Will not neglect this...

Time to write for an imaginary audience... Usually I just write in a journal. About 95 percent of the time. And I'm an intensely private person when it comes to how I write in it. I go through paranoid precautions just to make sure no one reads what is inside. All of the perverted and neurotic little secrets that I carry along with me, that no one can know about. So when I write here, even thought I know most likely no one will read it, the dynamic is changed a bit. There's still that added possibility that someone could read it. I mean, there are so many out there, why would anyone want to read mine. I have nothing to offer except subjective dribble. I don't comment on others blogs, I don't really specialize in anything like health food or christianity. I am a lonely cab driver, whose sole source of entertainment is my own thoughts. Sure I'm social enough not to be considered a hermit, but just decidedly anti-social and disconnected. The only thing I could really offer is some occasional philosophical musings that may or may not be profound. More than likely it will be nonsense. Yet still, that little change has an effect on me. The awareness that I am deliberately writing this so that others may read it. Now it needs to be revised, at least once, to make sure there aren't any blatant grammatical errors. I can't help being a solipsistic bleeding heart though. I wouldn't want to stop that anyway. Maybe just write with a little more direction, and not repeat myself over and over. The addition of people into the mix means that your work will be judged. And maybe that's my fear which I assume I share with many.

For one thing, I most certainly want to work my way up to writing very intentional and topical stuff. Break out of the shell of isolation. Eventually I would very much desire to be paid for writing something, but I have a while till I should start worrying about that. I'm all about very gradual change. Moderation. Most of the time I like to tell myself that my life isn't as bad as it once was, say last year. I've totally matured more, I don't have as many logical fallacies floating around, I'm more outgoing than I once was, and so forth. Maybe I'm missing the point or something, because life never seems ideal. Always there's uncertainties and ambiguities, and I'm very lazy which doesn't help for anything. I rarely complete the day satisfied of my productivity. But it gets much darker than this at my rough patches. Where my journals read nothing but the most pure form of self loathing. Where I'm overflowing with every negative emotion. the most anti-cathartic activated, stuck feelings, that don't leave you graced with supply of endorphins and good sleep. But restlessness, insomnia, drug abuse, and endless tension and boredom.

When I say drug abuse, in my case I'm specifically referring to marijuana. I also take prozac and xanax (when I need it), but I don't abuse those medications. I'm pretty embracive with them actually. I do abuse pot though, which I guess isn't a big deal right now, but it will become one if I don't stop. I'll stop though.

Fleeting thoughts attempt at capture

Right now I'm listening to Stuart Davis's Universe Communion. If anyone who happens to be reading this knows of Ken Wilber, than they might know who Stuart Davis. He's a musician who incorporates a lot of neo-spirituality into his lyrics. And I'm not sure if he is anti science, but one of lyrics makes me think he has something in him that doesn't like science. Which I'll forgive now, I mean a simple song is a lot different from philosophical treatise. Ii can only speculate on what he means, and that's not so much the point of this writing... I felt like writing because just sitting here listening to it got me thinking about a lot of things that I haven't thought about in a while. Some good thoughts, maybe, that I wanna get out of my head into some form of external reality.

Anyone the one thought that was most prevalent had to do with psychology. I've been thinking a lot lately about getting another masters in psychology. Not sure what I want to do with it though. I would most definitely like to be a theorist above all, possibly a therapist, but then again I also adore cognitive psychology and love the idea of me sitting in a lab zapping someone for telling a lie a recording their physiological and emotional responses...Who knows, maybe I could do all of that...

Sometimes I think I have way too many interests. Presently the two thinkers who I've been studying the most are Bertrand Russell, and Carl Jung. Two guys who couldn't be further apart as far as their philosophy goes. But then again, maybe they aren't so different, at least in some ways. I would love to go into great depth contrasting the two, the stream of consciousness style I've got here I don't think will allow it. But I'll try anyway... One difference to point out right off the bat is that Bertrand Russell pretty much hated mysticism, while Jung was very open it. I mean their views are very complicated and layered, and they both lived very long lives and their views changed a lot over time; what I mean is, I don't want to pigeonhole them so fast. Needless to say Russel on more than one occasion denounced mysticism, while I know for a fact Jung embraced it fully to his death (whatever that means, really).

However, sometimes I notice that Russell says some things that could easily have come out of the mouth of any spiritual guru. For instance, "love is wise, hatred is foolish'. I can so imagine jesus saying that. And I know that Jung was pretty scientific, that is he was very objective in his writings and analyses, even in the mist of losing his damn mind...

Anyway, I had another fleeting though: how can I contribute to the field of psychology? I mean, I know a pretty decent amount, and sometimes I have some good insights. What can I to do to add to the conversation. I'm 27 years old, and I still feel unborn in this way. In general... I always thought that I would be some kind of renowned intellectual. I always thought that it would just happen somehow, and I still do. I'm still very young. Many very important intellectuals remained obscure even at the time of their death. I'm certainly not going to let myself think that the dream is all over. I've been studying for years now, I know a lot about a whole lot of things. I should write a book or something. Get my name out there.

That's all for now.

Recently I have rediscovered Koontz and King, those author guys. I have to say, it is definitley a refreshing break from the heavy non-fiction I've been so engrossed in. I can just flow through the pages, letting the prose build images in my mind. Right know I'm reading Dreamcatchers, by King, and it's going pretty good. I just finished reading "The Face" by Koontz, and despite all the fantasy I can still pick out the authors philosophy, and I'm not sure if I like it.

I have kind of always thought that an author cannot escape expressing his values in his or her writing. I'm pretty sure Koontz believe in God, doesn't like the concept of memes, or universties, and I'm willing to bet that he can't stand deconstructionist philosophy... I mean I couldn't care less about deconstructionist philoopshy, but memes? Come on Koontz... I still like the guy, his work is igniting a lost part of myself: my imagination. And I like seeing the philosophy in the fiction, it's uniting worlds for me even, however, it just makes me twinge when a beloved concept of mine is held with disdain by one of my favorite authors... I mean, we're suppose to agree on stuff.

I need to vent for a bit...

So my social skills have never been excellent, and right now I feel a particular breed of social frustration and injustice and I just need to freakin write about it a bit, to express it, to resolve it, to do whatever the hell I can with this pent up animosity...

So petty the triggers. In this case it involves a former friend and his post on my facebook status. Recently I have taken up watching the show 'Mad Men', so to bring this precious gift of knowledge to my peers I write of it on my wall: "Mad Men; another good show". To which my asshole friend responds: "From the title alone, I'm sure it's something you can relate to"... (long aggravated sigh)... Okay and then he goes non sequitur, describing some kind of gigabyte collection that he's working on and how Mad Men is the next on his list; an obvious change of subject to counter something which he knows is a veiled insult.

Perhaps I'm not providing the right context. This former friend has been a friend of mine for ages and it's just this and other similar slights that have officially scraped him off of my mental buddy list. I don't know where it all started to go wrong, but I sense it has something to do with my abrupt lust for the metaphysics that strangled my life for a good 3 years. Let's be clear though: I am not mad. I've been up and down psychiatric circuit and my problems mental issues however prevalent in their own way, do not fall under the schizotypal spectrum. My friends' predilections are based on fallacious reasoning; one direct event of excessive inspiration that resulted in my awakening of him in the middle of the night; as well as some suspected stories that my paranoid mind deduces are floating around the decadent social circles my friend inhabits...

Let me be honest here, I was once diagnosed as bipolar. Once. And it was by a hack psychiatrist who only had to here that I had recently experienced some kind of unusual state of happiness and energy. This particular experience hardly resembled any kind of psychotic break. There were no hallucinations of any kind, no resistance to authority, no overtly disorganized or violent behavior... My experience spanned about 3 days, fallowing the stay at a weeklong personal meditation retreat at an Advaita Vedanta (hindusim) ashram. The circumstances were understandable, and 3 subsequent psychiatrists have assured me this as well... I need not get into too much details about the experience. That would require another post.

All I want to say is that I know I am not insane. My asshole friend is more neurotic than I ever was and ever will be, and fuck him and his whiny arrogance. His childishly witty remarks, however punctual to the idiocy of facebook social standards, fall flat under the truth of my experience. I know I'll never convince him of this, he'll go on comparing me to John Lennon, and calling me a creeper to his other spineless friends. To me he resembles everything about the collective consciousness that I seek to abandon.

I know this is spiteful, and I know there's a lot going on underneath. However, these feelings are evidently not without the anchor of reason; which is why I am not crazy. I wish I could synthesize this all in a balanced and biting retort that would render my friend speechless, but I know that's not going to happen, so I write about it here, where I know they won't find it, where probably no one will.

Apples and Dionyseses

I dread the new day. The death of the night and the rebirth of work and strife and all that is starting over again. It's an inevitable burden, and as I sit encapsulated and entranced with Greek mythology and the sound of Jim Morrison I wish the night never ended.

Hopefully some day when my psyche is stable enough I can cherish the never-ending beginning of the day, but not it is despised as it represents the end of my current rhythm. Soon I'll be yearning for sleep and drop into a stupor, my mind will numb and I will push on hoping to avoid the passing time.

Lately I've been hallucinating, which hasn't happened before, or at least not as consciously. The other morning I saw a spider crawl the wall which most certainly wasn't there. And above my friend an Indian shaman man blinking in and out existence. I check, I'm still awake;the dream state thrust itself onto my waking reality, forcing the acceptance of everything I don't want.

Thirty Three

When I younger I couldn't pronounce my threes; a fact I remembered just the other night. So I was made fun of it routinely for it until one day a friend confronted me and just got me pronounce it correctly, and just like that I could pronounce my threes...

I remember other kids constantly trying to get me to say thirty three, which I guess is partially why it's been my favorite number all these years. My dads football jersey in high school, as well as mine, was thirty three, and now it's like the family number. Everybody uses it in their email adresses...

Right now I'm listening to smashing pumpkins, thirty three: a great song.

"Speak to me in a language I can hear"