Brothers And Sisters

So on Sunday nights between 10 and 11 I watch "Brothers and Sisters". It's really quite good and I certainly enjoy it. But I'm wondering about some things. Kevin, the gay lawyer, in his attempts to make partner went to dinner with his boss and a potential client. Prior to this, the boss asked Kevin to leave his partner, the adorable Scotty, at home. Which Kevin did. At dinner Kevin then proceeded to talk about his wife, to whom he'd been married to since "last May". The day after Kevin decided to draw a line in the sand so he wouldn't have to go back into the closet. And yet, when faced with the prospect of making partner he folded under pressure.

Where is the line? Where does integrity end? I wish that I could live a life of ideals, a life full of integrity. But as my grandmother tells me over and over, "Ideals are nice, but they won't get you elected." And it's true. Let's take a look at politics for a bit. Obama and Hilary were pretty far left on the spectrum, but once Obama made it onto the national scene where he needed to win over more people than before he drifted towards the center. Had he kept his views during the primaries, he would definitely not be doing as well as he is doing right now.

Even so, a price was paid. Integrity was lost. Pragmatism gained. Ideal? Psh. Thrown out the window. Kevin too threw his ideals out the window, but he sacrificed his identity as well. The ends supposedly justify the means. Thank you Machiavelli! But do they? Going back to the Obama bit, he would not get elected if he didn't make a few compromises along the way. Ideals are nice, but they simply will not get you elected. Not in this day and age. Anyways, won't you be able to do more once you are in office? 

True, you can't do much if you get elected. And you cannot get to the White House without giving a few comforts up. But once you are there, promises have been made, speeches have been given, statements are on the record. You reach the goal, but you're tied down now. Sure, Kevin might make partner, but then what? Does he have to continue living a lie? As an out gay man, I am incensed by this. How can you give up what you've spent your life fighting for? Personally I cannot imagine that happening to anybody. I tend to be able to imagine anything, but I cannot imagine that at all. 

And pragmatism leads me to ask the question, "What can be done?" And the answer is simple. Nothing. Unless there is a global, or nationwide upheaval, nothing will change. One person can make a stand, but they will be blindsided and ignored by the masses. But wouldn't that be the best way to be ignored? Making a stand for idealism and sticking to your guns even though nothing comes of it? Maybe, just maybe that will be enough. After all, dominoes don't just fall. You have to push one of them.

A Free Style College Essay.

Dear Reader,

  This is not for you. Neither is House of Leaves but that's for another day. What you are about to witness is a great leap in myself. I, since I have to start thinking about these things, am going to Free Style a college essay that I will probably shorten and edit and clean up. Perhaps I'll even use it! Anyways, here goes nothing.

As essays go, a common question is, "Write about one experience that you feel changed your life." Though it may be worded differently, all forms of this question carry that basic meaning. And as the admissions officers plow through the seemingly endless piles of these essays, they will no doubt discover many interesting and embarrassing anecdotes that "changed" the prospective students life. What they may or may not realize is that what they have just read is a lie. Little Sally Jones may very well have traveled to Nicaragua and built houses, that isn't the falsehood. The falsehood lies in the very nature of the question. Lives do not travel in straight lines until they reach a certain experience. That's the falsehood. What many do not realize is that life is a process and a journey. My life, your life, everybody's life is in a constant state of flux. Everything that is done, everything that is observed, said, felt, touched, seen, tasted, heard-everything changes your life. These little events may change things in a small way, but it's impossible to calculate the impact that it will have on the rest of this person's life.

I believe that our lives are in a constant state of evolution. I believe that at this moment, here at my computer, I am being pulled along by the subtle currents of life. Things make impressions, just as we do. Something as simple as looking out of a window on a plane may inspire a lifelong desire to fly. Or it may last for a week. Or it may terrify the child so much that they begin to have those nightmares where you fall and fall and you close your eyes and you are still falling until you fall into you sunlight bathed bed in the morning.

What happens in these so called, "life changing moments" is simple. It's not that our lives suddenly shift. It's not that the world suddenly inverts and begins spewing sludge. It is simple that we realize. Suddenly we stop, take a look around, and breathe it all in. And we realize how far we've come from the starting gate. How far we have yet to go. And we realize that we are no longer the same person. Our life doesn't change, our life is change. We are just realizing that it happens. So I suppose the question that I'm answering is, "What is life and what causes change?" And the answer is simple. Life is change. We are the change.

I have no idea where this went.

Sorry,

Daisuke

An Excerpt

Dear Reader,

Hello. It's been some time. I've been wrapped up in myself for too long. I've been writing this really random piece that seems to be an examination of myself via narrators and characters named after my future children. Here is an excerpt.

The man on the train stood up, his shapeless pants falling around him. Uncaring, unaffected, or perhaps unencumbered by his appearance, he reached up to grab his umbrella and briefcase. The umbrella, made of wood, cloth, and a silvery metal clearly stated, "I, the umbrella, do impose my will upon the rain and not it upon I." Oh yes, it was a piece of work with a bunch of problems stemming from its childhood as a tree. It fit the man, and the man and the man the umbrella. The briefcase that belonged to the man not the umbrella (Although it could certainly be construed differently.) was different. Made of mahogany leather and gold colored metal, it imposed its will as well, though on paper, pens, and a calculator with dying batteries. The man was a serious businessman, all facts and figures and pie charts. In contrast to his other accessories, his suit suffered from a terrible inferiority complex. Bought for $100 at a wholesale warehouse, it disliked its second-class status, unlike the umbrella and briefcase, both of which were gifts from his soon to be ex-wife. The man, totally unaware of the various qualms going on around him, held them and wore them like weights. Which makes sense since they are made of mass and since they served as anchors to a job he disliked. This man was utterly unremarkable save for one thing. As corny as it sounds, he was remarkable in how remarkable average he was. Of almost exact average height, weight, hair loss, he was nearly invisible. Despite this feature, he was in fact, a bit odd. However, he got off the train like a normal man upon which he noticed that nobody noticed him. At all. 

As he got off, perhaps as a testament to his remarkably average invisibility, a boy in a purple hoodie ran into him. His briefcase, still imposing its will upon the paper, pens, and calculator with dying batteries within, was knocked form his hands. It went up, remembered the laws of physics, and promptly fell onto the tracks. It broke open upon landing hitting a nearby rat with a presentation on commodity trading. By now, that boy (Who we will focus on shortly.) had sat down while the man stood at the edge debating if he should jump down and get it. He could tell from the frantic manner in which people were running to the train that it was getting ready to leave. And if it left, it would run over the briefcase. His plight spread through his body, making him visibly upset, although nobody noticed except you. And that's only because your narrator pointed it out. And in the noise of the train leaving, and in the noise of the briefcase breaking, the man screamed. It had been a long day. The suit smirked in a way that only suits can. After all, it had never liked the briefcase.

Well? Any thoughts? Please, don't hold anything back.

Sincerely,

Me, your humble narrator

The Jerusalem Declaration

Dear Reader,

          Allow me to direct you attention here. Click on it and read it. And now look at this. Long ago, the Church split, creating Roman Catholicism and Greek Orthodox. All that was over whether or not icons of Mary and Christ were false idols. And now we reach a turning point. The Catholic Church has made it's position on homosexuality very clear and it stands by it now. However, the Episcopal churches of the world have not. And that is the foundation of why GAFCON is not showing up at Lambeth and why they created The Jerusalem Declaration. But I tell you now, I do not accept this. I reject this fully. 

So, homosexuality is wrong. Let's go with that assumption for a bit. It's wrong and all who practice it will go to hell and burn forever and be flogged and (Insert torture here) etc. Oh yes. It's a sin. Now, let's go back to the GAFCON statement. They uphold that "The doctrine of the church is grounded in the holy scriptures..." Yes, well let's get our Bibles out, shall we? Oh look, God is smiting Sodom and Gomorrah and Lot's wife has become a pillar of stone. Hmm... I don't think I know that God. That God used to smite and destroy what did not fit. He was like a young child trying to put a square peg in a circular hole, getting frustrated and finally blowing the damn thing up. Where is your God now?

So we're still assuming that homosexuality is a terrible abomination. God had no problem blasting the shit out of what he didn't like, if it's so terrible why haven't I been struck by lightning yet? Where is your God now?

Let me tell you where God is now. God is dealing with everything else in existence, because all that stuff is important. Oh, and because homosexuality is not an abomination. I like having cocks up my ass. I like kissing guys. Whatever. You know, if you have sex you will get pregnant and then you will die. 

And you know what? I could care less. I could care less if this is a mental condition or a disease. I could care less if I burn for all eternity. I'm a flaming faggot and I accept that and all the possible consequences. 

They have made their declaration, so now I will make one of my own, a Manifesto of Fire, The Pound Ridge Declaration, if you will.

1. I rejoice in my existence, in my life within or without the church and the gospel. I love and will be loved by those who surround me and those who I know.

2. I believe in myself, in my heart, and in my head and that they shall be the world that has been created and that I exist in. 

3. I uphold my integrity and my belief above all others that would have me reviled.

4. I reject all those who would see me vilified and all those who would spoil and contort the true messages of their faith.

5. I gladly proclaim and rejoice in my existence, regardless of hellfire or salvation, sin or judgement. 

6. I will never sacrifice my identity for want of my life, nor will I deny myself for want of salvation, nor compromise my soul or ideals for any and all people who would see me on my knees, begging for repentance.

7. I acknowledge the creation or evolution of both men and women, and the union of men and women with either sex and that love is the unchangeable standard for which a union is to be based upon. I reject any and all requests for forgiveness for straying from the path of heterosexuality, for it is no crime and no sin to be a homosexual.

8. I will uphold and revere justice as it is meant to be dealt, care for the forsaken, and bring hope to the lost.

9. I am committed to the unity and fellowship of all peoples, regardless of any affiliations, race, gender, or sexuality and do encourage others to follow my example as well as celebrating our differences. I pledge to work with the aforementioned to make a more perfect world for our existence.

10. I reject the authority and do not recognize the rank of those who subjugate or deprecate all people of this earth. I ask them to join us in our quest for unity.

11. I will live my life to the fullest as each moment of each day is the culmination of history to that point.

12. I will preach no false gospel, nor will I adhere to any thought that I deem false, but instead shall follow my soul to where it leads me.

13. I will love whoever I choose, and I will do so regardless of whatever consequence may come as a result, be it the fiery abyss of hell or the pearly gates of heaven. I will be a martyr for love if the time comes when I must choose between my life and my love. As such, I reject and deny and negate all who would limit or exclude or deny any and all people from love.

With joy and with love and filled with light,

Daisuke

The Wizard of Oz

Dear Reader,

          The Tin Man has a heart. I've decided that. I mean, he goes through the entire movie caring and worrying about Dorothy, even though she's a ditz. But for whatever odd reason, he thinks that he has no heart and all he wants is a heart. But how could you want things without a heart? How could you care about anything without a heart?And when he finally does get his "heart", it's a clock with red sparkles on it. Is that a heart? No. It's clockwork. It is no heart. He's had a heart all along, but it's not like in Kingdom Hearts where you smack a baddy with a key and out comes a glowing red thing. A heart is something else. But supposedly I don't have one. Supposedly I am devoid of either the clockwork or the glowing red thing. All I have is a muscular blood pumping organ, although some will tell you that it is doubtful if I have even that. 

So what do you want? What the hell do you want from me? Do you want me to walk around proclaiming how I feel at all times? Do you want me to fall on my knees in front of you and sob? I don't understand, and I usually understand everything. To you, does having a heart mean crying because you don't get what you want? To you, does having a heart mean that I simply lather affection on all of you? My heart is no loofah and I don't think Oil of Olay would go too nicely with it. It might sting. Scratch that. It would sting.

My heart is no carnival, it is not a freak show for you to gawk at. It does not prance around, looking for attention. My heart is no show dog. My heart is not yours to hang on a wall. It is mine. And it does not belong on my sleeve. My heart lies in my breast and it pulses slowly. I feel everything that you feel, probably even more. When you've lived as long as I have, there isn't a way to not have a heavy heart. And oh, mine is weighty indeed. It is heavy and you have no idea what lurks within. You say I have no heart, you say I have no soul. I am the Tin Man. I am hollow inside. But you are wrong. And I don't feel a need to prove anything to you.

Suck on that bitch,

Daisuke

Therapy

Dear Reader,

          Hold onto something now, I'm about to divulge and go personal. Something so intensely personal, so cathartic, that your head just might break. Or turn into a jigsaw puzzle. Just a warning. But, all that aside, on to the show!

Between the hours of 12 and 1 AM on what is channel 11 for me, therapy comes up on the screen. It's a cleansing ritual that I use to clear my head and relax and just take a breather. Yes, back to back, occupying the 12-12:30 and the 12:30-1 time slots is Sex and the City and Will and Grace. I sit on m couch with water and I watch the two shows one after another without any bathroom breaks. And it works. I forget all my troubles, and though it is very lonely, it's therapeutic. I'm not alone with my mind, I'm alone with sitcoms. 

(The End)

Daisuke

The Broken Hearts Club

Dear Reader,

          If you don't know, this entry is named after the rather excellent movie that bears the exact same name. If find that certain books and movies just trigger something or push a button that makes me sit down and write. Perhaps they are that good, or perhaps they just reflect something so deep that I can't hold it in anymore. Like right now, I'm listening to Feist's I Feel It All, and it's about to change to My Moon My Man and I have no idea where this is going. I don't know what to write about or what I will write about. Unlike the other entries, I have no guiding light. I'm just opening up the container of orange juice and pouring out the contents. 

It's really a brilliant movie. Really, but I'm just stalling at this point. Worlds shift all the time, but I've never noticed more shifts in my life than in the past six months. Perhaps I'm becoming more aware or perhaps everything is just changing at a more rapid pace. I want to say something, but I don't know what it is that I want to say. Maybe I'm too afraid to dive that deep, or maybe I have no depths to dive into. I wonder, is that it? Or is it the fear that I have no depths to dive into that is paralyzing me. I'm sure there is something, and that would explain the stream of consciousness that I'm doing right now. I'll probably wake up one night, splattered with moonlight (Interesting word choice there...) and I'll realize what it is I'm trying to get across. And then I'll just grab a piece of paper, no doubt my AP summer assignment and I'll scribble something down on it. Of course, once I faint from exhaustion and wake up in the morning, I'll realize that whatever I wrote is completely illegible. Maybe the quest and the grail can't coexist in the same universe. There is no grail without the quest and without the grail there is no quest. So if I do find the answer, it would have to vanish, otherwise what is there to live for?

Or maybe I'll find the answer and then find another question. If you can't tell already, I still have no idea where this is going, but something is starting to formulate, so bear with me. Of course, if you bear with me, you'll have to deal with more paragraphs of this nonsense. Which, on a tangent, is an incredible word. The meaning is in the form. It's so structuralist. Look at the word nonsense. Non. Sense. Nonsense makes NO SENSE, and the word itself makes that very clear. It's wonderful. I'm broken. I don't make sense. I recognize that and I feel like I'm going insane (Right now it feels like I have fiery wings growing out of my head. I'd say about 128 fiery wings.) and I'm caught by this mania, this insanity to write. I'm not even writing anything of substance, anything that relates to anything else I've written, I'm just writing. It's like somebody has taken over my hands. Right now I'm look at my hands and wondering whose they are. Really, the only thing that's holding all of this together is my punctuation and my strict adherence to the rules of grammar. Oh, and my nearly impeccable spelling. But ignore the fluffing of my ego, it won't fit through the door.

I know something and I know that I know something and I know that I know that I know something, but as I've already said, I don't know what that is. And apparently I don't even know what I'm talking about since I'm referring back to something I've already written. So clearly there is some thread holding all these shards together. I'm tired and cold. I'm bent and crooked. But I'll love my crooked neighbor, even if it's just myself with my crooked little heart. And thou shalt love thy crooked neighbor with thy crooked little heart. Neck in neck you'll walk and walk and walk on the shore. And as you walk you'll detach from the spiral and you'll watch your mind shift perceptions. It's the oddest sensation, becoming aware that you are watching something, that you are perceiving something in a completely different manner. It's like lying very very still on the ground and feeling the rotation of the earth. And it spins a lot. My head spins a lot. People spin a lot. This is becoming increasingly fragmented and I don't know why I am putting all of you through this, I don't know why I'm writing this. What can I do but cling to the hope that there is a reason for writing this, that there is a purpose this existence. I'm so sorry. I'm becoming needlessly dramatic. And I just didn't spell dramatic correctly although you'd never know it since I have spell check. Thank God for machines. Although it is rather pompous that God capitalizes his name. I mean, the Jewish God doesn't even use his name, he just uses initials and all those are capitalized. Rather pretentious although I fear that I'll be struck down with lightning for saying anything.

Wait for it.

Nothing. I haven't been smote. That was a close call, although considering the circumstances it probably wasn't. I guess I'm condemned to be free and to live and yes I stole that very observant of you want a cookie? And I'm sorry about that last sentence, I appear to be losing my grip on something though not the something that I'm trying to find. A different something, something that I would call reality, but I don't actually know. I tend not to know. But I'm not as happy as I think I should be if we/I assume that ignorance is bliss. I guess I just disproved that unless I'm grossly overestimating the state of bliss. Or maybe this is just a period of Self Discovery! That must be it! I'm just experiencing a rather late period of DISCOVERY! I FOUND THE NEW WORLD NOW LET'S GIVE ALL THE NATIVES AIDS! And then they will all die and we'll call it Thanksgiving. Amen to that and let's stuff our faces full of flesh. The turkeys will rise one day and kill us all if the robots don't get us first! Wahoo! I'm going crazy! My hands feel like they've detached from my body although I suppose I can't refer to them as "my" hands anymore. No. The hands that used to be mine have been detached from what was my body. I think I'm just some incorporeal spirit floating above all of this watching my mind whir and spin and gyrate on its axiom. I mean gyrate on its axis. Unless I didn't. I really don't know anymore and I should be finishing this soon, but I get the feeling that I won't be done for a while. I should see a shrink or get my head shrunk. Maybe it'd fit through the door then. I think I have moments of super clarity maybe. Moments in which I can see through things. Like super sanity. But these are very rare and I could be making all of this up. I mean, no I don't mean, I say, "Where does all this come from? Is there some spring of eternal thought that these just well up from?" I said it, but by using quotations it feels like I didn't actually say it. A character named Daisuke Kawachi did.

A new paragraph.

Another one.

And a n o t h e r one.

Space and silence say things, but the people get tired of it. They want solid things. So I'll defy them and give them void! 

(                 )

(                )

  (         )

(                     )

(       )

    (           )

(                            )

(                            )

(                            )

Connect the parentheses and it's like some fabulous building.

I'm done!

I'm not really but I have to go to my dead end job tomorrow and I need sleep.

Assuming I can sleep after this.

I wonder what I'll dream about.

It's a statement now, not a question.

Love perhaps, Caution yes, jazzy riffs on a keyboard no,

Daisuke=Kawachi

Something Of Vague Interest

Dear Reader,

Here's something interesting. Somebody recently approached me and said, "I read your blog the other day. It made me depressed." I laughed. Somebody else asked me why I wrote online. Why I didn't just keep a journal. With my overinflated ego, I responded like this, "I'm half-convinced that everything I write is somehow important. That at least one of my thoughts will hit somebody and change them for the better. Or for the worse. But that it will change them nonetheless." So I thought that now would be a good time to revisit my reasons for keeping this blog.

I haven't censored anything. I've changed names and used pseudonyms and whatnot, but I have not censored anything. I write everything stream of consciousness style and I do not edit. Well, I edited once, but that's because I was being incredibly cruel and I thought it would be prudent to delete that vicious insult. But I write that way and in such a public forum so that I can watch myself evolve. Or so I can watch myself stagnate. Either one works. It's like a living record of who I am, who I am becoming, and who I was. It's a holocron (If anybody can tell me what that term is from... I don't know what I'll do, but I'll give you something.). 

And in a part of my mind, a part that has considerably less spiderwebs than everywhere else, I do believe that what I write does change people. If it changes how they see me, or how they see the world, it is change nonetheless. So even if this does become depressing at times, I'll still persevere. So there. That is why. And I haven't checked, but I think my reasons for writing this blog may have changed since my first post.

From (Obviously),

Daisuke

The Tin Man Has No Heart

Dear Reader,

I can't remember when my last confession was. But to be honest, as a non-catholic, I don't think I've ever had a confession. But here is my confession. Imagine it being whispered under my breath in a dimly lit confessional cell. The priest is holding his head in one hand, tired from the day. My knee trembles, I've never done this before. I don't know what to do. He coughs, a polite cough meant to get my attention. A cough laced with enough sarcasm so as to say, "Get on with it!" So thankfully, every movie I've ever seen kicks in. "Father, forgive me. For I have sinned." 

He tells me to continue.

"Father...Father, I have no heart."

And I have confessed. I have told the world, or at least one priest, my secret. I am a tin man, an empty shell devoid of a heart. I have no heartstrings to tug, no soul to wrench, no muscular organ to pump blood through my body.

"Child, everyone has a heart."

Everyone, except me.

The tears I cry?

Fake. I've installed pipettes in my eyes.

The sobs?

A recording from the voice box in my throat.

My voice too comes from that mechanical wonder.

And in my head is a computer. Inside my skull sits the gutted core of and old IBM laptop.

For I have no heart.

Really, I don't.

The Father has given me some prayers.

But they will do nothing for my mechanical parts.

For I have no heart.

Not Sincerely, Not Lovingly, In Fact, Devoid Of All And Any Emotion,

Daisuke

P.S. Since I have no heart, I can't even tell if I'm being serious. But I don't care either. Because I have no heart.

Rejoice!

Dear Reader,
Rejoice with me!!! Teen X has gotten rid of his/her/its malicious comments as well as the blog that they were hosted on! Although, is all this drama what X wanted to begin with? Who knows? I could care less. X is probably home right now drinking the sorrow away. As X should, after all, that's what X wants, right? To drink and be preppy? Here's to you X. I raise my glass of sarcasm to you. May you never develop a beer belly.

Righteously yours,
Daisuke

P.S. It has recently come to my attention that I have neither heart nor soul. Just a little heads up for you all.

A Pity for the Fallen

Dear Reader,

I've moved past writer's block. I could care less now. When it comes, it will come. And if it doesn't come... Well, I guess I'll make something up.

Anyways, on to the main event. I've been doing some reading. And I have read some blogs, some blogs that are quite sad. In fact, they are quite pitiful. It sounds like a child being told that he can't have a piece of chocolate. So the child becomes sullen and the child begins to whine. Of course, that is just a metaphor. In reality though, this child is actually a teenager. Of course, one with a childlike mentality. To be blunt, I would guess that it would be around 8 or 9. And like many teenagers, this specific teen (we'll call this teen "X" for the sake of anonymity.) loves to drink. But oh! Poor baby! X doesn't get to drink as much as he wants. X doesn't get to go to the parties where all the kids do is get wasted. It's so sad. All X wants is to drink and drink and drink, but no. X is denied even the simplest pleasures. It's so sad. So tragic. So very...tortuous. 

He wants, but none of X's friends go to these parties so X naturally cannot go. It would be such a travesty to, perhaps, grow a spine. For if X were to have a spine, X could tell all X's so-called friends that X really doesn't like them. And then X could also go to said parties, sans escort. And if X wasn't invited to them, X could certainly just drop in like so many others do. But poor X.  Poor X likes, no. Poor X loves the life that X doesn't have. It really is tragic. One would half expect Arthur Miller to write a play about it.

This life, this life full of polos and gin, has been placed on a pedestal. But poor X cannot see past the flashing lights. X cannot see how very shallow, how very cold it is. X cannot fathom the reasons that these people do what they do. Nor can X see how many others want the things that he wants. Granted, there is quite a variety of the things that these people want, but nonetheless, they exist in the same class as him. It's perfectly fine to want things, to dream about something more and to wish for it. But to ignore where you come from, to ignore the cold truths in favor of the bells and whistles, that is unforgivable. 

And so I pity X. I pity X and all the others like him. I pity all those who want to drink the night away. Those who cannot find the courage to admit the simple truths to themselves, or the people, that by social necessity, they associate with. They may be judgmental, they may be rude, they may be opinionated, but by no means are they cold. By no means do these "friends" drink for the sake of drinking or party for the sake of partying. Nor do they do these things to fill themselves up. No. These people already have themselves mostly figured out. These people already know what they want and how to get it. These people exist without the fears that X lives with.  So I pity X. And if you are reading this, know that I pity you. I pity you as much as you want to replace myself and all the others who stood by you and acted as you pillars when you so desperately needed it. 

For ever and always,

Me

Block

Dear Reader,

I've run into writer's block.

But I've started another project, a play.

It's going to be called The Bus Stop Snapshots.

It may be produced at my school.

Maybe.

Me

A Crystallization of Teenage Angst

Dear Reader,

Recently a very deep friend of mine told me that nobody had ever captured the soul of the angst that we all pass through. He saw hopes in the book I am writing. But it got me thinking. What is this "angst"? What is it? It's everywhere I look, in books, in movies, in music, in people. But I cannot grasp it, I cannot identify and dissect it and peer at it through microscope. And so I do not know. But I go about my life, I go on my way, uncaring about this "angst". But I do care. I do. Allen Ginsberg talks about the best of his generation being swallowed up by all manner of things. I see my generation being consumed.

I see them drinking to drink, to be drunk. I see hands groping blindly at each other, crude and carnal convolutions, contorting limbs, conforming lives. It happens in the back hallways, in dark bedrooms, on stairs, in cars. I see it wherever I go. The lines of lust drawn out of their eyes, desperately searching for a connection. I don't know why. I can't see. These clutching corpses, what do they search for? Are they bodies, desperately searching for that ideal, for love? Are they hearts, reaching out to still the fear of being, of dying alone? The grip and claw at their faces. They hold each other as if the day would stop for them. 

And what do we do? All we can do is utter those simple reassurances. Those mantras. It's going to be all right. It has to be all right. I promise it will be all right. It must be all right. It will be all right. It is all right. These simple little utterances carry them through the day, sustain them till the next party where they can drink for the sake of drinking and fuck for the sake of fucking.

We reassure ourselves. It will all work out. It's just high school. It's only for now. But what do all these do? They blind us. They give us hope, but the worst kind. Hope that is false. Because we know that it won't end. We know it carries on. No matter what the college tour guides say, college is just like high school. Your job is just like high school. Your life is high school. You will always exist in those tapioca colored halls standing at a locker remembering a combination. You will always drink for the sole sake of drinking. And even though you will fuck to make a child, part of you is still fucking for the sake of fucking.

So fuck and drink away. I am bitter now. I am finished. I am done. I know that I am just as guilty as you are. I say that I am so done with high school. I say that it will all change in college. But I know just as well as you do that it won't. I too utter those false assurances. And though I do not saturate my brain with tequila or vodka, I saturate in my own bullshit. I sit in my own lies, my own false assurances and I soak. I cannot stop. I simply cannot. It's vicious, a vicious circle. 

I dream the same dreams as you, spread across the all too American sky. My sky is your sky, and tonight it is just so clear. And for once, I can see past it all. Not far, but far enough. I have the answers, I know what to do. You have the answers, you know what to do. We have them and we know. The sky is clear and we know what to do. It is time. Time to stop dreaming and start creating. A dream is just that, a dream. Nothing more. I do not believe in dreams. I believe in my future. And by God in Heaven, I will attain that future. It is mine. And I will not suffer anyone to take it from me. My future does not rest in my head on the shaky basis of faith like a dream does. No! My future lies on the road ahead, firmly grounded in my armor of self-conviction. My future is the road that is yet to come, the years that sit in the waiting room, waiting to be seen by the doctor. 

And they drink. And they fuck. The day comes and they drink and they fuck and they drink and they fuck and they drink and they fuck. Oh how they fuck! Like weasels! Like rabid little weasels. They fuck as if the day will end all of time, as if time will stop, as if the stoplight will fall from the sky, as if the sky would break, as if their hearts would mend. Oh, they fuck. And they will always fuck. And they will always, always, always, fuck and drink and reassure themselves. And the veil will become part of their face since they've worn it for so long. They won't notice the masks, the facades, the walls. 

And then they will die. They will die regardless of their belief. Regardless of their faith. Regardless  of their convictions. Regardless of their reassurances they will die. And most likely they will die alone. And so what was the point of all that fucking and drinking and reassuring? It's a rhetorical question, but I'll answer anyways. There was no point.

There never was.

There never will be.

There never is.

YES!

Chapters 2 and 3 are complete!

YES!

Chapter The First

Dear Everybody,

The first chapter of the Pseudo Memoir is complete.

I thought you all should know.

And it sounds schizo, well, the narrator does.

And I'm kind of the narrator and the hero...

So it's interesting.

Is it the truth?

Lux et Veritas. The two go hand in hand.

And I hope that the truth, if it is indeed so, will shine through the pages.

On to chapter the second!

Ever yours,

Daisuke

The End of an Era

Dear Readers,

This is to all four, maybe five of you. If you recall my first post, you'll remember I mentioned writing a book. So now I've started it. So far, I'm calling it the Pseudo Memoir. Because that might be what it turns out to be. I'm not sure yet. But I'm certain that I will be using absolutely everything I've written here, and perhaps your comments. So please keep going. Please keep writing stuff here. I'll update you on how it's going, but so far I only have the intro and chapter 1 done. I don't have much to say right now, but just you wait. The flood is rising and the dykes can only hold it back for so long. 

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. The only kind of charity is the kind where the person wants to do the charity. Not when they feel they should. Not in any degree. Only when they want to with the very core of their being. Otherwise it is not charity, it is masturbation.

P.P.S. I speak the truth.

A Paradox and a Conundrum

Dear Reader,

Is there a cause big enough to lie for so that the lie is morally right?

Is there a lie small enough to be morally right?

If any of you talk about "moral relativism", I will eat your soul.

Because "moral relativism" is absolute hogwash.

Also, though I tell myself, "Courage Daisuke! Courage! There is always hope!", the problem with hope is that it breaks all walls, even those made of iron and glass and space and time. It exposes and opens. Hope has that incredible quality of making a person totally vulnerable without that person even caring, or even noticing. Then in my case, it forces me to analyze, and over-analyze everything that ever has, will, or could happen. And so I rebuild the fortress, and so I remake the walls and the chambers and the labyrinth within. And so I recreate the holes and traps and curtains and windows and latches and locks and barricades. Even this paragraph reminds me of a wall, of some kind of vast monolith tearing across my page. Across your page. And so I tire of hope. And so I tire of hope. And so I tire of hope.

Comes the day and I sit. Comes the day and I sit. Comes the day and I sit.

I'm tired, I'm done with sitting!

Now is the time to move, now is the time for action!

But oh! I fear!

All I know is fear!

There is safety in my defenses, there is safety in holding back.

There is security, there is order.

And I fear and fear and fear.

And I sit and sit and sit.

And I tire and tire and tire.

But I know what I must do.

I must take the chance, I must leap, I must step from the shadows.

I am everything I want to be!

I am everything that has ever been!

I am the culmination of history so far!

It's time to assume my mantle of responsibility.

It's time to take a chance.

And so I will.

Regardless of rejection, of fear, of death, of running out of time, of losing it all.

I will.

I will.

I will.

Promise.

Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

Tomorrow?

It has to be tomorrow.

Now or never!

No...

Tomorrow or never!

Um...

Tuesday or never!

August or never?

Christ.

The end.

Perhaps A Bitter Prelude to a Tempest

Dear Reader,

I've done something amazing. The title actually fits the material. I won't actually talk about preludes or nocturnes for that matter, but it certainly marks the coming of a change. Or of a paradigm shift, one in my very core. Watch. Listen. Learn. This person that you read now, this person you know as "Daisuke", may change. Or perhaps not. That's for you to decide. So pay attention. Here comes the stream of consciousness, perhaps the closest diagnosis of my subconscious I or you may ever know.

I am tired. I tire of men. I tire of relationships, long, drawn out.  I tire of the unrequited, of the havoc it wreaks. I tire of the lightning rending the sky, the people cowering in their shells, ghosts in the machine. I tire of Meredith Gray. I tire of Grey's Anatomy. I tire of Henry. I tire of Ugly Betty. I am tired of waiting. They "love", or at least the emote as they are written. But I am tired of time, of the subtle under current it has become. It slides beneath my feet and whisks me away, rip-tide, before I am even aware. I feel the sands slipping between my fingers, but there is nothing I can do. I know my time runs short, but I am powerless to stop the unceasing tides of entropy. My mind descends into it's own depths,infinite and dark, frigid and consuming. I see my own subconscious, writhing in its own sundered sea. I have locked my heart away in a glass box filled with dust so that the sunlight catches each particle in its ray. That box is sealed beneath a field and that field is enclosed in an iron casket. What does this mean? It is certainly not an attempt to be poetic. It is a confession. I fear pain, I fear pain like they all fear pain, like you fear pain. And so I tire and despair. And so I wait and wait but I tire. I try, oh! How I try! But I cannot stop the flow of time. I walk down a five and a half minute hallway that extends into God, but it shrinks around me and the floor whisks me down at ninety miles an hour. Everything is speeding up and I know that. Everything is closing in and speeding up and it is only a matter of time till I hit my head on the ceiling. I am starting to panic. I tire of Meredith and Betty and men. I tire of waiting, I tire of being afraid to choose, to take a chance. I cannot change, not yet, perhaps not ever. I want to, oh! I want. And I want so bad, so hard, so heavy. I want on no uncertain terms. And I will want till the last grains slip through my fingers and I will tire till the current steals my corpse away. I am now, and for the first time, confronted by my own mortality. I see my impermanence and I despair. But I fight! I am fighting now! I can do nothing but fight, futile as it may be. And like I tire, I will fight till the day I leave. I cannot stop the hallway from speeding me down it's length, but I can start running. I can start moving at it's speed. I am trying and I am fighting. My legs move on their own and I can feel the wind in my hair. I hope. Yes, hope. I hope and hope and hope y ojala que my hope will come through. Esperar. Esperar. Esperar. And I will hope beyond my time. I will dream beyond my means, but I will achieve them! To me, they no longer exist as dreams, but as futures that I have yet to attain. They will happen. And I need no hope for that, just my armor of self-conviction. I still tire and I still despair and I still wait but I hope. And that word, "Esperar", it means both to wait and to hope. Is that a coincidence? I don't know. But I wait/hope, I hait and wope till my heart breaks free of it's self imposed imprisonment. T.S. Eliot's wasteland can fester as much as it wants. You shall not touch me. You shall not pass my soul!

Please, make of this what you will. I have hope now, hope for what I want in the limited window I have. This is therapy. This is a manifestation of my despair, an attempt to exorcise it from my body. Now comment. 

GO!

A Problem

Dear Reader,

I've got a problem. I bite my nails. But that's irrelevant. My actual problem is small, kind of. I would love to simply bare my soul to all of you, well, the three of you who know this exists, but I fear. I fear that I will reveal things I shouldn't. I fear that my readers will expand and somebody will read something about them. So what do I do? Do I go forth without any regard for anybody else, effectively turning this into a form of therapy? Or do I restrain my impulses and keep the majority of my personal life out of it? This serves nobody else but me, and perhaps you. I write here so I can hone my skills as a writer, but also in the hope that I will perhaps inspire somebody, or change something. It is for me, but others are affected. So what do I do?

I don't know and I ask you, all four of you, perhaps more, what I should do. So answer! Question! Comment! Sally forth and make contact!

Ready?

Set?

GO!

On acting, perhaps?

Dear Reader,

Today I had an audition for the Stella Adler Teenage Summer Conservatory. Needless to say, I was rather good. Perhaps, not good enough for Ebert & Roeper, but certainly for the program. Apparently, my chances of getting in are very good. However, this post is not actually about me. Nor is it meant to fluff my already engorged ego. This is in fact, a deeply complex and intense (in my opinion) musing on the nature of acting, as well as the death of Heath Ledger. For some reason, it was the death of Heath Ledger that caused me to think of this. I knew him not, but somehow I have lost something, or the world has.

Constantin Stanislavsky said that acting is doing. It is a very profound statement that revolutionized acting forever. No longer was your character something made up. Now you were the character. As Romeo, you really did drink poison. You did not pretend to die for the love of Juliet, you did die for the love of Juliet. In Lord of the Rings (Which I happen to be watching now.), Elijah Wood really does become controlled by the one ring. At least, that's what it should be in theory. However, the acting industry seems to be run by those with pretty faces, rather than those with incredible technique. 

In theory, the actor should be able to bury their consciousness in their heart, thus hiding their personality. That should allow the actor to bring forth a facet of their subconsciousness that is fitting to their character. Branching out from serious acting technique and entering into psychological theory, we come to Jung's collective subconsciousness. He believed, similar to the Oversoul, in a collective subconscious. All men are bound by one subconsciousness, one single repository of life. Man is given infinite depths by the collective. In theory, I have experienced everything that you have, everything that the President has, everything that has ever been experienced. Assuming that this is true, we come back to acting, or at least, my perception of acting. By burying your consciousness, your personality, it allows the subconscious to become the conscious. It forces the actor to reveal a facet of their subconsciousness that fits the part they are playing. With the infinite unplumbed depths of the collective, this is hardly a problem. 

That is how I think of acting, my personal theory. Should an actor accomplish this, they should, in theory, be able to literally become a different person, complete with their memories, dreams, twitches, and personalities. I should no longer be Daisuke, instead, I am Tom from Tea and Sympathy.

Now to Heath Ledger. Before he died, he reported having terrible sleep problems which he eventually received medication for.  Eventually, this medication might have killed him. In the pre-production of The Dark Knight, the upcoming sequel to Batman Begins, Heath Ledger shut himself in a hotel room for a month. While there, he formulated how the Joker would think, sound, act, etc. He kept a journal of "The Joker's Thoughts." In essence, he locked himself up for a month in order to become insane. It was after production that he began to have serious trouble sleeping.

It should be noted that many critics consider his performance in The Dark Knight to be iconic. Based on the trailers, I can say that he is simply terrifying. I believe that he is the Joker, that he has no morals or sanity. I'm sure that it will be one of the greatest performances I will ever see. 

And then he died in the middle of working on another movie. But why? Here's my theory. Heath Ledger did what few could do and became the Joker. He became that vicious, psychopathic, heartless murderer. He lost his mind. The peak to which all artists aspire to , that single moment of union with art, he achieved. However, he suppressed his personality, his soul in order to assume the mantle of another. And he paid the price. 

The problem with becoming another person is losing that shell after it has served it's purpose. I believe that Heath Ledger managed to assume another soul, but he had done that so well that he could not shuck it. He had become the Joker, but had lost Heath. He had written the Joker's "thoughts" down, something that people with split personalities, or MPD often do. I believe that he took it so far as to create a second personality, a second soul in himself. I believe that the Joker's persona attempted to possess him. And in fighting for his self, he did not sleep, afraid that sleep would give the Joker a window for control. And so he died. A martyr on the altar of art. A saint lost under the folds of his own mind. This is what I believe. This is what I hope to achieve as well.

Good night.

The Emancipation of Diversity

Dear Readers,

Rejoice! This is wholly unprecedented! Two posts in one day? How will your minds stand it? How will they not melt? I wish you luck. So, here is a small background on today. Today used to be Earth Day at my school, well, until it was determined to be "Pagan". So now we have "Wellness Day". One of the speakers, a certain Eric Cooper, came and spoke on diversity. Oh, he infuriated me and now I get to take it all out on you! Brace yourself Dorothy, her comes the tempest.

I hear too much about the "Minority Achievement Gap", and how there aren't enough people of "color" in AP classes, etc. I say that is utter bullshit. First, let me preface by saying that the term "Minority Achievement Gap" is a racist term. Yes, racist. What it espouses is that there is a gap between white kids and the minorities. The minorities are not getting the same grades as the white kids. Of course, no explanation is given for this phenomena. The only thing there is the implication that these kids are failing classes because they are black, or hispanic, or any minority! Like I said, that is racist. Furthermore, it is desperately false. I myself am a minority ( A double minority in fact.) and I am in all AP classes. I know several other people who happen to be minorities and are doing very well in their classes. 

I also know many white people who are not doing very well in school. In fact, they are not doing well at all, unless you consider a 70 average good. So what is the answer then? It's true that there is an achievement gap, but it's certainly not based around race. In fact, it is class. There is a Class Achievement Gap. The one thing that the black kids who were failing and the white kids who were failing have in common. They all can be found in the lower classes. It makes a lot of sense, those in the lower classes cannot afford the right tutors, the right books, the right resources as the upper classes. I could bore you with statistics, but I don't have any. I can tell you however that I am right. And I don't expect, nor do I care if you believe me. 

The question inevitably arises, then why does it appear that the black kids are the ones that are failing? The answer is sad, but simple. Since slavery, the African-American population has been subjugated over and over again. Even after the Civil Rights Movement, there was still a whole lot of discrimination. Due to the crop-sharing system, and various other factors like the KKK, many blacks were afraid of voting, or of seeking higher education. Look at the Little Rock 9! Even with the power of the Supreme Court behind them, people still tried to stop them from getting to school. Due to many factors such as those, a portion of the black population has ended up in the lower classes, often residing near or in large cities working in dead end jobs. That is not to say that all black people are in the lower class, nor does it mean that there are no white people in the same class. Rather, there is quite a few white people in the lower classes, however, they tend to live in more rural areas. Hispanics are blocked by a very simple thing. The enormous language barrier. Also, many of the immigrants were dirt poor in their country, so they had nothing to start with here.

I believe the term "Minority Achievement Gap" is wildly inaccurate. I would rather extoll the more precise, and more valid "Class Achievement Gap". I ask you to consider what I have written and comment on it. Comment here, to your friends, to your family. This is an important conversation and it is up to you to start it. It is up to you to form your own ideas and question mine. It is up to question the accepted norm. It is in your hands to think and it rests on your shoulders to consider one of the most volatile issues of the day. Good night, and good luck.

But first, a list with all the questions you could ever want.

Dear Reader,

This following post will be in the form of a "poem". I cannot promise that it will be very good, but I have Say Anything blasting in the background, so it will hopefully be interesting at the very least. It will also be total stream of consciousness, Dave Eggers style. Oh, and completely unedited except for spelling. Here goes! Wish me luck!

He said Monday, the first day...

But what to do?

Is it SoHo's Uniqlo, playing Barbie and Ken,

Dressing him in all finery and laughing together?

Or do we go to Valhalla, home of the gods,

And do we scale a mountain?

Lord those peaks, 

They're metaphorical, metaphysical, metal contraptions.

Grounded in tangible, yet fake rocks, will we climb to the top?

Or do we do the unspeakable,

No!

Stop it!

Get your head out of the gutter!

Lord, I am offended.

The unspeakable, a simple lunch where we

Get To Know You,

For an hour, maybe more?

And what to wear, to think, to see, to do, to act upon?

What impulses to quell?

That double edged sword that Monday is,

It has the ring of a death knell.

To You!

Dear Readers,

Henceforth, I will be directing all posts to you, my dear readers in the form of letters. I hope you enjoy. There is nothing to report today, at least, nothing I want to share. But tomorrow or Friday, you can expect a wondrous post on diversity and race.

I know. Hold your breath. It's going to be amazing.

Sincerely,

Me

A Very Mossy Rock

This is an issue that has been sitting in my head for a very long time. Hence, the rock has gathered a lot of moss, assuming that the rock is a metaphor for the issue I spoke of. The issue is simple, the issue is old, the issue is a terrible thing to ponder. But it is basically summed up by solipsism, for those of you who know what that is. And here it is.

How could I possibly know if I am, or if I am not the only mind in the universe? I am conscious of myself and only myself. I know I exist, although I doubt that sometimes, but I don't know if anybody else exists. I cannot be anybody else besides myself, so I'm trapped. There isn't a way to tell, to prove if I am the sole existence. It's terrible, I know. They, whoever "they" are, say that it is ridiculous. Of course other people exist! 

Of course! How could I have been so stupid? While the sarcasm drips from your eyes, I'll get started again. Solipsism states that I am the only mind in the universe, the only consciousness. Everything else is a construct of my mind. The proof for solipsism exists, but if I exist as the sole mind, then it isn't proof at all, just a justification that I created. The proof is this. Experiments on the human brain have caused the subject to experience sights, smells, memories, sensations, etc. Many epileptics, before going into a seizure, claim to smell something, be it oranges or burnt toast. The mind is wholly capable of fabricating sensation and experience, so it is not so improbable that one mind can create a world. But if there is but one mind, then this "proof" exists only as a figment of the one mind.

But assuming that I am the one mind in the universe, why can't I mold the world as I see fit? Why can't I play God? There are several answers. One is that I do control the world, just through my subconscious. Another is that I don't allow myself to control the world, I let my mind expand to it's fullest, free from desire. Yet another is that all the creations are facets of my mind, and that I cannot change those facets anymore than I can change my mortality.

Yes. I know. In the end there is no answer and everywhere you turn, there is yet another refutation to whatever answer you found. So what was the point? Stop talking. There needs not be a point. Although you will never know, the point may have been to waste your time. Or it may have been to wipe some of the moss off of the rock. It's wonderful, because you will never know! So here goes! Start thinking! Find your own answers. Although, if I am the sole mind in the universe, then you already have an answer, it's my answer, whatever that may be.

Peace out Dear Readers.

HELLO!

Hello Blogosphere!

How are you all today?

I'm sure you are all surprised, but this has absolutely nothing to do with Panic At the Disco.

I just used their name.

Shameless, I know.

Well, I guess I'll use this post as the mission statement, or the intro.

I'm going to use this as an outlet for anything and everything.

By the time I finish, I'm sure you'll have a wonderful map of my mind.

Or perhaps I'll have the makings of a book.

Oh well, here goes!