Hope

Hope, the basis of optimism, it is the fantastical delirium that blinds the common man from the sickening reality of his own mundane life. Hope represents everything that we cannot be and yet still stupidly aspire to nonetheless. Hope is a drug in which there is no rehabilitation program in a sterile environment, supported by your loved ones and professionals trained to help you: rather it is the opposite. We exist in an unfriendly world filled to the capacity with soulless lumps of flesh that interact with such pitiful shallowness, where we are surrounded by individuals, and yet we are completely and utterly alone.

Perhaps Hope, even though it may only be an illusion, a creation of our exceedingly weak minds, is a necessity for survival. For is it not the goal to live, for our hearts to keep on beating, so we can find purpose in our lives, in where there may not be one? For hope transforms us from the mindless robots we may biologically represent, into motivated people, deluded into imagining that we can not simply exist, but to live. Even though we are merely an insignificant blip on the unimaginably vast spectrum of our universe, with hope, that blip finds meaning. Life is precious, shall we never forget that.

My personal experience with writing

Writing to me is can be equated to sculpting. When the project is first begun, a general idea of what shape the artist intends the sculpture to possess. For example, sculptor sees a majestic horse and would like to immortalize its graceful figure. The block of stone, in due time, begins to resemble an outline of a horse. However, in the process of sculpting, the artist, in a fit of passion, strikes the hammer down too swiftly and creates a line down its side. The sculptor realizes that the sculpture looks better now, and utilizes the line, until eventually it turns into a different beast, a zebra, perhaps. Writing can start with a relatively clear idea of what the desired end outcome is, but the act of writing can create a beast with a life of its own, and take on a completely different direction, a journey which we are privy to accompany.

What is History?

Here's another old piece I'm reposting in my blog.

What is history? Is it merely a random collective series of events? Is it merely a set of inexplicable events outside of our extremely limited influence; essentially powerless to the occurrences that exist out side of us?
What if, life isn’t simply a repetitive blur, an inevitable natural progression across a timeline, rather its your action or inaction that determines your life?

It is action that drives the world. People making active choices truly define the composition of history. Then what role does philosophy possess in the grand scheme of what comprises history? Is all this pondering is relatively meaningless?

Revolutionary thinkers change the basic concepts upon which philosophy originates. For in which history has been defined example, Carl Marx fundamentally changed our perception of what ideal government is. Marx's ideas were brilliant theoretically, and ideally if society could feasibly function with a semblance of selflessness, it would truly be ideal.
In hindsight, in the actual application of Marxism, it is revealed that it is impractical, not realistic. However, it is the active choice to implement it in human society in which it is revealed to be impractical.

It is action in which the course of history is perpetuated.
Free will, or the idea of choice versus the concept of pre-determinism is in reality a nonissue. It is the very fact that action will occur, in which history is continually driven forward, though not necessarily upward.

If there’s no action, the sole mechanism by which things get done, the world simply remains the same and unchanging. The mechanism, in the case of world history being the revolution and the people behind it, is what drives change and ultimately is why things are the way they are.

In a Platonic optimistic viewpoint upon this discussion, perhaps it is the thought provoking, intelligent discourse that inspires greater action truly defines the bedrock of what history consists of. Rash impulsive actions can have repercussions lasting far beyond their lack of contemplation. However, the root of what history originates from; goes beyond mere instinctual action, but a series of contemplated revolutionary actions.

This is my foray into serious contemplation of philosophy, Mind you, this is the product of severe insomnia.

The babblings of a self-righteous surburbian with far too much time on his hands

As I sit outside enjoying the fresh air, smoking my favorite brand of cigarettes (a logical conundrum, considering I am filling my lungs with intoxicating smoke), I ponder upon a multitude of inane, random topics. I gaze upon the infinite abyss (which is a meaningless cliché often used by astronomers attempting to pose as philosophers, or vice versa), I conjure up a list of self-descriptives I do believe will be apt.

I sincerely think my life may be a giant non sequitur. A humorous, completely unrelated joke that really has no consequence, unless there is a sexual reference.

I am the indelicately used portmanteau. I am a literary farce. A grammatical mistake in a hastily written fiction novella.

I am the spastic colon that throbs in your side. Hopefully not literally. A bodily mishap, a malfunction however on an epic scale, a person completely misaligned with the universe.

I am a bevy of metaphors. I am like a faulty VHS tape, an outdated defective artifact from the past, labeled in large ugly blunt font, “Return to Sender”, UPS’ version of the proverbial rejection. It essentially dooms the subject to suffer the same fate as the pixilated Atari version of E.T. ; shoved into a forgotten landfill, quietly, wastefully and gratefully.

I am the anti-type to Fabio; not necessarily a bad thing, I am not a fan of venereal disease.

My writing is the indelible hulk.

For years I have been fixated upon the idea of defining the self. But I suddenly realize in an existential moment;

I'm hungry. And I want a baloney sandwich. What fills your belly affects your brain.

*A quick post script, to all my friends reading this, the opening was written during the summer, and I have long quit smoking.

Ponderings from XKCD.com

Something else old, that I'm reposting in a new place.

My new obsession is webcomics. I'm into quite a bevy of them. Questionable Content. Cyanide and Happiness. Amazing Super Powers. A Softer World. Dr. McNinja. Sam and Fuzzy. Patches. Bunny-comic. Wasted Talent. Octopus Pie.

I have read enough Q.C. to have enough obscure indie band references to get some serious dome at Warped Tour.

But the one comic I relate to the most is XKCD. But I saw one disturbing comic and I simply had to rant.

"The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind, the sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and I'm sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live trapped in loop, reliving a few day over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out ahead of us. We see the same things each day, we respond the same way, we think the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us.

And no, I don't have all the answers. I don't know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become. But I do know one thing: the solution doesn't involve watering down my every little idea and creative impulse for the sake of someday easing my fit into a mold. It doesn't involve tempering my life to better fit someone's expectation. It doesn't involve constantly holding back for fear of shaking things up.

This is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can.

Fuck.
That.
Shit."

I did not write this, but whoever is the author on xkcd.com is a twisted genius, because this mild rant is so applicable to today's disillusioned times. It brings to mind the best Fight Club quote,

"We are the middle children of history, with no purpose, no place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives" Now, what intellectual epiphany suddenly strikes me? That profanity intertwined with thoughtful pondering is the perfect combination, "Like Lamb and Cheese. Or would you Americans prefer spaghetti and meatballs?" A nice sophomoric reference.

So I repeat as the epic finale to these pointless ramblings, my introspective opinion on this pessimistic viewpoint upon human perception,

Fuck.
That.
Shit.

A little about myself

I will forewarn the reader. This blog will be extremely disconcerting, at times revolting, and entirely non-sensical. Well, since I need to start somewhere, I may as well explain where my ridiculousness originates from. I went to a elementary school called Long Island School for the Gifted, affectionately called in retrospect as Long Island School for the Geeks. Of course the teachers at such a respectfully nicknamed prestigious school were a venerable hodgepodge of pure psychos.

One teacher stands out in my mind years later, tormenting my dreams with her satanic giggles. My 6th grade Science Teacher, Mrs. Shek. One particular day is like my mental pitchfork in a cow's rear end, noisy, flatulent, and quite excruciating. She ordered the class to bring in fluids from our fridges to test whether they were acidic or basic. Coming from an Asian family, I, of course brought soy sauce, sake, and pickled garlic juice. She presumed the pickled garlic juice was urine and proceeded to throw the hissy fit that will echo through through annals of history as the zenith of bitchiness. Not cool. This is the teacher who forced me to get glasses because I couldn’t read the board. However, when I finally did get them, I discovered it was because her handwriting was chicken scratch and not some fictitious malfunction with my brain. This is the same teacher who delightfully incinerated innocent gummy bears with a Bunsen burner, cackling with glee. My teachers during my formative years were not the stereotypical warm, endearing grade school teachers with a genuine maternal caring. My teachers were eccentric dwellers of the hippie era, most likely feeling the after effects of a decade of LSD abuse. My principal shared the same birthday as Hitler. This insanity trickled downwards, sort of like the imaginary economic system Reagan conjured in his head. The byproduct being me. Beware.