The Obscure

Hey hey all. I am feeling DAMN fine today. For the first time in a long time everything seems to be generally looking up, as far as my personal life goes; so henceforth (until further developments undoubtedly ruin it for me) I shall be happy because of the situations I am in, not in spite of them. Maybe both.

How is everyone doing this fine evening? It is so nice out that it looks like what my foolish under-developed central nervous system would usually classify as around 2 PM, while it is actually about 8. It is kind of disorienting to think about. I mean, try and wrap your mind around that--the fact that I am used to daylight being a certain way at a certain time of day almost makes me disbelieve time. Does that happen to anyone else? It just goes to prove how bent on routine the human mind is. I bet if everywhere were like northern Russia, with the white nights and all, Mankind would be extinct. It would drive us crazy, the unreliability would take a massive toll on us if it were on a grand scale, don't you think? Frankly I don't know how the Russians stand it.
Dirty Cossack.
 
I was trying to make myself draw a comic every day, for a while. I am too unmotivated though, so I stopped sticking to it like a week ago. I think I really only did it for like four days. It's annoying too, because if you actually DO that your skills grow in leaps and bounds.
I was talking to Tim the other day, and I realized how interconnected art (in it's every form) is. When I talk to him about drawing or writing (or whatever else it is that I try and do from time to time) and I try to give detail about how I feel regarding certain aspects of that particular art form, he just nods and says, "I feel the same way about guitar." (or something to that note). Because when you think about it: Creation of any sort is going to have the same problems, the same issues, and the same beauties as creation in it's every other form. Essentially because it is the actual act of "creating something" (be it a painting, song, book, etc..) is kind of like the Genus that all those things are in; the different classifications (i.e. Music, Fine Art, Writing) are the different species, sprung up from an initial single aesthetic, which is human emotion.
...And as it all boils away and the smoke clears, it is just evolutionary theory, permeating into my very consciousness. Damn biology class, Damn the public school system!
 
Forgive that paragraph, it was quite possibly the most redundant and unnecessary thing I have ever read, in retrospect.
Kiss me, I'm a very small portion Irish.
 
I had two cups of coffee today. It is remarkable how quickly I can abandon every effort to get healthy or grow further in scholarly pursuits or be fashionable or tap-dance or be an astronaut/princess/orangutan/philosopher/electric-rock-organ-player/chessmaster/bongo master/incredible Latino lover/space comet-living-pony-architect-John F. Kennedy, or whatever other massive school requiring death profession I have "wanted" to do in the past. Seriously, I plan on stuff and say I'm gonna do it and then two days later I destroy my life a little more, it's thoroughly depressing. It's like some people have mood swings, and I have Entire Mentality Swings. One day I want to be casual and laid-back and the next I am a bundle of nerves who wants to right long rants about communism and racial equality in northern Chile (How are the Chileans doing lately anyway? I have not heard from them in a while. One time I daydreamed that I went to Chile and started a revolution there, changing my name to Rodrigo Juavez. It eventually became WWIII after I assassinated this communist official who had been allying himself with China and Russia. It did not make any sense, all I know is at the end everyone was saying, "Get Juavez!" but no one knew who I was. I shot the communist Official in the head with a giant white handled revolver. It had a color picture of the Madonna on it, I said, "Via con Diós." and then blew his head open, and left my late friend's rosary beads on the chest of the Official's corpse.) Right now I just kinda wanna hang out and shoot the shit with people, what I "should" be like is the furthest thing from my mind. Does that happen to anybody but me? Do other people think about what they should or want to be like a lot, and can never really do it? Because, the other day (or week, or even month) I realized that I am now actually what I wanted to be several years ago, and I am still not satisfied. Maybe it is an adolescence thing. Am I still an adolescent? I cannot recall anymore, I do not know when "adolescence" is exactly, and Janet Rogers hasn't greeted me with "Adolescent creature!" in a long time.
 
I think it is about time this blog update winded down to a nice book discussion. Tim got me "Foundation" by Isaac Asimov, the other day (I am going to try and pay him back for it soon, but... I am poor, so who knows when it will be) It is really good, I am reading it pretty slowly cause I have not had uber reading time lately, so I am only like 150 pages into it. It is massively entertaining though. The way Asimov wrote it reminded me a lot of his short story compilations, like "I, Robot" was kind of one large history told in many smaller portions. It reminded me even more of the Asimov story from "Nine Tomorrows" that I adore but can never remember the title of where mankind merges with technology to become God. It was really good, it also told a large developing history by giving small portions of one time frame, then skipping forward multiple years and adding to the story with a seemingly almost unrelated segment.
"Foundation" is kinda like that, except the tales are all directly linked, each chapter is about fifty years apart though. It is really good, I recommend it to anyone who likes science fiction (I think out of all of us that is essentially myself and maybe Chuck).
 
I think I shall cut this blog update short now, though I will probably update later. I have an opened mind tonight, I do not know why exactly. My apologies for all bored or irritated with the words, phrases, sayings, allusions, or uninteresting-ness contained herein.
Goodnight, for the present, my loves!