I should end off every night with a hot shower, and the addition of an entry. I swear, it’s like therapy.

I’m still waiting for my iPod, which should be coming in this week. The idea of being able to bring my entire music collection with me wherever I go is just too tempting. That way, when I need a Tool song, I can simply bring it up, instead of bringing a Tool CD, just in case. I love you already iPod.

I happened to stumble upon a song apparently called Dan Automator, by Tomahawk. There’s something about this song that is just speaking to me right now. I can’t even understand 90% of the lyrics, but Mike Patton just does such a great job with bittersweet emotion on the lyrics. The melody is just so…wrenchingly tragic, yet dulcet. The only problem is that I’m pretty sure it’s not a Tomahawk song. I saw them in concert once, and they didn’t sound anything like this. Also, there’s a DJ called Dan the Automator whom Mike Patton worked with as a side project, and it’s just not likely that Tomahawk would name a song (incorrectly) after him. That and the fact that the Tomahawk discographies never mention Dan Automator as a track listing. I wish I could get the real name for this song, so I could give it the respect of a proper track listing. I’m surprized that I was able to hold off on an entry yesterday. Usually when I start up a page again (I don’t like the word journal, because it’s not, and half the time I’m just ranting about something), I’ll just flood the database with entries, and it will slowly become less frequent as time goes on. Of course, when I have a girlfriend, I feel I can’t write anything at all. It’s like my page is a girlfriend, who just listens to me hate so well, and never questions what I’m thinking, or why I’m thinking it. I love you too, you porcelain faced webpage.

I was flipping through some fashion magazines, and read about an art exhibit being held about the evolutions of fashion and styles. They mentioned a ballooning-dress by a Japanese designer as a witty piece, and a perforated-wing outfit as breathtaking. The art of fashion has always puzzled me; it’s something that I’m completely ignorant of, that I don’t think I will ever understand unless someone explains it to me.

I was sorting through my e-mail today, trying to clean up my inbox, when I stumbled along a stash that threw me off guard. I didn’t think that they would affect me in any way, but they did. I didn’t even read them; the titles just threw me.

Without these titles, these scant few words, I’m fine, and I understand the way things are, and the way things have worked out. Everything is logical to me, and my mind functions as normal. But when I see these words, my mind floods with memories, thoughts, emotions. I get a glimpse of what could have been.

And then I realize that it’s just a sliver of a cross-section that takes almost nothing of the whole situation into account. Or do I? Otherwise, I would be able to stop thinking about it, and I could just let it rest.

And yet I can’t. The good thing is that it’s not an attempt at convincing myself of what I would like to believe. I can be pretty sure about this, one of the few things in a world where I might be dreaming.

I wish I wasn’t like this at all. But I am. There has been only one time that I didn’t feel like I needed another party to know that I was right. And it was because the truth was so obviously on my side, that arguing about it would have been trivial.

Writing about this has helped. I realize that anything, pictures; text; or just thoughts; can bring up ideas unprovoked. The ideas may be good or bad, but they are one’s own. The understanding that they are just superficial ideas is the most important part. It’s coming to terms with these ideas that sets us free.

I’m pretty sure.

I’m feeling very comfortable right now. A shower just turned the activity in my brain from translational to vibrational. Writing from my second computer allows me the comfort to recline in a relaxing seat, and the luxury of watching a documentary on 2Pac, the thug poet from the west siiiide, on my other computer at the same time.

If one thinks about what one knows or what one feels, one should probably come to an understanding of why one feels that way. I mean, aside from the possible implanting of tastes, or things that you like because of influences beyond your ability to remember.

An example: if one enjoys listening to metal, then there should be a realization that it might be because of the way heavy guitar riffs and screaming have a way of helping one deal with ones shitty, shitty life. And if ones life improves, one may not need that genre of music anymore. Of course, one may still enjoy it for whatever reason.

Another case. If one is hit by a car, with life-threatening injuries, I’m sure that one would be less than thrilled to cross the street the day one gets out of the hospital, let alone drive home.

The two cases are different insofaras the latter can be a life-altering experience, whereas the former is not.

And yet people, without having life-altering experiences, feel and act without questioning why they are feeling or acting in a certain way.

Pure fucking sequacity

I can never understand how so many people can just act without thinking, without understanding things, without sufficient knowledge of the situation.

I’m sure I could make a poster of a Chinese man, exaggerating all the stereotypical parts of his body, as a piece of art, a comment in itself of how perverse people think. Would people question why I made it the way I did? Would people try and understand why I made the poster in the first place, before deeming me racist, and demanding that I destroy it? The answer, sadly, would be no. They would only feel that because it portrays a Chinese person in a stereotypical manner, it is wrong. They would never even question why it is wrong.

Perhaps the government is just too good in doing what they do. Sure, they’ve done a good job at eliminating racism, but at the same time, they’ve created anti-racism racism. Now, hiring minorities is a necessity, even if the minority happens to not be as good at the job as someone else.

But who can blame them? They’re just trying to control masses of idiots, who can’t think for themselves.

I wish people would actually think, before they made a decision, before they acted. If one doesn’t like someone, one should question the reason. Don’t just act on it. One may realize that one was wrong in the end. If one thinks that someone is immature, one should think about it. Perhaps even look at it from a different view. If one doesn’t like something because of an incident in the past, one should look at it in the new context of the present. Not just acting on what one has been told, or what one has felt for so long.

Pavlov should have used humans. He wouldn’t even needed to have trained them.

God, people piss me off.

Though the page hasn’t been finished yet, I feel the need to write. What about, I’m not quite sure yet. Things have been changing so much, there has been so little stagnancy around me, that it will take me quite a while to understand what is going on. Another…six months let’s say?

And these thoughts roam in my head, this and that, coming back and forth like a mass of dense liquid dropped in another mass of denser liquid. I don’t know what I’m seeing. I don’t know what I’m feeling.

I’ve been waiting quite a while to do this; I wanted to get something down the first minute I wanted to make a page again. The whole time, thoughts just kept coming, things that I’d like to write, express, be understood. I didn’t think that I’d know where to start. And I don’t.

Perhaps it’s the draw of the machine, the beauty of a custom interface, the clickety-clack of the keyboard. Or perhaps I’m just weak, and I’m just waiting for a chance to be heard. I’d say both cases are likely, and not mutually exclusive.

So what can I say? What can I write? Only that I don’t know what to say, or what to write. After all, what better way to start again? It feels like I’m moving towards the centre of my being, travelling as the poet through the inferno, but without a guide to the next bolgia.

I wish I knew.