easier to take "Screw you, I'm keeping my made up word!" seriously.
[00] The Oracle : Nightsies.
[00] The Oracle : Don't let the bed bugs bite. The live wild. ;_;
[00] Ninja : May your thoughts turn over that statement for a couple of hours.
[00] The Oracle : they*
[00] The Oracle : I probably won't.
[00] The Oracle : I just thought of it for a quick seocnd, and a plethora of possibilities presented themselves, none I felt like exploring.
[00] Ninja : Meh. Your loss? Not really. More of a loss for me, ironically? Most probably.
[00] Ninja : Why a loss for me?
[00] Ninja : You can imagine that one as you like, I should think.

Oracle and I discoursing on human nature, apprehensiveness to change, rhetoric and geometry as they intangibly relate to each other. Puzzles pieces in a 4 dimensional plane. There's Algebra for you, as well.

Surely a fear without sustenance or foundation must be irrational?

What does it matter, though, with the passing time? Such is the essential futility of being human. Not having the full knowledge and comprehension of being a mere mortal being, but not possessing control over the unyielding domain of yoctoseconds, of seconds, of minutes, of hours, days, years, decades, centuries, millenia-all of it. Knowing that no matter the magnitude or cunning of our resistance, our fabricated measurement of (unrestrained) time will always pass by illimitlessly; whether we get left behind as dust in the passive breeze is surely a choice matter of persistance.

Evident in the annals of my own experience and drawn from my observations of others (for anything not directly conjured up by one's mind is here considered an observation) are pieces-miniscule fragments-of a "genome" which entails all humanity. These hints, although they can be joined only by fathomless amounts of effort and collaboration, give way to a so-called "greater meaning"-the internal subconscious "meaning of life", if you will. What is our purpose? What are we made for? Is it predestined or preordained? These, although they press nearly beyond the limits of philosophy, are of trifling value when compared to the droning Why? mysteries. If our purpose is predestined, then why should we fulfill it?

I should assume myself correct in assuming that not a large proportion of the Earth's population lose sleep over such "perplexing" matters. Do they take their lives for granted? Or are they simply fulfilling...what? They work diligently, as always, to help us come closer to our answer, yet they know not that they do so, or perhaps what they do. Just as it is the predator's innate instinct to hunt, so it must be the human's innate instinct to live.

But in the necessary tide of events, we often find ourselves clinging, unsure, to anchors. Fearful of drowning or despairing, indecision to let go soon seethes at our insides, boiling and portending ill fortune. Is it worth the risk? Is it worth the heartbreak? Is it worth the while?

The answer, my friends, is blowing in the water.

That answer, though it comes in the form of a question, may be the limit to this discussion. But perhaps, in a paradoxical way, we have stumbled upon our answer as I am typing and you, my reader, are reading. Pushing past limits...is that what it all comes out to?

Here is my piece. Now I can only hope that it shall be put to good use. If not by myself and others , then it shall be wasted away upon, eroded by time until our forumlated solution wears away into the backlight of the shfiting sands of question and passion.

Senses

I am filled with a voracious appetite for knowledge, knowledge that man has attempted to scrounge into a heaping pile for all of his entirety in existence. To my knowledge he has failed in ultimate. Such a momentous task is nigh impossible to complete alone.

How much longer before I finally realize that none of it matters? What is true success can only come from that which passion immolates and engulfs my persona and all of its constituent personalities: the ire, the compassion, the sympathy, the desire, the content, the melodramatic, the eager, the lascivious, the innocent, the leader, the pupil-to strive to complete such a list would be madness.

Anything short of success can and must be considered failure. It is the measure by which we set our success-“raise our bars”-that is reflected in and by this.

“Give it a day, or two years. Then you’ll come back to your senses.”

Another Day, Another Time

We stand upon the peak of a high mountain, looking below and behind us at all of our past endeavors. For some it has been harrowing, for others it has been trifling. Yet none of us can ever truly deny what has occured and is now set behind us. It is a momentary lapse of concentration which brings us stumbling back into our own memories. When perhaps we may have thought better, when we may have been naïve, we may have been dynamic, been lost, innocent. But what is it that we had in our minds, in our memories, then? How much have we ourselves changed? Has it been for the better? For the worse?

It is another day, another time, that we look forward to. Perhaps now, perhaps then, perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps you have been searching for something in tomorrow; and you have undoubetdly already found it in the simple process of hope. It is in this light that we continue our trek onward. Whosoever should say when it would end would most certainly be nothing more than a fool.

All I Can Do

I need a shoulder.

A Word

In my mind's aimless wanderings I come to settle upon a word. Already being fully aware of its meaning, I feel a strange attraction. A small spark. Transient, fleeting, faint; yet existent. I feel a certain futility while navigating to find its passage; futility akin to what had ignited it. A flash, a femtosecond; yet recurring. On arriving, there is no lucidity in the definition of 'lucid'. Exasperation blends with disappointment and despair in the small vortex of an artificial paradox. Just thoughtless, meaningless words strung together on a cold, metal necklace of apathy. They bring no light into the hearts of men; inspire no hope but that of change, that of mine.

We bend and break the rules to fit our own contorted visions, but not always, if not at all willingly and consciously. Our voids fill with what we let in, what we toss out, spurn, reject. No man can honestly claim that he has surpassed self-destruction, masochism. We wear ourselves down to no end, until our end. Even after. Change what we can, leave our own distinct mark, alter the course of humanity. Dreams, yearnings, respites. It would be cynical to say that people cannot accomplish what they carve in stone for themselves, yet there is hesitation. Will there be misconceptions? Certainly. Rhetoric is wasted upon ignorance, upon deaf ears.

But if ignorance is bliss, would I willingly take part in it? Denied a clear option, I, like all others, just carry on surviving, balancing-trying to, at least. Oversimplifying what I have come to regard as complex, denying myself a chance to explain.

Becoming ignorant.

On Warmth

Has it happened to you? You know....well, of course it's happened to you. It's happened to the best of us. We fall back; lose sight of our objectives, our eyes clouded by untimely distractions that have arisen from and out of our timeless, hasty lives. So what's it like? Well, some shake it off quickly; the impassive stoics who let themselves bleed only on the inside, and slowly. Slow....slow and steady. Others aren't quite so adept. Plans go awry, goals become derailed, dominoes cascading into a singularity of hopelessness. It is in times like these that the sentimental creature reverts, oversimplifies itself. And we dream: vast, livid daydreams; wisps on the horizon where the sky subtly pales from blue to white but must reach infinitely toward the treetops before so; we escape to there where the verdance and the azure reach and yet can never touch. Momentous. Palliating. Temporary.

And the skies overhead suffuse with a rich, soothing aquamarine, the saline water draws back until it can no longer restrain the potential it has built, and courses over the shore it has created. The pristine grains of delicate white sand grow warm under the paternal Sun.

And the Sun can warm us in places where people who have entered into and exited out of our lives used to......

Hide and Seek

♫Wheeeeere are we? Whaaaaaaat the heeell is goooooiiiiing on?
The duuuuust has ooooonly juuuust,
beguuuuuun to faaall,
Crop ciiircles in the caaar-pet, siiiinking, feeliiiing.
Spiiiiin me roooound agaaaaain and ruuuuuub my eeeeeyes.
This caaaan't be haaaaappeniiing.
When buuuuuu-sy streeeets,
a meeeesss with people,
would stop to hoooold their heeeads,
hea-vyyyyyy.

Hiiiiiiiide aaaaand seeeeek.
Traaaains aaand se-wing machiiiiines.
Aaaaall thooooose yeeee-ars,
theeeey weeeere heeeere fiiiiirst.

Oiiiiily maaaaarks appeeeear on waaaaalls
Where pleeeeeeasure mooooooments huuuung befoooooore.
The taaaaakeooover,
the sweeeeping in-sen-si-ti-vi-tyyyyy of this
stiiiiiiill liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife.

Hiiiiiiiide aaaaand seeeeeek.
Traaaaains aaaaand se-wing machiiiiines. (Oooooh, you won't catch me around here)
Bloooood aaaaaand teeeeears,
Theeeeey weeeeeere heeeeeere fiiiiirst.

Mmm, what you saaaaay?
Mm, that you on-ly meant weeeeeeell? Well, of course you diiid.
Mmm, what you saaaaaay?
Mm, that it's all for the beeeeeest? Ah of-course it is.
Mmm, what you saaaaay?
Mm, that it's just what we neeeeed? And you decided this.
Mmm what you saaaaay?
What did she saaaaay?

Ran-som notes keep fall-ing out your mouth.
Mid-sweet talk, newspa-per word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don't be-lieve you.
You don't care a bit. You don't care a bit.

Ran-som notes keep fall-ing out your mouth.
Mid-sweet talk, newspa-per word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don't be-lieve you.
You don't care a bit. You don't care a (you don't care a bit.)

You don't care a bit.
You don't care a bit.
You don't care a bit.
You don't care a bit.
You don't care a bit. ♪


This is the most fucking epic song EVER.

Yes, the most epic. I've been listening to it on loop–wide awake–for the past three hours.

Probably one of the most soul-searching songs for me.



At least right now.



Also, harmonizing is fun.


I'm kinda glad everyone else is asleep so no one can hear me singing to myself, lulz.

Silence

The most heart-rending and momentous moments–in my experience, at least–have always been branded by the smallest wonders.

Wandering. Pacing. Dawdling, dithering, whithering away. In a solemn and saturnine mood, I surely felt at the nadir of my day, of my year. I sauntered about the confines of my room, aimless but not truly moping–more stuck somewhere in bewteen, entrenched in the doubt of it all. And it was closing in–fast–so that it may not matter where I am nor whom I be that I may be lost within the limits of my own self-pity, the impetus which is my impetus which is my self. My Troy; my maker.

I pause. I do not know what forsaken act has caused me to do so, but it happens nonetheless. It was a small twist of fate. Silence.

Utter. Total. Demanding. Deliberate, sweet silence. I'm frozen, awestruck. I feel hesitation to move so as to disturb this gift. I'm torn. I dare not reveal my breathless inability to communicate the magnitude, the quality of this phenomenon to you, lest I reveal my inadequacies and halting demeanor as a writer. So sad, though, that it has already transpired...

And God damn it all but I can feel my heart as I lift my hand to my throat, not to say that it had leapt there by some miracle of nature, but that in its steady vehemence it has almost been forgotten. And it's slowing, slowing, slow, slow down....

It has been seen that in our bustling, we lose out. Lose sight of where we had seen ourselves heading, with magnanimity and great cheer, from the outset. It is doubtless that we have changed since then, as well, just as we have indubitably had our goals altered, whether by force or submission, by ourselves or our cohorts; such is the nature of nature. And it reveals itself that we have been derailed; we had hidden from ourselves long enough to truly conceal our own intentions, perhaps embarrassed as sensitive, social creatures like we are opportune to be. The paradox is that fickle whim, the graspless one of fleeting smoke, which lies somewhere in between ourselves as we stand, shed of all our facades, and our efforts to obscure that self. That only those efforts had been in vain, we might have walked a humbler course.

It is tearing at my seams, my yearning. Longing that fills me with unfaltering dread courses (coarse) through my entity, but it is this which drives me to strengthen my resolve. Like some arbitrary–if even arbitrary is a word of the proper scope for this instance–judicator, the decision has been made and will not falter. The sense of regret in me is supplanted, for the most part, by resoluteness of my soul.

But for how long? The instability, the uneasiness, the uncertainty is what becomes troublesome, threatening to my stance. And my heart, half empty (the attempt at connoting "half full" is moot), only partly returns to the longing.

The one to be that brave star upon the window that defiantly reads "Anonymous".

Abeyance

Tonight I finally realized. Finally.

It was in the parking lot, after watching “Knowing”…there was soft music in the backdrop, something about something else, but the words weren’t important. There was a slight chill breeze. Oh, the breeze! My hands were in my pockets. The bright lights emancipated me, it must have been them. I opened the passenger-side door–and I stood there for a little while. I thought of what lay ahead, and no matter how crappy it would be, how bleak things might get, I would still be happy. Somehow. Maybe it was being loved. Maybe it was searching for love. Perhaps it was neither, but instead something else which hasn’t come to mind yet*. Any way it might be, however it might turn out, searching for fulfillment has brought in itself a fulfillment. And it didn’t matter what those words to that song were, the melody would be riveted deep, slumbering in my slumbering consciousness.

Nothing could tear down my euphoria. Not even when my sister reversed into someone else’s car driving on the way home. The fact that it was, to quote the other driver, “no big deal” only bolstered my faith.

I love people. Because people will always be imperfect. Because people will always be people.

Driving home still, there was a single deer by the side of a lake. Still, motionless.

And the piano, it sounds like a carnival. Brings waves of respite to my aching mind, my terrified persona. This elevator music would be the salvation of me. Calmly now…

It doesn’t matter that I’m indecisive and timid when it comes to myself. That I might live long enough to survive, to see those who I cared for and who cared for me pass on, but only to know that it is they who have shaped me. That I'm running out of money to pay for gasoline. It doesn't matter that I still haven't canceled my Neopets Premium membership, even though I haven't played Neopets in about two and a half years, and I'm wasting $6 a month because of it. It is of little importance that I am fiercely and divisively torn on choosing where to go, what to do with myself, after high school, after college, after whatever may come after. It doesn’t matter that I may have to graduate early and leave here after the first semester of my senior year. It doesn’t matter that I might not even be here for that! That I might move, that I might not be able to look into my love’s eyes, oh, your dear eyes! for much longer, or be able tell you the truth: that I’m crazy about you, I’m heels-over-head. That I've spent countless sleepless nights mulling, dreaming, despairing, crying over you this past year and two months. That I would kill for a mere moment of your soft embrace and caring warmth; what I wouldn't give to be able to run my fingers through your hair. That I will never be able to kiss you. That you will never want to kiss me. It doesn't matter that you are my lust, my id. That you were never for me, that I could never bring you happiness. That your happiness would bring on my happiness, that small wonder of your smile. That I would still give up everything and anything in my life just to be with you, to be able to make you happy; unimportant. That I was always a coward about this, it is not important. That I can't take my mind off of you, no matter how hard I try to distract myself. That when I die, my final thoughts will be of you, if perhaps with a twinge of regret for not having more courage; trivial. That words, words of you, are just spilling out of my fingers onto the keyboard so voraciously that I am losing semblance and reason; how pathetic. That you may never know my true stance, that you should-, would-, could- never know my true emotions; it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter that I may never see you again, that I might spend the rest of eternity searching for someone else like you, but someone who is not already taken and is loved unconditionally, loves unconditionally. Nay, there can be no other like you; what is such foolishness? Just being with you, only being with you, being touched by you has been miraculous. But I must concede, make my own happiness–my own future. And that’s okay, for some reason unbeknownst to me. I can foresee no true dissatisfaction with, within and in my future. Wheresoever I might go, whatever I may do, what ever might happen to me. The lies, the secrecy, the malice, the spite, they are all trivial, compared to what shines truly in this life. And we’ll all float on all right, now through this crescendo…

As long as I am still looking, everything will be fine. Looking for happiness. Not material, but something just beyond that. Just beyond. Or maybe far beyond. Howsoever much further, I cannot tell. But it must be far, far enough for me to want to slave tirelessly, ceaselessly to reach it. And I realized that I had finally returned to the still-heat summertime glades of my Gameboy Color childhood innocence. At least for a minute-or-two. That had been part of what I was looking for all along, hadn’t it? Yes, it’s all clear now.

That final scene in “Knowing”…not too dissimilar to this, now that I think about it…






*After writing this, I can also add that it might simply be writing this. Or I could be wrong. And that's just fine.

Today (yesterday), a simple day, a day where nothing extremely momentous happened, a day where I woke up and tried to clear my nose and ended up popping my ears because I was so congested, a day where I most likely bombed two essays that I wrote, a day of realization, has probably been the best day of my life to date. And that's saying something.

Rambleweed

Where to begin, and where to end; my nerves do quickly send. Which words, words, to use; so many, many to choose: the diction let us peruse.

And it does well for my synchronies, to write this like a poem.

And it hangs, hangs over me, so poingnantly, hepatic portal vein. Here it is, there it isn't, contradiction is upon't.
But nay, no, that is not what I meant, not at all. I would ask if you understood, but certainly you don't, and then you'd misconstrue further my raptless pomp. And then I'd say to think nothing of it,–or would I think to say nothing of it?– no analysis at all; but in secrecy you would. Nay, not what I meant at all.

But my, I am so devilishly ironic.

It flees, it runs, so fast, the stream; I grasp, I grasp, but struggling last not long 'gainst such vain and violent acts.

And there I am once more, that green scent retrieved me so; that once familiar room, so comfortable; where ticks leeched blood from my scrotum.

Digression, instant, yet so inevitable. My pain is fruitless, yet I enjoy it so. Please hasten unto patience.

{So, so permeable, insertion has ocurred. 0/[Alt 236] is interminably small. Not all of Alice's wonderland grace could argue with you now.

The delay churns the brain, once again, once again. They jump and hide but all are snide; 12'42 you give me excuse and reign. I want to go to bed, internets.}

Then I am creeping, just like Jane, but hardly, hardly so.

In different spaces I will flight, but the danger lies within. The thought's the madness, the very one; that most unholy chagrin.

Yorick went first, but in the room the women come and go, and talk of Michelangelo. And then Ophelia was gone, bless her soul.

Nay, not what I meant at all.
My copy pasta has run out; thank you sir, may I have another?

Agonizing between whether to mean something, or not to be. Is that the question?

My sub of conscious, rearrange; take what of it you will. So blue and green and pi and phi and all together polarized.
But there is no denying
the math (the punctuation has run away)
oh, hell
the reeds are poised to kill

The Hyades went south for the winter..Mothman's oleander coming soon; red herring, abandon your croon. A gasp(!) from the erythrocytes.
Save yourself, for wind nor water could not liberate your soul. Whom this is, is this whom.

She pains, ah! she wanes. Thy nightly brow forgotten.

The pepsin burns, the tungsten squirms, yet dare I not evade them. And so the elements conspired, their noble alkalines. Their justice is as justice does, the mockery deserv'd. Heeeeeere's Johnny!



But who am I to say? Judge one for your own.
Whom this is, is whom. o.0

Return to Logic

I am capable




(once more).

The

A knight rides into the noon–
He kindly stopped for me;
For every tatter in its mortal dress
Did frame thy fearful symmetry?
So let us melt, and make no noise
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way.

The gray sea and the long black land
Lay like the folds of a bright gurdle furled.

-----------

I do not think that they will sing to me.

Loneliness Endorphins (Sodom, South Georgia)

Let's go through those, eh, whaddayacallems? Oh...motions, that's right.

Dragging sidelongways, ahhhh, voluptuousness. And then, the water freezes over my skin, bones...

That look of reckoning, with endured sadness detectable somewhere in the eyes. Wind, carry me....feel me feel you....


A river, a stream-rain of blood, running over mountains of forgotten hot sand. The warmth is betraying and beguiling, however, –lose yourself easily, slightly willingly, eyes closing, yes...

Somebody get me a number number. Oh! hold my heart for just...one second....one.......last........




---

Love isn't meant to be shared; being a secret makes it all the more wonderful.

Deepside, Scars of

A diction
Addiction;
Fatal run its course.
When effigies write eulogies
And the elegies: forgotten.

The other day
My body was a constellation...
It ran, its coarse lymph
Fissioning. Yet–
Less than c.

The consciousness is
Beguile. It itself is only
Half self-aware. Or half full
–Whichever way
You please.

Revel in
The darkness;
Fetal. Relaxed.
Your quiescent wishes
Acquiesced.

It reached the
Summit;
Touched the
Sky.
Bretheren.

A wail
A harmonius
Counterpoint–
Melody
Was kidnapped.

And each one
Sublimated,
Leaving rough-hewn
Stone
Behind;
Silent calm.





Stars! what have you done?