http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:HousesOfApollo&section=today deviantART RSS for by:HousesOfApollo en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Tue, 24 Nov 2009 13:09:58 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/20962620/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/20962620/ Mon, 13 Oct 2008 00:35:19 PDT
The first project is a collaborative version of the WriteClub concept located here: [link]

The other project is a publishing of my journal and general article/essay writing: [link]

Oh yea, and I've pretty much abandoned this site in particular, and the whole concept of social networking sites.

]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/18374695/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/18374695/ Sat, 17 May 2008 22:57:01 PDT
This is the very first draft of what I hopes to be a mature, evolving standard for communication/collaboration: [link]

This project is one of the primary reasons why I've made myself scarce in these parts.

I may visit from time-to-time, though.

]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/18095517/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/18095517/ Wed, 30 Apr 2008 01:49:14 PDT
"I want it to be known that I am not one to leave the world as I've found it. That I make choices, but do not do so cruelly. I want a fair degree of respect. I want to be able to solve problems, and to think clearly. And, I suppose, I want some degree of warmth; something like a trip to the forest at this time of the year. I don't want to speak, but I want others to listen. I don't want to be the tired cliche of this generation: the shut-in who knows of little more than apathy, video games, and The Internet."

Now, I hardly believe that I have escaped the shackles of generational cliche, but I have at least acknowledged this; and in acknowledging this I have accepted some imperfections about myself. Yes, I am apathetic a great deal of the time; however, this is not an apathy that rests as comfortably with me as it does with so many of my peers. The indifference and the learned helplessness runs contrary to my innermost nature.

I want to be a man of genuine class and quality: I want to be dignified, and to know the finer things in life.

How would I describe my innermost nature? I suppose that I'm like a fortress of a person, retreating and fighting at the same time. Deep inside this fortress, however, there must be something worth all this protection; otherwise it's just a pointless, futile struggle to even survive. Sometimes this precious thing appears as just a small point of light, and this I know is the better part of myself. Now the better part of myself is seen within my mind's eye as a small, precious garden. This part of myself must not die, not while my heart still beats, as it is all that I live for. Being--in general--a realist, I cannot deny the dark, horrible aspects of human existence, not even my own. However, if I am to endeavor to be the best person that I can, I must nourish this better part of myself. Oftentimes, problem-solving people like myself pay attention to the flawed and broken things that must be mended more so than the good, useful things that must not atrophy and die. Realists can fall into this trap because they are so repulsed by those who see the world through rose-colored lenses and cannot face the world as it really is. We must not let neither our desires nor our repulsions define our view of the word.

I want to hold on to the good things in life, and make them grow.

Another aspect of my own personality, which I believe has changed, is my personal shame at feeling very lonely sometimes. My desire to reach out and connect to other human beings is simply my way of reality checking. It's not a flaw in my own personality, but a simple truth of human biology. I need at least a minimal degree of socialization or else I drift off into a state of depersonalization like a proverbial Major Tom. Without the stimulation of mirror neurons in my brain, my own self-image begins to dissolve and I cease to be able to locate myself in the universe. The world becomes contained within my mind, and I am the last human being left alive.

I want to be able to locate myself when I need myself.

One of the things that I am obsessed with is mental illness and disorder; as I'm sure you already know. I used to do this because I was convinced that there was something horribly wrong with me, and that all I needed to do was just find out what it was and then I could fix it somehow. However, instead of learning about what was wrong with me, I discovered--quite to my surprise!--all the things that were right with me. In my quest for insanity I discovered my own sanity; for sanity/insanity is not a dichotomy, but a continuum, with insanity merely being a judgment call on the part of a physician. This means that even though I'm a little schizoid, I don't have Schizoid Personality Disorder; and even though I'm more than a little paranoid, I don't have Paranoid Personality Disorder. I am obsessive and compulsive, but I don't have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The disorder-based way of thinking about struggling people is fallacious, especially when it comes to personality disorders. Far too often I have been treated as someone who was mentally ill or disturbed based upon misguided assumptions that never took into account my own personality traits--all that mattered was their own definition of who I should be. So that instead of trying to accept that I will probably always be suspicious, withdrawn, and emotionally inscrutable and just trying to live my life that way, I have been regarded as sick based upon the... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17857965/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17857965/ Mon, 14 Apr 2008 23:51:03 PDT
The trail was at least a mile away; his parents would not find him. These mountains were woody, dense, and they smelled of pine. During the ascent, Franklin ran ahead of the hiking group and out of view. As he stared down at the man-sized marvel which lay on the grass in from of him, he did not worry that others might worry. They probably had just assumed that he was far ahead of the group, rushing headlong in his eagerness to reach the summit.

Now that summit didn't seem so lofty to Franklin. Not since he heard the noise, and rushed towards it against all better judgment in his eagerness and curiosity. Over root, rock and log he rushed towards the high-pitched whine. Then, after a few minutes, the sound faded, leaving Franklin lost in the dark forest and wondering why he ever choose to run towards the weirdness.

Weirdness was how Franklin defined himself. As a child, he would collect insects and keep them in jars. When he was older, he would catch snakes and frogs and keep them in terrariums. Science Fiction was his primary pre-occupation, and he had always wondered why humans in the real world never experienced anything truly strange; to Franklin, the ordinary was incomprehensible.

No one paid attention to him. His teachers saw him as a quiet, attentive student, nothing more. In school, his peers would either tease or ignore him. The few friends he did have were little more than playmates. Sure, they played video games with him, cracked jokes with him--they were amiable most of the time. Then when Franklin would talk about those things that were closest to his heart, they'd listen but never commiserate.

"What would we do if aliens were real?" he would often wonder. "Our lives would change forever if we even just knew they existed."

Franklin eventually stopped asking these questions, and looked within himself for the answers he sought. He began keeping an extensive journal chronicling his thoughts. Most other teenagers his age would write about girlfriends, school anxieties, but Franklin would write down his observations of humanity as an alien character. Within the bindings of his journal, Franklin was known as Pryler Eunix. He created this character as a means of being objective in his view of mankind.

Every day that he went to school, he went as Pryler Eunix. No longer were the faculty the oppressors, and his fellow students pawns in petty games of popularity. They were all simply data to be analyzed. The process of analysis took over two years, and when he finally reached his conclusion it depressed him.

"Human beings," he wrote, "do not have enough imagination to solve the problems of the 21st century. I recommend that we study these beings while we still can and collect a breeding population for relocation to a suitable planet."

After pondering the ramifications of his analysis, Franklin retired the alien and wrote about mundane matters of everyday life. He started dating girls, then was rejected by same girls. There was still too much of that alien character still alive in him. Other humans couldn't help but detect this, and it frightened them.

"So, what are the kinds of things that you're into?" a girl once asked him in a mexican restaurant.
"Well," he replied, "I like computers, and unix-like operating systems. Playing with computers helps keep me from being too worried about how we're all going die, you know, as a species. I really don't think it'll be global warming, though; instead, I think we'll run out of food and starve."

The evening was quite awkward from that point forward. What was to Franklin an observation he wished to share, was to the girl a horrible, evil thing to suggest. So went most of his dating experiences. No matter how far along he would get with a girl, he would eventually say something that would destroy the nascent relationship. After a while, Franklin eventually gave up on being accepted into society, and withdrew into apathy.

He'd stare into his computer screen late at night while playing Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing games; a meaningless repetitive task to numb his frustration. Something for him to do to distract him from the fact that he was really doing nothing at all.

Then summer came, and his parents decided to take an interest in his well-being. They planned a two-week vacation to British Columbia. As despondent as Franklin was, he still reveled in the opportunity to investigate something new. On this particular... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17773054/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17773054/ Thu, 10 Apr 2008 00:27:59 PDT
Something happened to me a few weeks ago, and I've been trying my best to comprehend all the ramifications. The basic understanding that I came to is this: there is absolutely nothing inherently wrong with me. All these years I've scoured every available information resource looking for an answer, and the truth was that I simply didn't really need any answer whatsoever. All I needed was to be myself, as strange as that is.

I am not a sociopath, or a psycho. There's no schizoid personality disorder, or borderline personality, or bipolar syndrome. As a matter of fact, the only truly abnormal thing about me is my complete, utter lack of social graces; an inevitable consequence of having isolated myself in the erroneous belief that something was horribly wrong with me in the first place.

After coming to this conclusion, I decided that drastic measures needed to be taken so that I may be who I really am. This entailed a great deal of personal introspection since the narrative of life that I have internalized remains strong, despite what my conscious mind may believe. Not even once in my entire life did I ever feel like anything but a useless burden upon those misfortunate enough to share my presence. I'm not complaining, or anything, this is just the absolute truth; I was treated like a scourge.

There is a word for people like me, "Problem Child." Once you are assigned this designation, you are a pariah. Now everything you think and feel is suspect because you are the one at fault; you have all the issues. Any point you may want to make can never be legitimate because you have a "problem in your brain." There is no trusting a flawed brain since it is bound to perceive the world in an inherently flawed manner.

No-one is genuinely sad; we're all depressed. No-one is genuinely angry about life; we have anger issues. What we think and feel are no longer part of ourselves if they are negative or unpleasant--then they become diseases to be treated. I am not going to fall into that trap. All that I think or feel, good or bad, is a part of me.

Half of my own personality lay dormant for most of my life, buried beneath a haze of pharmaceuticals. My natural skills and tendencies were entirely misconstrued as mental illness, and therefore I became a problem for everyone to fix. One of the primary reasons why I have withdrawn from the world is to take on the stupendous task of re-integrating that other half of my personality. This is the "Dark Side," or so it seems. The other half of me that terrified my parents so much when I was younger.

It is not an evil darkness; it is merely not illuminated. This is the part of me that will fight, and if I prevail it will be because I have embraced this forgotten half. Whenever I shrank from danger, and cowered in fear, I tortured this part of myself. When words I wanted to speak remained unspoken, I cut myself as well as if I had done so with a knife. The bleeding was all psychological, the true personality suffered deep within.

Now that I am myself for the first time, my pathetic, weak body can hardly keep up with my intense motivation. I am tired beyond words. Except for these words. All I do with my life now is read books, and write plans down into an encrypted file. This file contains a series of plans for everything in my life. My mind is so exhausted; it cannot keep pace. I must sleep now, though I do not want to.

One day I will say everything that needs to be said. For now, I prepare for the battle of my life. If I do not succeed, or if I can't reintegrate into the human world, I will most likely die young. This is absolutely do-or-die for me, and I find it absolutely amazing. Never before have my options been so starkly defined. One misstep, one mistake as this stage could send me plummeting to my doom. People think I'm far too intense, but they don't know how serious this all is. To them, it is a game; for me, it is absolutely life and death. I spend hours upon hours going over all this in my head, plotting every move, because if I fail I'm a goner. I cannot wallow in my own isolation like some pathetic Hikikomori; such a lifestyle will surely kill me.

I feel so slow ri... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17519195/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17519195/ Wed, 26 Mar 2008 01:32:28 PDT
I'm not someone who talks in the middle of nowhere, when no-one else is around. Hell, I barely speak when I'm in the center of the city and surrounded by people. So much of our interpersonal communications fail to amount to much of anything. It's all just so much "Hello, how are you?" and "Ok, fine. And you?" Such conversations can last anywhere between a few seconds and a few hours, and most of the time little information of any real importance is exchanged. Whenever a situation like this thrusts itself upon me, I take quick, decisive action to end it. This isn't because I do not respect the intelligence of the person who is engaging me; I only question the intelligence of what he is doing. I am a direct, to-the-point person. This does not, however, mean that I reduce 'the point' to its most absolute simplest form. My world is a complicated, nuanced, and unpredictable one.

For example, three years ago, I felt as though I were a somewhat normal person. I'm an oddball, I know, but I always felt that I was only different because of my own personal experiences. This isn't to say that I felt completely normal, as I've always known that I was abnormal, perhaps extremely so. I was ignorant of one very important fact back then; a fact that I now cannot ignore, no matter how much I may want to.

The truth of the matter is, I am fundamentally different from the vast majority of my fellow human beings. One of the things that confounds me, day after day, are the bizarre motivations of those who share my company. The strange, repetitive speaking habits; the weird shades of grey in their emotions. People get into romantic entanglements, and then complicate them immensely. I'd see them fall victim to emotional attacks that I simply cannot imagine resonating with me. When someone dares to insult me on an emotional level, I simply reject that person completely. My Machiavellian view of humanity has always been at odds with something inside of most people, and now I think I know why this is so.

For a very long time I thought that I was a primarily emotional person, since whenever I did feel emotions they were extremely intense. It was as if a wrecking ball had come out of nowhere and clobbered me once or twice a year. Then again, I was spending a lot of time coming down off of antidepressants. Once, I was fascinated by the withdrawal effects of certain antidepressant medications. Whenever I'd quit a medication I'd become almost entirely emotional, and I'd think to myself, "Oh, so this is how it feels to be one of them!"

The 'one of them' I'm referring to, of course, are you relatively normal people. I don't really mean any offense by referring to my friends in this way, as it only means that in some sense I can't understand what you're all about.

All this thinking about my emotional retardation has led me to another grand moment of self discovery and revelation; today I discovered one of my deepest insecurities, and I also decided to share it with the world for the sake of understanding. While I was attempting to remember a very dark chapter of my own childhood I stumbled upon something a psychiatrist had told my parents; something they only told me in a moment of great distress. What this doctor had said about me resonates to this very day as a weakness in my soul: The boy, he said, is dangerous. By the time I was a teenager, he went on to say, I would be even more deadly. The only rational option he presented was hospitalization for me; that was the only hope for the world. I think that he may have deduced that I had the shallow emotional depth of a psychopath, a flattening of affect, while I only really have the outward appearance of flattened affect.

Or maybe he saw who I really was, and the sight of it terrified him. (Or, perhaps, I'm just exaggerating a very old memory!)

Back then, this revelation 'cured' me for the time being, and I managed to choke down all that rage and disappointment. For a while there, I passed as one one of you normal guys; I smiled when I was supposed to, and kept to myself. No more plotting to break free of society, no more waiting in the shadows to ambush and beat children who had made an enemy out of me. I was good, and just. For the sake of my own survival, I had chosen to give up my quest for the reasons why. <... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17355084/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17355084/ Sat, 15 Mar 2008 22:41:15 PDT
Writing in this fashion has always been quite difficult for me, since this style is almost entirely contrary to my own way of thinking. I've always found that things that are connected to other things are more interesting than things that simply stand on their own. Like when I see a vehicle I don't just look at the vehicle itself, but also at all the evidence that might indicate where the vehicle may have been, and what sort of person owns it. Then I think about the things that are connected to those things, and then move outwards from there. So that I'm not just trying to understand a single thing, but also to understand its place in the world so that I may know its relevance, which in the end is all that really matters to me. Whatever may be said about my curiosity, I am not interested in things that don't seem like they can translate to some sort of greater understanding of the world. This is why I've always preferred styles of entertainment that are somewhat difficult to understand and very much involved.

But then again, I'm slow. Not a stupid sort of slow, but simply not very quick on my feet. My way is the way of serious calculation with no allowance for spontaneity. Given a choice, I would buy skis in summer and mountain bikes in winter -- thinking months and months ahead. Oftentimes I surprise people by not talking about things that are relevant today, but things that will be relevant many months from now. So this means that the moment a need or a desire of mine is taken care of I'm already thinking ahead to the next instance. The very moment I finish eating I'm already thinking ahead to my next meal; and once my birthday is over I'm already thinking about being one year older again. I don't even think of myself as 22, but as 23 or 24 already. And when I'm 24 I'll probably act like I'm 26, and so on and so forth.

This kind of thinking I believe is a consequence of having grown up on antidepressant medications. You see, because they forced me into an unnatural mental state, my own natural balance was altered to compensate for the adverse emotional effect the chemicals were having. When I felt far too happy, and I knew deeply that I shouldn't feel that way, I compensated by dwelling on unhappy things and forcing myself into a more neutral mood. This has resulted in an almost complete inability to enjoy any one particular moment -- I am either thinking about the past, or the future, and the present is just the only time I have to act in, not the only time that really matters. Sybaritic self-indulgence and pain relieving hedonism -- options for so many of my miserable peers -- are completely impossible for me. I have to live in two very bad places, the past and the future, in which both I'm completely powerless to even affect the most minor of outcomes. What is done is done, and what shall be will be, and there's no room for free will whatsoever. I am often quite defeatist.

I do not choose to be this way; it is who I am. My pattern is very similar to a lot of other high-stress personalities who are completely unable to relax because they never exist in the here and now, when things may be just fine, but in a future when bad things will happen and in the past where terrible things have come to pass. There is never that one, singular moment when everything makes sense, when all is at peace. I know that I have a horrible time sleeping at night because I feel as though I am being watched at all hours, no matter where I am. Ever since May of 2004 I have had this feeling and it has motivated me ever since. I have a neck ache half the time from constantly looking over my shoulder to see who's watching me.

Those who have not shared experiences similar to my own would discard this as a paranoid fantasy of my own making, while those who have could at least be able to understand my odd behavior. When I imagine a surveillance room where my every move is being monitored by strangers it's not just part of a delusion, but my own metaphor for understanding the harsh scrutiny of society at large. This scrutiny is something I've... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17157531/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17157531/ Sun, 02 Mar 2008 23:26:15 PST
No member of the hospital staff made an effort to make me feel like I was going to be cared for. No, the only person who did anything at all to help alleviate my misery was the kind of person few would associate with compassion; a cop. He first brought me a wet rag and then a fresh bucket to puke in. Funny how that would happen to me, being that his profession is one I've spent a long time hating for all it represents. While I was laid up in bed later on I thought a lot about this and came to the conclusion that the cop didn't just bring me a rag and a bucket, he brought me the Bodhisattva view of humanity that I used to have. That's not to say I'm a literal Bodhisattva, as I have no connection to Buddhism whatsoever, but that in me own definition that's the best way for me to see the world. That even people I dislike greatly may have little pockets of good inside of them, that the world isn't black and white like I sometimes like to think it is.

My theory, now, goes like this:

There are about three personality types when it comes to understanding humanity: The Saint, The Crusader and The Bodhisattva. Perhaps there are more types, but I was only sick long enough to come up with these three. The first type, I guess, would be The Saint, one who sees only good in people no matter what. The Saint is the kind of person who will try to forgive everyone their faults. Even serial killers and pedophiles are redeemable, because human nature is inherently good, or so they believe.

Contrary to this viewpoint, The Crusader believes that human nature is inherently bad, and forgiveness comes at a price. He will try to reform anyone he can to comply with his ideals. The fires of passion burn bright inside of him because of a strong sense of duty -- because he knows right from wrong and the rest of the world does not. Therefore, it is incumbent upon him to teach and enlighten everyone else.

And there there's the Bodhisattva, who needs to understand human nature. He isn't one to pre-judge like The Crusader or The Saint, as he feels an intense desire to have an understanding of humanity. Often, he cannot fathom the depths of another's soul, but he knows that he must try. He's very slow and meticulous when it comes to making friends, for he only likes those he can understand and he knows that understanding takes time. And in situations of great hostility between him and others he's likely to feel a deep sense of tragedy above anything else. Burning hatred isn't something he's fond of because he feels such pity for those who deeply wrong others. Such people, he thinks, are missing something profoundly important to being alive -- the precious ability to empathize with another's suffering. He may not be an altogether good person, but these are the values that he wishes to live by.

And that tiny bit of empathy back in that hospital reminded me of who I was and what I stand for in this life. Even though I'm too depressed and foggy to enact much of what I feel, I hope that doesn't diminish the validity of my ideals.

And then I was admitted, finally. My hopes were soon dashed as I had to answer a series of questions and have my blood pressure/heartrate measured. I was made to wear a mask, and I felt like a contagious corpse in plagued Europe, ready for the mass cremation. This whole damnable process seemed to take far too long, and that may have been because my mother was admitted the same time as I was. You see, she was very sick too. Eventually we got through and then were placed in a room in the back. There I waited again, and called out for medicine, which eventually came.

I forget the name of the medicine they injected in me, but it just about probably saved me. For those unfamiliar with the experience it's difficult to describe the kind of relief one feels at the administration of the proper medication in a desperate time of need. My te... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17033742/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17033742/ Sat, 23 Feb 2008 23:04:11 PST
Baseball games are next, I'm sure. Though that doesn't mean I'll be watching baseball games anytime soon, as my entire theory depends on not observing events at all because -- according to my crackpot theory -- the moment I observe something I'm instantly locked into that possibility. However, the more I ignore the more possibilities are in the air. Perhaps that's the secret of the 'home team advantage'... all those observers locking in favorable realities for their team. Though I don't quite know how television cameras factor in all this.

Anyway, I've done pretty well so far; the more enthusiastic I force myself to be for Hillary Clinton (And boy is that difficult!) the more she tanks. Which is great for me because for once I'm off the hook. No more compromising for me; I just have to come out and whole-heartedly support to worst, absolute evil of all possibilities and thereby transfer my terrible jinx upon it.

That said, I haven't left this town in about four months. It's starting to wear on me... the routine of it all. Every single nook and cranny of this place has been observed and quantum-locked into its current state. I live in a place where all possibilities have been exhausted and things are simply just the way they are -- the way they've always been, or so I've been told. My curse is simply knowing of more possibilities than those around me, and this, too, is the cause of my obsessions. What can go wrong? Where is that going? What if were to be surrounded right now by thugs and knifed in the back? That could happen, of course, and if I move one step off my path I will let it happen. And every person that enters my life is also caught up in my web of causality; even if they so much as breath the air I exhale they're in it for life. Then they spread this web across the Earth and I'm sure every one who reads these words has touched at least one of my causality-webbed victims, absolutely. They all probably lost money and stump their toes more often after running into me.

If you could theoretically grasp every single causality web in the universe, you could predict the future. How far ahead in the future is all dependent upon Free Will, and whether or not it even exists. Perhaps the more we know about how things are the less free we're likely to be. For example, what would a person who knew the consequences of any single action do? Would he be free to choose in favor of pain and consequence? Or would he simply live out his life by filling in the spaces between dots. Caged of course, but at least free from guilt.

But of course I don't really know, no-one does. However, I have had time to think through the possible consequences of every action -- far too much time, if you ask me. In essence, I've locked myself upon one particular path by observing too much about myself. Perhaps this is just the underlying cause of cynicism; nothing can ever change for the cynic because he's locked himself into a particular sequence of causality. Or perhaps I'm just crazy now, and that's that. Just trying to cling on to any sense of mystery and wonder in a universe that gets duller by the day...

Then again though, my silly idea isn't really about mystery at all. Instead, it's about how mystery gets completely expunged from our lives, and a way for me to explain my faltering convictions about free will. I don't think I really think that free will exists in the universe as it is today. Not for life such as ours, you see, because of all the shit that happened before this very moment. Things happened that caused you to happen and that will make you cause other things to happen. My notion of the causality webs we all have is slightly misleading -- what I really mean is that we are products of a localized web of causality, and in turn what happens to those around us is heavily influenced by our presence. This is what we'd call 'luck', though I prefer 'a distinct pattern of causality'.

For example, let's say that thousands and thousands of years ago your ancestors got caught up in a web of causality that promoted the likelihood of events that are positive for human life in general. Then they as a consequence of an infinitely complex sequence of events always seemed to acquire more food than otherwise equal individuals, and escaped danger while others died young, so on and so for... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17018429/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/17018429/ Sat, 23 Feb 2008 00:17:00 PST
Unlike other bad people, though, I know the source of my poison. My journey down this forlorn road began with one of those big family decisions that come about every great once and awhile that are so important as to require unanimous approval. As always, I was the last to be asked and the last to know, and the veto power was all mine. Somehow, I could have stopped a lot of misery -- I could have prevented all this misfortune.

Though, I did not. I said yes without knowing what 'yes' really meant.

The details of this mistake have never left the contents of my head. I cannot even bring myself to type it out, for inside of my mind there are locks I cannot break, locks put on thoughts that I dare not think too long. One day I may break down all these barriers, but only if I'm far stronger than I've ever been. Given my recent decline in courage I fear that day may never come. My mind has slowed to a nearly glacial time-frame and a mental thousand-yard stare has overcome me. Often, I'll remember events from years ago better than I can remember today... as if my life will just flash in front of my eyes and that'll be that. Tomorrow I'll wake up 40 years from now with little more than a legacy of abject failure, or so it seems...

My mood is sour because I had to ask myself a question the other day, a question whose time had come: What does life teach someone whose every decision leads to failure? What would such a person believe, consciously or unconsciously? I asked myself this because I needed some way of explaining myself that wasn't an excuse or some kind of pathetic clinging on to my stupid little dreams. All I wanted then was to know the reason why, because I think everyone who must die wants to know why. Every failure wants to know why he never got off the ground.

"What is the question?" you ask, and when the question is revealed you already know the answer.

Life teaches people like me futility. Enough people hurt and enough wounds sustained and anyone in the world would give up, no matter what he or she actually believed. I've never in my life made a conscious decision to just quit, instead I just let life drift away from me after something inside myself shut it off. Why else would my mind be clear all day long until the time comes for me to do something important? Why does my resolve wait until that moment to cut and run away from me?

Even a life of disaster and failure, however, would never be enough to completely kill the soul, at least not mine. No, what causes the most extreme damage is when someone like me actually dares to try again, despite all better judgement. So then I try again, and it's when I fail that time that I'm completely devastated by enormous, impenetrable doubt. Oh, at first I'll deny it because my pride can't stand the thought of giving up. But I do nothing at all, and I allow it because I tell myself that tomorrow I will do all the things I need to do to make right with myself and the world, only to tell myself the exact same thing the next day.

I used to be nicer than I am now, and I'm so sorry that I'm not like that anymore. Often, I used to listen to others and try to make them feel better about life. As cynical as I am, I'd only wish my stiflingly bleak worldview on a select few. Sometimes I wish I could feel that benevolence again, just to feel any hope at all.

What the world wants to know about people like me is why never change. Why do we insist on wallowing in our failure and despair? Why do I do it? Why doesn't desperation somehow translate into courage? Often, I used to wonder the same things about other people because I couldn't admit that I, too, was among the afflicted. Now that I admit this I understand these things:

As horrible as things are, we still fear any sort of change. Humans in general fear change, and to reform the content of your character in drastic ways is not something we often do, if ever. For despite the outside world's viewpoint on misery and hopelessness, these are things that one can adjust to. We reorganize our minds early in childhood to run on alternative fuels; instead of being motivated by reward and fulfillment, we become motivated to avoid the negatives, the sting of futility and disappointment. Once you have made this transition, the odds are very good that you'll live a very sad, dull and futile life. It's how slaves live... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/16468210/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/16468210/ Sat, 19 Jan 2008 00:43:10 PST
Would I continue on as I have with safe and trusted DVD -Rs and their quaint Land Pre Pit system of tracking and speed control or migrate to the theoretically superior method of Address In Pregroove as used in DVD +R? Or would my Book Type fields forever be prerecorded?

This dilemma obviously required research, and that's the only thing I'm really good at with computers. Whenever I find myself doing anything with Linux I practically plug myself into every forum and tutorial article ever written. The internet is amazing because it allows someone who doesn't know anything about anything know something about something somehow. That is, if he doesn't believe every stupid bullshit website he comes across. If one were to do that, one would be stupider than if the internet had never been. For those who traverse the mighty flux of information need an equivalent of 'Street Smarts' to extract useful truth from what is essentially the greatest brain fart ever conceived. These are the only kind of smarts that I would willingly attribute to myself; how else could I use so many alpha and beta builds of software without the inevitable disaster? The greatest data loss of my entire computing life was wrought by my own hand, but that's another journal entirely. One I've already written, in fact.

In the end I weighed my options with as clear a head as possible and made my decision. Even though DVD -R tends to be more compatible with older DVD readers, DVD +R is more reliable and perhaps faster. Now keep in mind I'm trying to add up the cost over several years of use when I recall every horrific failed verification and suspicious disk. Even though these disks usually work out just fine, they're never completely trustworthy. As a person who has probably amassed several terabytes worth of information over the years I have decided that reliability is more important than compatibility -- which shouldn't be an issue anyway. About the only thing I'm worried about is reading the DVDs on my own internal DVD-ROM -- I doubt it would work because my computer is four years old. This won't be a problem for me, though, because I rarely read with it. Usually I'll read with the external drive because that one is far cheaper for me to replace than the specialized internal drive in my computer -- it's a complicated story. However, I might just be surprised.

This whole DVD + and - thing reminds me of how most people perceive the world around them: In over simplified terms. For the average person the differences between the two types of DVD media are indistinguishable; they're both extremely short cylinders that are clear and shiny on the bottom and opaque on top. You are supposed to put these short cylinders into computers and DVD recorders and imprint data upon their inner surface, or so we understand. In general, most people don't bother to try and distinguish between the two, usually because the distinctions are perceived as trivial -- if existent at all. Now this isn't for good reason, at the user-level the differences are minor to say the least. Most everyone who would be in the market for a large number of DVD-Rs would already have generally modern equipment, so then the compatibility issue probably wouldn't factor in.

I, however, cannot reason this way. My way of thinking focuses on one tiny thing and expands it to encompass my entire reality. This is why I spent about three hours today gathering as much information on media types as possible -- I was behind, as I was on a lot of things. Wi-Fi, for example, isn't something I could have claimed proficiency with. My knowledge of the world is usually on an as-needed basis, therefor I don't know what I can know until I need to know it. This essentially means that the less adventurous I am about doing new things the stupider I am. Oh yea, and boy do I ever feel stupid. All I ever feel is stupid. Goddamned it, I needed George W. Bush all this time! I need all these stupid meat-head redneck jackasses so I can feel smart in comparison...

...I am beginning to appreciate this world's appalling lack of progress. At least then they can say of me, "He did pretty well... for his time." As a silver man I'm lackluster in a golden age; give me the shit age and I'll excel.

And about the Wi-Fi: We got a new Linksys WRT54G and my Wi-Fi network is called Excalibur and it has every layer of security turned on. On top of that it's in wired-only mode most of the time and turned on only as needed,... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/16396232/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/16396232/ Sun, 13 Jan 2008 23:48:46 PST
I moved into a long cabin that was built on Mars and wrote my memoirs there. Evidently the partially terraformed planet resembled Montana in many ways -- I suppose that’s because they probably planted a lot of trees and the climate wasn’t completely suited for human habitation. In fact, most of the time it was many degrees below zero. But I felt hopeful then, even though so much had happened. My life had been completely renewed while all of humanity came unraveled. Just as I had nothing to live for in the human world I inversely found a calling out there among the rugged patches of Martian wilderness. What a wonderful thing it was, that ‘New World’ in the solar system.

Such are dreams. At least those I can remember, and this is one of the first I’ve recalled in months.

As of this date and time in the waking world I am experiencing the tail end of a violent virus of the 24 hour variety. The illness came on after the other dream that I just now recall. In this dream I had forgiven a person I swore never to forgive and just that morning I had planned to at least say my peace and move on if no reconciliation was possible. Sort of just a loose end being tied up. It had felt good in the dream and I reckoned that it might feel O.K. in reality. But alas, just like so many other dreams, it wasn’t realized because when the raw throat and vomiting came on I felt the enmity settling back into my heart as I repeated the mantra that I taught myself after years of painful disappointment: “Don’t expect too much.”

Why should I waste my time showing the better part of myself for someone too shallow and stupid to recognize it? That idea belonged to the better part and it takes the lesser part to remind me what the reality of it all is. If I give them even a small amount of good faith they’ll drown my soul in their disgusting ignorance. When my old naivety gave way to the black cynicism that rules my current state of mind it hurt like hell and if I ever open up that crushed heart even once I will surely feel that pain again. That is not a pain I’m willing to induce on myself even if it’s the most right thing in the world.

If you ever reach a stage like this in your life you’ll know what I’m talking about; and if you don’t, well you’re quite lucky. You’ll know who your enemies are and you’ll have enough trust to call someone a friend -- that’s something I can hardly do. You think somebody’s a friend and then they give you a nasty 24 hour virus -- some friend!

What else is there for me to write down? Hmm... it’s not like anyone gives a shit anymore. Whatever entertainment value I may have had is long gone with whatever reason I had for writing this stuff. I suppose that now it’s just something I do so that I don’t feel entirely alone anymore. At least I have an abstract ‘reader’ to keep me from coming completely unhinged; that counts for something. I figured out awhile ago that I never actually know anyone, but that I imagine them, create mental abstractions to deal with their unknowability. Essentially what this idea did was completely nullify any sense of communion I may have had with mankind. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I now seem to be hopelessly stuck on one fucking thought that entered my crazy head about four months ago to continuously torment me night and day.

That thought is Death. I am now obsessed with everything that is past because the past is dead...

Gosh... it hurts to even write this now. Somehow every part of me is raw now; everything is painfully exposed to the world. Every memory reminds me of a time and place that can never be; a dead time. If I watch an older movie I try to name every person I know of that died since it was made. Because of this it’s very difficult for me to watch old movies -- it’s just too damn depressing.

My life from this point forward isn’t a decision for me to make but an incumbent struggle to maintain whatever matters to me from the constant onslaught. That’s what anguish does; it becomes you. Recently, though, I have pondered something about myself: What if I could shut off all these feelings? What if I could be just as cold and indifferent as the world around me? Then would it matter what I thought or did if there was no genuine consequences for me? Hell, it could even kill me and it wouldn’t matter to me if I’ve ceased to fear death. Complete apathy has no consequence for its host since... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/16022006/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/16022006/ Thu, 20 Dec 2007 23:12:49 PST
Think of it: All the T’s, I’s, L’s, J’s and O’s are the perfect beauty of our childhood wonder. Everything good about Tetris, and life, comes from the harmonious coming together of these pieces. Theoretically a game of Tetris consisting of only these pieces could continue forever and ever given an infinitely skilled -- and immortal -- player. But then there’s the Z’s and the S’s to fuck everything up. They are the entropic principle behind every game -- without them the game would be no challenge whatsoever. No matter how good you are at creating order the Z and S pieces will eventually reduce it all to total chaos as the number of gaps grow. All that is required is a random sequence containing more of these pieces than the player is able to handle. No matter how good you are eventually the chaos shall overcome you. This fucking video game is incredibly pessimistic -- even in the darkest video games these days there is at least the possibility of victory in a limited sense. No so with Tetris, however, as there are only lesser shades of failure to give you a sense of accomplishment. So that even the greatest player in the world is only the one who loses the least. One can only imagine how pessimistic games would be these days if this sort of design concept was embraced.

This kind of game design I can embrace. I achieve no sense of escapism whatsoever from playing it; quite the opposite, in fact, I feel very much in touch with the nuts and bolts of reality. Other games of this type exist, though Tetris remains the undisputed king among games designed for analytical pessimists who desperately try to maintain order in a failing chaotic world. When you play it on a very, very deep level you transcend the ridiculously barren and primitive interface and become a warrior of atoms and molecules. But then it’s not a conscious game -- when it is you can hardly play it at all because it’s boring as hell. The only time you can achieve a relatively high score is when you’re zoned out completely. It’s this state of consciousness that has contributed to the huge success of the game itself, not any sort of conscious affections we may have for the game. You could easily dissect bodies in that state of mind... or maybe that’s just me.

Consumer capitalism is also game you can’t win -- that’s the principle that has made it ‘successful’. Proof of this comes from that fact that even the richest human being on Earth still isn’t rich enough; he still has to constantly acquire more and more wealth. Because he hasn’t really won anything at all -- he just hasn’t lost as much as the rest of us. The only way he can maintain his sense of victory is to constantly acquire the points of the game -- money, power, possessions. Then he’ll die and his children shall inherit the estate. Individual humans will be born and die, but the estate is everlasting -- at least they think so. Live for that and you won’t have to watch your world die.

Like everyone else... or so we’ve come to believe. But the Z’s and the S’s will see to it that all perish, mighty and small. They are the sad futility of life presented in brutal zen-like simplicity. You cannot deny simplicity like that; you need simplicity like that only to deal with the most complex thoughts imaginable. Or maybe I just need to get out more. I’ve been very shut-in and depressed lately, though that’s not news to you any of you. Perhaps this whole theory is just a way of dealing with my own despair. By reducing existence to a silly video game and adopting its metaphors I too have simplified all the problems that have plagued me my entire life. Perhaps I can only deal with these truths while they’re in that form, as that form is too simplistic for me to think too much about because if I think too much I’ll ask myself if this choking despair will be the net total outcome of my entire existence.

And if I ask myself that enough I’ll stop fighting because I can’t lose. If I lose while fighting I’ll believe that this will never pass. This is probably why a lot of depressed people stop even trying -- retreat is the last control they feel they have over their lives. At least by retreating they’ve escaped the crushing pain of trying and failing. Giving up and fading away is less painful than trying. But then even if you try and succeed you still lose anyway. Might as well lose in the least painful way possible.... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15911536/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15911536/ Thu, 13 Dec 2007 00:32:56 PST
The first order of business was to ascertain the precise journals that were lost and the most efficient means of restoration. I had posted virtually every one online, so it was only a matter of tedious copy-pasting for what seemed like hours on end and then making sure to stamp the entries with the correct date. I couldn’t get the right time on all of them, but the exact date should be correct give or take a day. At first it was slow going, but I eventually got into a rhythm and it was all quite easy after that.

As I was going through the entries I couldn’t help but to relive most major events of the past year -- the experience was exhausting, but worthwhile. One of the important things it helped me realize is that I’m being nostalgic for a few months ago, that’s all. With the timeline restored I can now understand my own myopic thought processes. Few of these entires seem to think as far ahead as right now; they seem to be stuck absolutely in their own pockets -- the same pocket of my life. I found myself reading passages that would be just as true now as they were then -- like I’m caught in this never-ending loop where nothing ever changes and as a result of this I inspect myself through the microscope of boredom. Each little failure, every setback and shortcoming, is amplified by its weight in my uncluttered awareness. There is little distraction from myself, and in this relative vacuum my attention inevitable turns to unproductive negatives.

People usually find it extremely difficult to spend a lot of time absolutely alone because of this fact of life. Although some of us more introverted types can adapt better to a life of isolation, it will eventually grind down all but the heartiest of us. Despite my reputation I really only want to work alone, read alone. Other than that, I don’t really mind others. Except of course when they purposely tread on my safety zones. When they don’t wash their hands or observe strict sanitation procedures in the kitchen. Also when they don’t take care of their computers. I’ve always advocated computer literacy even for those of us with the most basic of needs; everyone needs to know just enough to not get seriously screwed. Computers are one of my passions. I often enjoy doing complicated things with computers, even when I don’t have to. Consider it sort of like a practical form of mental calisthenics. Sudoku might be intriguing for a while, but it’ll never be as useful as learning how to compile open source software. There’s nothing quite like having the absolute latest version of something.

Recently I’ve upgraded my computer to OSX 10.5 (Leopard) and that has brought a whole new set of challenges for me. Usually this means trying to cut out all the fat in a system designed to run on two different architectures and optimizing things that aren’t quite optimized for an old system like mine. At first it ran a little slow but now it’s getting progressively faster -- almost to the point where I can hardly notice the change. That’s one of the good things about being stuck with old computers all the time -- that sense of efficiency and tenacity you develop. For many years I’ve had computers that were typical kid computers; not enough RAM, not enough hard drive and certainly not enough CPU. Had I not had these computers, however, I probably would not be able to do all that I can do now. Oh yea, and I loved them all. You can’t do anything with a computer if you don’t love it. If you don’t love your computer you might as well sell it off right now because it’ll be nothing but heartache for you.

I’d really like to get ahold of an older computer that I can mold into something useful again. That said, I’d also really like to get ahold of a brand spanking new computer. Neither scenario seems likely to happen in the short term. But I’m thinking farther ahead now and I’m putting the infrastructure in place to eventually have an old and new computer to play with. My year-in-a-day has given me the persp... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15897874/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15897874/ Wed, 12 Dec 2007 01:04:09 PST
And then I simply don’t care anymore. Beyond hope, and colder by the hour. The ice and snow mirror my mental state. Empty and devoid of practically all life. Frozen memories are all I have. I don’t feel like I’m too young to dwell on the past -- even though I should.

Sheer determination opens my eyes; absolute fear drives me. It’s the most horrible thing in the world to be this cold, staring back at the darkest regions of my soul. I suppose it’s somewhat like dying. Usually when it is dark I feel it -- like I’ve touched the threshold of oblivion. I think I’ve probably experienced something no-one should have, or that I know something too awful to live with.

The other day I got the idea to make a comprehensive, dynamic plan for my entire life. You see, it would adapt to every contingency I could think of, and would be based off of realistic goals and aspirations. The real depressing thing about it, however, is that there’s no plan that doesn’t end up coming to absolutely nothing at all. My entire life comes to nothing. This day has come to nothing. At this moment, I am upset. I’ll probably feel better by tomorrow, then that’ll come to nothing.

I wish I could sleep through an entire month. It wouldn’t be any less productive than any month I’ve had in the past two years. Though I’d get some rest, instead of incessantly trying to teach unwilling people all the sad lessons of my life. Better to just let them stumble and fall forever and ever because they’ll never learn. They’ll be stumbling and falling all over my grave.

Is this what my forebears lived and died for? How many wars did they survive just to reach me? How many diseases did they stave off long enough to continue my line? What does it all come to? Nothing.

Not even that, for even that is a concept.

Empty space is still space...

Often I seem to forget my age and think of myself as 23 instead of 22. Because everything I do now feels like it’s a memory. Whatever happens I already know the consequences -- nothing. So it’s just like having a vision of the future -- because the future is just like now, a great big stupid nothing. I don’t like moving, and I don’t like being awake. Usually I don’t even bother trying to get a good night’s sleep, because I know that tomorrow I have nothing to do and nowhere to be. Though sometimes I’ll work on a plan of mine -- a thing I set in motion that I must follow through with even my will has collapsed. A strange little grasp at life, a remnant of a more hopeful past...

Ahh... damn. This would all be so much easier if I weren’t so goddamn alone. Hell, I must be the most alone human being alive. Those who care don’t understand, and all those who could probably understand can’t care about anything other than themselves. For where I have gone is where monsters are made; no-one can make it through this without leaving a piece of his soul behind.

I am no exception...

Gosh... I’m so alone I don’t even have myself anymore. I can’t talk to the person who wrote all of this. The one who seems to think so much clearer than this murk I call a mind.

But I can’t say that it’s all bad; my experiences have given me the kind of compassion that few could understand! Who’s going to be there when you’re at your lowest? When you can hardly speak, when everything is just too fucking depressing to even try? I will, if I can, even if I don’t even know your first fucking name. And then where will you be when everything is all better again? You’ll be hanging with those assholes who didn’t bother to know you when the hostility burned a hole right through your soul because I’m just not cool enough anymore.

I fucking hope I never get too bitter, mean and cynical to care at all. Maybe I am already, as I haven’t had the chance to test my compassion recently. I’m not cool anymore, I suppose, now that I’m completely adult and ruined for life.

Then why do I even breathe? I suppose it’s because I like feeling the air flowing into my lungs. To spite all the world, if only for this moment. And because I won’t have much time to really breathe in the storm. And then there’s the other end of the storm. I can’t really decide anything until I’ve seen the other side. Only then can I judge my existence. Only then will I know what’s worth breathing for. No... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15613457/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15613457/ Wed, 21 Nov 2007 23:38:17 PST
I take a deep breath because that helps to suppress the yawning of my own great mental fatigue. The weight of it all gets through to me, even when I’m unaware. Such a great weight of awareness, of sentience, of knowing you’re alive. Such more of a weight to know that you will suffer soon, even if you’re suffering to better yourself.

I’ll drink my egg nog and eat my pumpkin pie, knowing all the while that the ball will drop. This is the calm before the storm that rips my life apart and forces me to face all that I have buried; all that I have put off. Let it all fall down on me now. It needs to.

My eyes close and I take a deeper breath. I want to remember this moment because it feels good to be alive right now. When I am dragged down to the bottom of this well I’m going to need memories like this. Just simple good things that mean a lot to me, and only me. Like that time I was high up in the mountains, lying on a flat rock and pretty much alone. I took a much deeper breath then, for the air was quite thin. A herd of mountain goats walked all around me, and I stared into their animal eyes. No fear...

I felt alive then, too. Closer to nature and the infinite sky.

Will I feel as alive when I stare down my personal demons? I must and I will; I will because I must. There will be fear, but the cowardice will go. Otherwise I am dead, or better off so.

Today I changed the direction my bed faces; a signal for my subconscious, letting it know that things are changing. A storm is heading my way, and memories of moments like these... they shall be my safe harbor.

Once again I fall short of the thousand words I promised. If I ever get through this that minimum will seem minuscule for I will pour my heart out into the world and taste the sweet sunrise of life, for I know how bitter the sunset can be.

Thank you.

]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15584048/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15584048/ Tue, 20 Nov 2007 00:12:34 PST
The most poignant thought to enter my recent consciousness has to do with panic, and how I often crack under pressure. I thought that perhaps I shouldn’t avoid the debilitating attacks -- at least not now. What would be better, I think, would be to just enter whatever situation will trigger the attack, then simply let it all happen to me. Let the control go... let everything go until I sit there weeping with fear and insanity. Then I would have allowed myself to completely unravel as a person, and face the things I need to face to grow.

Not to escape, or live in a happy land of elves. Just grow emotionally. Just to be a little bit more than I am right now.

I would love to enunciate my current issues with a greater degree of precision. However, you are not the only one who isn’t being told the entire truth; I, too, hide these things from myself. My own thought patterns on the subjects are encased in elaborate euphemisms:

“One of these days I must wake up from this self-induced dream.”

“I can’t do anything at all until I’ve done the thing I most abhor.”

“Without my freedom I am better off dead.”

Specifics hardly matter in this case anyway, for what it is to others is so much less than what it is to me. For others, it’s like nothing at all -- they could do it everyday, or so I think. But for me, it’s nothing short of being ripped apart and simply trusting that somehow I’ll be put back together again. Like having my limbs torn from my body and my mind obliterated; like choosing to die, if even for a moment. I shouldn’t have a choice; for choice is what’s killing me.

Sometimes we shouldn’t be able to choose. If I hadn’t, I would be much different now. If only I could face that which is only abstract to me.

This really isn’t journal material, I know. I suck at this. What’s going on is that I’m feeling too much fear and apprehension, and can’t really talk to anyone. I’m bad with feelings like that. Just about the only time I’m really in touch with my own emotions is when I’m despondent, which is why I so often induce the state. Despair is a small price to pay to know what I truly feel.

My head is absolutely killing me. Yesterday I took a single half of an anti-depressant pill just so I could have the roller-coaster ride I’m having right now. I am not addicted to the drug; I just love the withdrawals. Funny, I know, and probably not very safe. Actually, quite stupid. I won’t every do it again.

But yesterday I felt so bad I just wanted to go for a ride, no matter how dangerous or unpleasant it was. It’s always worse when you get back, though.

Just the other day I decided what matters to me in life: If somehow I could just make this stupid asinine meaninglessly bleak clusterfuck existence better for just one single thinking-feeling being who is forced to suffer through it, I would have a reason to be alive.

I don’t know if I’m depressed right now; I guess I’m too busy thinking about being torn to shreds. Which is better, I guess. But my head hurts me, and I want this year to be the last year of my life I waste on fear and self-loathing.

If anything would push me into the blender, it’s that... and the Ocean, of course. To open my arms to the Earth and float into space as the weight is lifted. The weight on my mind and the weight on my arms. If I can’t willingly destroy myself for that, I’m better of dead. I’ve got to go as close to death as I’ve ever been; what’s the closest you’ve ever been?

So I guess I’m just going to put myself into a Berzerker kind of frenzy in the hopes that I can rejoin humanity someday soon. So that I can wake up in the morning and know what I want to do; so that I can actually have names in my phone’s contact list... so that I can sleep at night and achieve some level of functioning. Or in case I fail and die, then at least my misery is over one way or another. I should take comfort in that.

Sorry to cut this short, but I am awfully tired. I’m yawning about once every minute or so... and if I don’t sleep this headache will just get worse and worse until my head explodes. And frankly, I don’t know what to say anymore. My consciousness is so scattered and fuzzy... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15527039/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15527039/ Thu, 15 Nov 2007 21:48:53 PST
Secondly, I will tell you about something I just did that improved my mood: Just a few minutes ago I achieved a marked improvement in how I feel by raising the level of my computer chair by an inch or so. Now I can no longer push the armrests underneath my computer desk, but that’s a small price to pay for the wonderful ‘lift’ it has given me. No longer do I sit hunched over and scrunched up while staring down at my monitor; now I sit tall, proud and in command. Perhaps I ought to raise my desk as well, all the way up to the ceiling, then I could work on a chair suspended from overhead. Likewise other furniture objects could be raised. When their services are needed I would simply climb a rolling ladder-on-a-rail like they have in bookstores and libraries.

This is how I’ll access my huge collection of Country Music jokes and puns, just as soon as I master the fine intricacies of the ooey gooey Dewey Decimal system. Oh phooey!

But seriously folks, it’s different up here, closer to the stratosphere. Then again, it’s the same, but with ears popping. And I guess that’s different.

Oh yea, and Christmas has begun! Not 2007’s Christmas -- that was after Halloween. No, this is Christmas 2008. That season is going to start so friggin early that it’s actually going to overlap with this year’s Christmas, creating a double Christmas spectaculanzathon! Woohoo! And then Christmas 2009 will start in July 2008 and overlap with 2010 and 2011’s celebratory seasons. After this it’ll take a few years before our governments mutually agree to change Earth’s name to Planet Christmas. Then every day will be Christmas, and many, many people will go absolutely insane and die, their gullets engorged by yuletide excess.

Yea, and doesn’t that sound like an awesomely lame Death Metal song? Gullets Engorged By Yuletide Excess. Yes... Death Metal Christmas; Deathmas if you will. That’s on December 26th, when Christmas itself is deceased.

Or we could just reduce the length of a year to a single month, so that every year is the month of December. Then we spend all month raising funds to buy all our Christmas stuff. America would become a giant shopping center pretty quick then, dammit. Completely covered and lit 24 hours-a-day by florescent lights, because you’ll be shopping for Christmas gifts in your sleep. Life would become a perfect retail ideal; a never-ending Christmas treadmill. And just when it’s over, you only have a week to recover because then there’s New Year’s Eve, and then New Year’s Day, which is now December 1st. And then it’s time to start the whole nightmare over again. On and on and on, until you die, mercifully.

This improbable scenario I imagine taking place in a distant future where Earth is entirely covered by Big Box stores. We all live and work in Big Box stores and buy and sell cheap shit made by billions of Chinese toiling away in massive underground factories. Instead of countries, we’d have stores. For example, the Republic of Home Depot would be fighting an endless cold war against the United Lowes Confederation. Smaller retailers like Bed, Bath and Beyond and Pier One would form coalitions. Instead of citizens we’d have ‘Employees’ who are essentially owned by the retail behemoths. As for what ‘country’ would be the best to work for, I’d have to say Bed Bad and Beyond. They’d definitely be the most comfortable, because of all the great futuristic message chairs we’d have to sit in.

Life is already like this in my small town, as it is in many others. The once colorful distinctions between places has been reduced to variations in chain stores. For example, our Target happens to be an awesome Target that we get complements on; “I just love the Target here!”

It just might, in fact, be the best Target in the entire state. And while we remain a one Wal-Mart town at the moment it’s only a matter of time before we end up stuck with a Super Wal-Mart, which would be unfortunate. There’s no stopping it, though, for 95% of those who claim to hate Wal-Mart with a passion, regularly choose to shop there. My brother, for example: He hates Wal-Mart, sure, but he’s also cheap, and that fucking place is like a penny pincher’s crack cocaine. It’s impossible for for him to spend $3.00 for something he knows is just a $1.50 at Wal-Mart.

Often he’ll sign one of those ‘Stop Wal-Mart!’ online petitions on the same day he’s gone to Wal-Mart.

I’ve given up on trying to stop it; fuck, we couldn’t... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15500861/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15500861/ Tue, 13 Nov 2007 23:02:29 PST
Last night I had an epiphany of sorts pertaining to a certain label I’ve been stuck with for most of my life; Depressed. Not just down in the dumps, under the weather and a little blue, hell no! Completely hopeless and overcome with despair and of no use to anyone without regular ingestion of garden variety Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors to lighten the mood, so to speak. A dreary, defective person who just needs to admit his faults so that he may be repaired by those who know him better than he knows himself.

But then how do I manage the strange miracle of upbeat depression? How do I escape the endless black hole that is Chronic Depression? How can I even smile without popping precious pills of everlasting bliss? They do not know that I can because the person I am within the short timeframe of my visits is an absolutely hopeless, nervous wreck. That’s how I ended up inside their hallowed halls of Galenic splendor to begin with; by hitting rock bottom. Just my own recurrent rock bottom, which comes at least once a year, though sometimes more often than that.

My good days seem to indicate a pattern more consistent with Cyclothymia, a sort of muted, wimpy form of Bipolar II disorder. Now don’t start thinking that I’ve embarked on any sort of self-diagnostic psychotherapy; quite to the contrary. My research into psychological ‘disorders’ has been a strictly descriptive -- as opposed to prescriptive -- endeavor for the benefit of those who know me. Because in many ways having a mental illness described frees you to be yourself. So that when my mood swings downward from a near hypomanic state to an unenthusiastic and uncreative stupor, I have a frame of reference so that others may understand my behavior.

Of course I did not reach this idea on the spur of the moment; I absolutely have enough evidence to get this ‘diagnosis’ should I pursue it. My journal, for instance, chronicles a radical variation in mood from month-to-month, as those who are familiar with my writings are sure to acknowledge. Often the changes in mood have very little to do with current events. Sometimes I’ll write an upbeat entry documenting some particularly negative news event -- with the usual sarcasm, of course. But then I’ll have something totally depressing and downbeat when I remember no particularly negative event having happened. In fact, I can be depressed when things are somewhat positive for me. Yea... and I’ve also changed from nice to mean in regards to my treatment of others. I’m sorry about that, too.

In addition, my creative history exhibits similar patterns of ups and downs. Output levels often remain low for months on end and then suddenly I can write 4,000 words or more in a single sitting again. So on and so forth... the point is, I seem to be closer to this pattern of mood and behavior than most others that have been attributed to me. Of course, the pattern probably began in my youth, an emotional roller coaster suspended over a giant cauldron of magma. I probably developed the cycling when I was going through practically every anti-depressant known to man at the time. As I’d come off from them it trained my mind for the depressive phase, and when I came back on it trained me for the hypomanic phase. Thus the emotional up-down yo-yoing began, and continues to this day.

That’s why I wait to write; I must strike while my iron is hot. Yes, that makes sense.

Odd note I thought appropriate to include: Just today my mother called me from the movie rental store and seemed to ask this question, “Do you have Bipolar?”

Needless to say, my jaw dropped. As far as I know, that’s not the name of a movie, or anything she may think I have watched. Perhaps I was just mishearing what she said... but I think she asked me again. This just kind of scared me because Cyclothymia is essentially Bipolar for wussies. That, and I had just requested a book on Bipolar-spectrum ‘disorders’ from the library. There is absolutely know way she could have known about any of this... I just can’t ignore the hilarious synchronicity of it!

Anyway, I ought to clarify something right now about some of the terms people use. I do not believe in mental disorders, and I think it’s an awful mistake to label them as such. More appropriately, they are simply patterns of mood and thought. My thought pattern is obsessive compulsive while my mood pattern most closely resembles that of Cyclothymia. It is more of a discord than a disorder, as you are discordant to the accepted patterns of humanity. This is why I seem to think everyone I mee... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15472286/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15472286/ Mon, 12 Nov 2007 00:17:51 PST
Halloween ought to be in December, and Christmas ought to be in May. There’s a hell of a lot more to be ‘merry’ about in May than December. We ought not try to make a dreary, depressing month into something it’s not. If you agree, go trick or treating on Christmas Eve! I dare ya’.

Why is it I think I’ll die in winter? That’s the real hard question I haven’t been addressing. Even though it’s an abstract thought, like death always is for the living, it seems to weigh heavily in my thoughts now. It’s so humbling to think that at any moment you could drop dead from something pre-programmed into you; a congenital defect that only shows up when you’re 53, and dead from a sudden stroke; or perhaps an aneurism in your brain just goes... and then that’s that. Somehow that’s more frightening to me than ordinary ways to die. It’s like pre-destined fate... though I guess all death is, sort of.

I think of these things often, and in cycles. When I’ve hit the peak of my ‘death cycle’ it’s almost as if Death stands here in the room with me. Skeleton hand and scythe, waiting with all the patience of eternity. Waiting for me, and everything I care about.

It’s foolish, I know, because every time I go through the same process. First I try to figure out how to make the best of what life I still do have, and become obsessed with memory and living each day or month or whatever as if it were my last. But then my own obsession with the finality of things only seems to make all worse, as my mind drifts off to inevitable dead futures. To consciously focus on your own mortality every waking moment does very little to enhance the bittersweetness of your existence. You’re better off not thinking about it too much, otherwise there’s no point to now. This very moment....

Now it’s gone.

Obsessing over death and dying can be so disruptive to me that once I had thought of suicide. Because at least if I was dead I couldn’t think about death anymore. This was a long time ago, when I first really sensed ‘Death in the room’ so to speak. I remember lying down in the back of the van, in August, and there was a piercing golden light on my face from the setting of the sun. Then, I thought at that moment, “I don’t think I could ever watch all this die.” or something like that. Overcome with emotion like I’ve rarely felt since, I proceeded to write into a steno pad. The product of this realization was far from a true work of literature, but I didn’t care. My writings from this period are my personal best. Any improvements I’ve made in recent years are mere stylistic and technical tweaks. What really depresses me is the irony of my own statements at that moment:

“All the children of tomorrow sing the songs of the dying.
Everything we do just turns to rubble, but not for lack of trying.”

From this action comes an intense awareness of what my life was like then, and what it is like now. By comparing the two images, I learn just what I have lost; what has turned to ‘rubble’. One thing was my youthful idealism, that sure went quickly. Though I probably have a higher IQ than I did then, though, from my study of logic. Yea, and I’ve learned about people, and that makes me much lonelier than I was then, even though the total number of people I know is much higher than then. What a little anti-social twerp I was!

Each time has its own color to me, and once the time has passed I never get that color again. Back when I saw the shadowy figure of death there was a golden color that is perfectly clear in my memory, but entirely ineffable. Being so, it’s impossible to bring back into this world.

I think I miss that color more than I miss that time. Given a chance to go back in time, I certainly wouldn’t choose that one. As warm as my memories are, I do think that was the only time I did seriously consider suicide. Now when I do so, it’s only as a reflex to a terrible idea I have about the future. I think, “I don’t absolutely have to live through it.”

And then I live through it, because I honestly can’t bear to watch all this turn black. It’ll just happen, hopefully when I’m stoned out of... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15384891/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15384891/ Mon, 05 Nov 2007 22:27:55 PST
I have no excuse. I can only wonder what is possible without courage; what good can I do without ever facing my deeper fears, or putting myself into a dangerous situation from which I cannot easily extricate myself. What good can I do for this world and my own peace of mind while my soul curls up and hides from the terrible fear pounding at my front door; waiting for me just outside.

My companions on this planet, for all their repetition and short-sightedness, can at least walk through the threshold I dare not pass. They keep walking, too. Walking right through me, as if I wasn’t there at all. I want to leave this place but the fear paralyzes me.

It takes my will and my spirit for there is nothing else. A coward does not overcome his own fear because there is nothing inside of him stronger than it is. If his love were stronger he could overcome; if his dreams were stronger he could overcome. If any little shred of his being were greater than fear, he’d be free at last. But alas, there is nothing.

I have failed because of my fear. One of the first orders of business when a problem comes along is not to whip it, but to ascertain the root cause, and thereby discover the means by which you must whip it. I think that it has taken me this past year to fully understand the root cause of all my deepest problems, and that is my own inner terror. I could say that I’ve tried to defeat it, but I couldn’t possibly back up such a statement. For despite all I’ve done I haven’t exhibited any more courage than I have at any other point in my life. In fact, one could say that I’m more afraid now than I’ve ever been, for I have more experiences to affirm my own dreadful suspicions about life.

Soon I will have my wisdom teeth removed, as they are impacted. I can see the blood dripping out of my mouth already, but I know I have to do it. This still will be easier than talking about my own feelings. To trust even one human being that much would paralyze me.

I’ve been betrayed, as those who follow my ramblings know quite well.

Once I had thought of myself as someone who could eventually defeat his own congealed existential horror to rise from the ashes to live a worthwhile life. I didn’t think I would, only that I could. Something really profound happened to me over this past year; something that snatched that away from me.

I was a much better writer when I believed that I would submit my writings one day for publication. Back then I would think at the very fringe of my consciousness, “Hell, you know you don’t have the guts to really do this.”

My ignorance shielded me from my own gutlessness; and in my deluded state I sought to gain more knowledge of myself. From this I found out more than I think I should. Because I know so much about myself I hardly need to dislike other people anymore and only do so because many of them deserve my contempt. And that contempt is one of the few things I have left. I clench it like a precious object as I stare back at the world from inside my fortress.

If you’re thinking that I’m wallowing in self-pity and hatred, you’re only a little bit right. Now I’ve sort of gone through that stage and achieved a sober understanding of my situation. All I really want to do is figure out what sort of life I may live that’s worthwhile and at least somewhat fulfilling. Which is basically the question I asked when I opened this entry. I suppose I haven’t really explored that much. I guess I don’t like the idea of a life without courage anymore than the next guy. We’re instinctually repulsed by it, which is why kings of yore once marched with their armies. They had to at least pretend. A challenge to one’s honor was a fight to the death by sword or firearm. Life was short and miserable and offered little reward; but still, we lived. Why, I don’t know. The world of my ancestors would have chewed me up and spit me out. Heck, this world would too, if I really engaged it...

I’ve got to work behind the scenes... hiding where possible. Taking an inconspicuous corner whenever I enter a room full of people; one of the things that hinted at my cowardice. I don’t know how ‘normal’ people are ever healthy. How can they be, without fear of viruses? I’m afraid of viruses more than bacteria. Viruses are nasty buggers... I know.

Someone I know is depressed, and I don’t like it. I’m writing now because I don’t think that depressed people ought to suffer alone. If I’m good for anything, that’s it. Though it’s a lone... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15149418/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15149418/ Sat, 20 Oct 2007 21:31:01 PDT could last forever. Then I could make every single journal entry a variation of ‘In This Octoba’ and then absolutely no-one would know what the hell I was talking about. As if they would otherwise.

The weird variation on the word is a remnant of my own adolescent mind. Very often in writing I would do this to indicate a meaning to myself. This isn’t something I would do in the body of a text, mind you, it was used only in titles. For example, one time I had been outside at night taking pictures of the full moon. My mother was taking pictures of it too. So when I went to title the folder that contained these pictures I titled it ‘Moom’; thereby saving space by combining ‘Mom’ and ‘Moon’ into one semi-beautiful word. It’s still one that I would use if I ever had to deal with a ‘Mother Moon’ scenario. As for the cryptic meaning behind ‘Octoba’, let’s just say that I like to leave some things a mystery. Like a really pathetic magician...

Some people say they don’t want to know a magician’s secrets so as not to ruin their own sense of wonder. But I think if your sense of wonder is that fragile it’s not worth having. A sense of wonder should be based on knowledge, not ignorance. Whenever it’s based on my own ignorance I fail to enjoy it; and I’ve always hated magic acts because of this. All I do is try to figure out the trick, because I don’t enjoy the feeling that someone has pulled something over on me. It’s a sign of our perversion and submission to authority that we enjoy such displays.

Or maybe I’ve just gone a little crazy in my recent absence, even though I really didn’t go anywhere. Though I would have liked to have gone somewhere this year I never really got the chance. Besides that, the place that I have in mind doesn’t even really exist. It’s very much ineffable, though I would like to offer you a metaphor for it:

You’re watching a video of a rock concert from ten years ago. It’s a band that no longer exists because their lead singer/writer/guitarist died. But from watching that video you get the exact sensation of ‘being there’. The sounds and images expand into another world. Not a world of place, but of time. A place you can go to but a time is impossible to retrieve. But you got it from that video; you’re there with the crowd. What was once an impossible past is now alive again.

My memories of the past few years are more pleasant than my current experience of life. I do not enjoy anything in the moment; only as a memory. I often spend hours just trying to completely recreate a scene in my own mind. To recall every shape, sound and smell possible. One particularly stimulating sensation is the smell of bar soap -- especially the Gold Dial bars or the plain Safeguard stuff. I don’t even use bar soap, as it irritates my skin, but I do love to smell it just for the nostalgia factor. And as wonderful as that is, it’s still no match for the smell of freshly cut and soldered copper piping! If that smell were to hit me now I would erupt into a fit of creativity. Oh yea, and I like that smell of that PVC glue when it dries. I would consider a plumbing career just for the smells.

The point I’m desperately trying to make is that the current moment is such a tiny sliver of life; it’s barely even there as far as I’m concerned. And that depresses me because I know that it’s really all that’s real. Whatever else doesn’t matter one whit -- this is it. Life, you know. Past and future are only concepts; just ask someone with severe memory loss.

I remember watching a documentary on people with severe memory damage. The only part that I remember is that people who can’t remember the past can’t imagine the future; there is no frame of reference. This is why I’m interested in history again, and imagine the future as some kind of bizarre re-imagining of Stalinist Russia for a David Lynch movie set in an alternative reality -- but I’m digressing... and that’s O.K. because if I didn’t digress I would have no journals. They are tangents that are tangential to themselves.

What else do I want to say? Oh yea, I’m still more pessimistic than I’ve ever been and I’m absolutely hopeless and depressed; and I probably will be for the rest of my miserable fucking life. My behavior, however, seems to have disconnected somewhat from my own emotions. Like a big partitioning wall is in the process of being erected to protect myself from my own shit attitude. So that whatever danger I may face right now, I’m not worried about myself.

But I am worried about others. I have decided to sort of distance myself from ever... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15010978/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/15010978/ Thu, 11 Oct 2007 06:20:27 PDT
There may be a few people in this world who still remember my name. Memory is a strange and wonderful thing. I often wish I could remember every single moment of my life vividly enough to completely relive it at a later date. Like the ultimate in high definition TiVo; the highest definition possible. But until then, my journals will have to suffice. As flawed as they are, they’re better than nothing at all. Whenever I lapse and fail to update it is because I am going through a time that I would rather forget. It is a selective memory, and a personality fault I wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for one of those occasional tragedies that often befall impatient computer users.

On one particularly dreary day I was copying files off of my computer in preparation for a complete re-initialization. I didn’t need to do this, but I wanted to. Cleaning out the computer helps me think, and it is an option of last resort whenever I am having creative difficulties. Putting back only what I absolutely need gives my ‘new’ computer a zen-like minimalism that is difficult to replicate any other way.

This time, however, I wasn’t paying attention. I was angry while I was doing this, and I overlooked a lot of safety procedures that have protected my precious files in the past. I was angry about how much unfinished work I had left hanging around; and I was furious about how little I had added to the experience of my life in the previous year or so. This resulted in the complete deletion of about a year’s worth of notes, unfinished stories and outlines. One of the stories had been nearly finished and ready for posting the entire summer while I procrastinated and lost focus.

After a few hectic hours of trying to recover the deleted files, I finally gave up, with no-one to blame but myself. I have had major accidental deletions in the past, yet none of those ever resulted in the complete destruction of a year’s worth of conceptual creation. The only real reason why it was all lost was that I didn’t think highly enough of myself to perform even a rudimentary backup. I deserved this loss. There is really no other way to understand it.

It deeply saddened me, and I am still quite sad. I will attempt to write down as much as I can from memory, but it will never be quite the same. This whole experience has kind of jolted me a bit by showing me how I have been living my life... wandering around aimlessly in a funk of sorts, searching for that next distraction to my own dissatisfaction. Unwilling to do anything because that would remind me of how little I’ve really done. My life is just like those creative notes; a sandcastle to be swept away into an endless ocean -- oblivion.

It was when I had finally given up on trying to retrieve the files with a recovery program that I decided to create another person. One who had forgotten all the bad things about me, and remembered the good. For now, let’s call this person Dalton B. You may be familiar with him already, and he may be completely new to you. He is my own approximation of an alternate universe version of myself. The main difference between him and myself is that he suffered significantly less humiliation and fear in early childhood. As a result of this, he is more outgoing and confident. He would take the time to do a simple backup of his own writing. You don’t have to be a self-absorbed egomaniac to do that... I don’t think.

All the journaling will continue to be done by me, Dalton A. Being the original Dalton from which Dalton B spun off from early in childhood, I feel like I have more authority to speak about what it means to be any of the various versions of myself wandering the multi-verse. Even the ones who are world leaders and genius physicists aren’t as qualified as I am, because I see myself as an average example of how all the billions and billions of possible Daltons would turn out as I am neither a great success or an abysmal failure.

I haven’t achieved much for good or evil. As much as I fail in the positive, I likewise fail in the negative. I am not in prison or on parole. I haven’t caused significant damage to lives or property. My life could best be described as a strait line sloping slightly downward for the most part with an occasional spike or two.

Dalton B’s life was moving slightly upwards when I reached through the multiverse to touch his mind. Unfortunately, his mind wasn’t at all prepared for the intrusion. When my consciousness touched his, it resulted in a near complete disconnect from long term memory. He thought he was me, and then forget that he was himself. When I disconnected it left him in psychological limbo, trapped between two identities; his own, and the one that just departed.

So now he has even fewer painful memories than I do. Good for him, since he’s going to be doing a... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14737273/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14737273/ Sat, 22 Sep 2007 01:32:32 PDT
I turned a tank divider into a guard to prevent my fish from gulping in too much air and floating. This isn’t perfected yet, but it works well enough. I’ve also invented a sort of automatic feeder that may or may not be something I’d want to build. For now, I use my cruddy little prototype.

The moment I am done with a mundane task, the feelings come back to me. This is why I seem to have an unwarranted enthusiasm for receipts and bills.

I also like to work on my bike. Deep cleaning the chain, lubricating the derailer, and then scrubbing the dust off of the wheels. It’s too clean and I’m too fucked up for me to want to ride it, even though the ground will soon be covered with snow.

The past year feels like one single day to me. That’s what happens when you do exactly the same thing every day. Not only does time fly past you, it ceases to matter at all. It may seem to crawl when you’re miserable and fly when you’re happy, but the good times are much longer in memory.

I often patrol the house, checking the battery level on the cell phones, and charging them if needed. Then there’s the televisions that are left on, and DVD’s left in their players. That kills some time. I found some energizer lithium batteries for five dollars. I can’t wait for the batteries to run out on my wireless mouse and keyboard so I can put them in.

I am obsessed with the song Blue Monday. It’s totally detached, repetitive and subdued; it’s like listening to my own personality.

“How does it feel when your heart grows cold?”

Oh, that’s an easy one to answer: it doesn’t feel at all. And if you’re lucky, it stays that way. It never does for me, though. My emotions always come back, harder each time. But I never really cry; just release tears. Not tears for any one particular thought or feeling, just tears for the pressure built up inside of me. Just a little pre-emptive grief for all the things that will never be.

Then I’m back in another thrift store, searching for the Holy Grail of thrift; the improperly valued item. Sometimes they get a little lazy and don’t look up the value of one particular item, and you can get something nice on the cheap. For example, a ratty looking table that’s thick, solid wood underneath. The crappy finish would throw them off. And I certainly have the free time to sand and refinish furniture. I would welcome the chore.

Rearranging the furniture was a short high, lasting only a few days. I think I’ll change my sheets, because so many bugs have died in my bed. This place could use some nice light bulbs...

I don’t think I can really handle Pink Floyd’s music anymore. Not on an emotional level, anyway. It speaks to a part of me that is unstable enough to do some very crazy things. I grew up on Pink Floyd. I can’t handle much of anything now.

I’m sorry I haven’t been much of a talker; not much of a person at all. It’s just too depressing to be in the company of stable, functioning people. All it does is expose my obsessive compulsive clusterfuck of a life in sharp relief. That hurts when I can hurt.

I don’t think I live in the same world everyone else does. There’s more chaos for me; absolutely no sense of order. Very small things that people rarely notice are the universe to me, and the big things are too big for me to even notice. Like a gnat on the ass of an elephant.

I think I’ve given up on writing fiction and poetry and stuff, because it’s painful for me to even think about it, much less do it. If I were to read some of the old stuff I’ve written, I’d probably have a nervous breakdown. Like I haven’t already.

For me to even comment on the world, was too much participation. I am a passive entity, I exist on the outside, and see everything, but I cannot actively engage in existence. What does my opinion matter anyway? Those who agree, would agree anyway; and those who disagree, still disagree. What does it do but elicit responses from others? You may not notice me, but I am watching and listening in.

I feel a lot of cold objectivity from the world. A whole lot of inert matter. So much steel beams and concrete. Shelfs to hold items, shopping carts, asphalt roads. Rocks and dirt and mountains. Trees are alive, but not on my level. Their d... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14463978/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14463978/ Sun, 02 Sep 2007 23:58:09 PDT
Of all the enemies I have, I am the worst, as I am the one whose influence I cannot escape. No matter where I go or what I do, I am there. Watching everything I do, and hearing everything I hear. I am always one step ahead of myself because I’m listening in on my thoughts; I know my every move. Whatever I plan to do, I must not know why I’m doing it. Or perhaps I will make the strategy so complex and convoluted that I can understand it in my good guy state. Since when I sink down into my deep hatred and depression, I’m not the smartest.

The first part of the plan is one that my asshole incarnation would be too lazy to undo. A drastic rearrangement of furniture, my usual response to great stress and the desire for life changes. In moving around my furniture I endeavor to create a new order in my space -- a better one. This time I moved a desk away into the closet, and moved my computer against same wall as my bed and the window; facing away from the door now. I am trying to get used to this right now, and I’ll probably have to make my own rear-view mirror so I can see if anyone is sneaking up on me. In addition, I ditched my big, bulky and shit entertainment center. My stereo is now on the floor, and my T.V. sits on an old bench.

Eventually both objects will be shelved over the aquarium on an industrial strength shelf. This will reclaim even more precious floor space. Room to think. I’m not some kind of a neat freak by any means, but even I can’t live in a storage closet. I think that it will be nice to no longer wake up with a huge, crappy entertainment center right beside my bed.

I think this is a sort of symbolic gesture. Myself at 22 will be a more together person than myself at 21 was. Objects will be put in their proper places to maximize space. Efficiency will increase, and I will get more done.

Somehow I will find the courage to face the problems in my life that I have been ignoring for so long. I can make this happen if I can find out a way to make this all very real to me.

I have forgiven my family, but not forgotten. They’re messed up and insecure just like I am. No more burning rage and confusion -- I must understand the mentally ill. My brother can call me a wimp all he wants, I know I’m not because he hasn’t had the courage to quit antidepressants, and I have. My mother can berate my obsessive compulsive tendencies, but she’s just a pot calling a kettle something a pot is too. I’m not the one who is obsessed with cleaning and tidiness to the point that it’s detrimental to my own health.

My dad is off the hook for the moment because of his support of my decision to refuse antidepressants. That, and not getting in my way near as much as anyone else does. He’s the only member of my family that I feel like I can reason with; and barely at that. Most of the time everybody’s nerves are so fried that we can barely talk to each other.

I come from a family of neurotics. Whenever I am in a position to observe the dynamics of other families, I do not detect near the nervousness that is familiar to me. And I know this has been going on for generations because my line is starting to adapt. I am proud to say that although I’m tense and nervous practically every waking moment, I have no signs of high blood pressure/hypertension and a decent resting heartbeat. Growing up in that kind of environment has made me immune, I suppose. Lucky me.

However, I never want to get used to it.

That is all for now. I haven’t that much to say today. Just a few thoughts put into words. From now on these journals may be somewhat less regimented.

But I’ll still be very bad at ending things.

]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14449335/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14449335/ Sun, 02 Sep 2007 00:42:32 PDT
This vision fades, and I must restrain myself so as not to cry in public. Sometimes I fail, and people think I’m a wimp. Hell if I care, though. I know the truth and that’s enough. I never cry anymore. I haven’t really for years. Men, statistically speaking, cry far more often than that. I haven’t even teared up from allergies. I deserved this forceful reminder of my own humanity. I was simply due.

Not tears of sadness, for I’ve been sadder.

Not tears of joy, for I’ve been happier.

Just tears of awareness. What was yesterday can never be again. Today is the only day we have; we all used to believe this until it became a cliche. Love and kindness is cliche, too. Time to dump them.

Women cry a hell of a lot more than men do, because supposedly they are more emotional than we are. This easily explains the deep gut revulsion I have towards cold women. Just instinctual, you know. Men just have to kill the meat and protect the clan; women, shit, they have the babies. And babies need love.

A strange sensitivity after a long passionless fugue. An understanding that loneliness isn’t just being alone, but completely understanding that you are always alone anyway. Being deprived of meaningful exchanges with other human beings is just the catalyst for this realization.

I’m sorry if this isn’t as good as my other journals. Mentally, I feel so wounded and hurt that I’m practically learning how to walk again. Desperately trying to rehabilitate my own sense of self worth and independence. I lost that because I became too obsessed with other people’s fortunes. How so many people have and do things that I could never even dream of doing. My envy ate at me every day until eventually I couldn’t really talk to anyone anymore.

Fucking hell, I feel like I’m about to die every day. What makes you think I want to hear about your whiney brother or your overbearing mother? And I sure don’t give a fuck that you’re going to college, and that you want to do all these great things, but the classes are just too grueling. Maybe you’re not a bad person, but you sure don’t seem to live in the same world that I do. At best I think you’re conceited and shallow.

I don’t care about anything that you may paint, draw or write if it doesn’t come from a place I can relate to. I don’t care about you if you don’t seem to really care about anything. As far as I’m concerned, you’re no-one if you don’t have any passions in life. I know this because up until about the day before yesterday I didn’t care about a damn thing. Just wanted to make the pain go away, and bury the sad truth of my life. The truth that I’ll probably never amount to anything much at all, and spend the rest of my days in sad seclusion. Being absolutely nothing at all.

But I feel it now. The full weight of isolation bearing down on my chest. This, at least, I still feel. This, at least, I understand.

I don’t want to be a big star or a cult icon. All I want to do is exist on some tangible level that most human beings can understand. So that when I speak, they are compelled to listen; and when I am near, my presence is felt.

Just something real. Not just some intangible consciousness which experiences tactile sensations, thoughts and emotions without any real definition of what experience is. If it’s even real at all.

If you want to put things in perspective, your life and mine, consider the fact that one of my main goals for this month is to finish reading one book. If I can somehow get my mind in order enough to do that, it’ll be an improvement over last month. After that, I may be able to take on a few more simple tasks. Maybe if I can steadily improve over a long period of time, I might live long enough to actually function on some basic level.

In all likelihood I’ll be seeing a psychiatrist soon. The reasoning behind this is to get the general practitioners to pay more attention to my physical problems. This will be done by gently reminding them that they’re crossing onto another doctor’s turf so to speak. Let the head shrinker do his job, while you do yours.

This will also give me ammo against everyone who tries to analyze me. Whatever else he may be, at least he’ll serve me in this way. People will no longer be able to sarcastically say that I ‘Need help’. Fucking... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14296443/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14296443/ Wed, 22 Aug 2007 23:38:18 PDT
And I am very, very tired. I fall asleep everywhere I go. Yesterday I had fallen asleep on a couch in a furniture showroom. I haven’t had a couch of my own to lie on since I was a small child. Not since I had chicken pox, I’m sure. I hadn’t taken a bath in Aveeno for a long time since then, too. Not since yesterday. I’ve been itching a lot, and I don’t know why. It kept me up late the other night. But now it’s under control, I hope.

I spend very little time on the internet these days. I think it’s mostly because the entire fake social network I had crafted for myself here has collapsed in recent months because I discovered that I somehow had surrounded myself with self-absorbed and morally indifferent assholes. This disturbs me because I’m afraid of how that reflects on me as a person. That these cockroaches somehow managed to fool me into thinking they were human beings for even the short amount of time that they did, makes me wonder just how well my own personal filters were working. The conclusion I have come to is that, quite simply, I have failed to follow my instincts. Every person who turned out to be an ass clown had given me tiny little clues about their true nature. But I ignored them, because I was lonely and desperate for someone to talk to. That nagging little feeling was ignored, because it was irrational.

I don’t have that feeling about any one of you who remain on my lists. I speak to you, so I shouldn’t question your character. No longer will I try to make any attempt to maintain a friendship with anyone. If they haven’t the guts or the motivation to come to me, to talk to me, then they can go fuck themselves as far as I’m concerned. From now on, only those who have the guts to speak to me, shall be spoken to in turn. So those who only speak when they are spoken to, you are also out.

Another reason why I haven’t been on the internet as much as I used to is that I can’t stand the thought of being an ‘internet person’. Even though I used to be one of those people, words cannot describe how much I loathe them. You know the type, those stupid kids who spend a large amount of their free time on the internet, talking in chat rooms, forums, message boards. Playing video games, and talking just to be talking. Taking on the slang and speech idiosyncrasies of the ‘net culture, disconnecting from the real world. Becoming more of an ass munch every day. Goddamn it, man, I want to stay in touch with the real world; the solid ground beneath my feet and the world just outside my door.

I have to take each falling out and turn of friendship to hatred as a lesson to make me a better person. Whatever I hate about the other person, I must look within to see if I hate that about myself. Or else nothing good at all can come of it. Except making me hate humanity even more, perhaps.

My openness gives my enemies their out. I’m just too crazy to see beyond my own neuroses, and it’s all me, they say. Because I’m honest and open about things that most people wouldn’t be honest and open about, they know my flaws and think I’m too myopic to see beyond them. But I say that anyone who thinks they see things clearly is surely blind. If you think otherwise you’re just like those political science jerk offs who think they are observing the political system from an objective point of view, far above the fray.

An aloof artiste type who thinks he’s too fucking good for the pit. One who claims to not judge others, but does it all the time with his words and his actions. A bloody fucking hypocrite sitting in front of his computer, safe from the rocks and stones.

Fuck yea, I judge. I’m part of this big, disgusting fray, no matter how far on the outskirts of it I get. Every once and awhile, I just get punched, and that’s the way I like it. That keeps me real enough to know who I am so I can explain it someone. It keeps me angry and frustrated enough so I don’t feel too peaceful inside. All I want is to feel peaceful enough to sleep at night. Everything else can be war, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not too good for anything. I’m scum, but at least I’m good enough to admit that. Unlike some assholes I know.

I feel an incredible urge to make something of myself, just to spite these fucking people. Yea, and I’ll do that just as soon as I have the energy.

S... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14141968/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14141968/ Mon, 13 Aug 2007 00:37:07 PDT
Today I am being assailed on multiple fronts. First of all, my muscles and joints are aching and I’m having a difficult time standing up strait while I’m moving up and down stairs. Even though it’s getting better, I figure I out to rest tomorrow as well. It all started when I raised the benchmark for distance traveled by bike back and forth in a day. So instead of a smooth, relatively easy loop I have to go on a 16 mile round trip trek to my lake and back. Because it’s so far to go, I can’t relax for any moment. The only way to make it there in a realistic amount of time is to push myself beyond my limits, and race all the way on a runner’s high. Suffice to say that my runner’s high has masked some injury and strain until long after I’ve come home. But it’s much more fun to go fast and pay for it later than be a slug!

Yea, and I also went down this amazingly shitty road. It was composed entirely of potholes, rocks and loose sand, and it made going back to dirt and gravel seem like an absolute luxury. This road was barely fit for jeeps. I only went down it to see how I could handle a very difficult trail. One of these days I’m going to take that 22 mile ‘experienced rider’ trail they have to the north. Just so I could accomplish something. I could die then, knowing that I accomplished something other than just wallowing in my own misery. Something for me to do that isn’t easy. Something that not everyone could do.

It might kill me, but I’ll do it.

Another thing that’s got me down is that fact that everyone in my life is pissed off at me right now. I’m not speaking terms with the people I live with anymore; my own family wants to stone me to death. All this because of an incident where they broke into my room and arranged things the way they wanted them to be. Every little nuance that made it mine was effaced. My paper in the window that blocked the suns rays was torn out. Books were put in confusing places, and I’m sure they misplaced a library book.

They did this to me one time too many, and I let them know just how I felt about this betrayal. They do not even attempt this kind of shit while I’m at home. They have to wait for me to leave. Just because I’m living with them doesn’t mean that I’m still a child. Every time they violate my space in this way they belittle me, and remind me in very painful and humiliating way how I can’t live a normal life right now because my nerves are just too frazzled.

I wish I could live on my own so much, but I can’t even hold numbers in this head. All I ask for is that I don’t be treated like some asshole ignoramus who can’t even tie his own shoes. I ask that I be treated like an adult, no matter how forgetful and eccentric I may be. That I have a certain space that is respected. That my notebooks not be flipped through and read the moment I walk out the door. You don’t do that to someone you respect. You do that to someone to remind them that you’re in control of their lives. You do that to impose your own sense of order on someone else.

And I’ve never been respected as a human being. All I’ve even been is someone’s kid, someone’s brother, someone’s student. No-one’s ever liked me for who I am as a person. No-one takes the time to. I have learned -- as many younger siblings have -- to speak very loudly or be ignored. Sometimes I even have to shout, because they will not shut up long enough for me to explain myself. It doesn’t fucking matter to them that the re-arrangement of my room undermines my fragile sense of security, because that doesn’t make sense to their lives.

This room is my universe. It’s my city. It’s my retreat. This is where I curl up under the covers and try to forget that the world ever existed, or that I ever had any hopes and dreams for myself. That I never hoped enough in my life to give up on anything, like it seems I’ve given up on writing.

I don’t have enough sense of my own self worth to pursue it. Hell, I wish I did, but I don’t. Everything has got me down these days. And I’m almost 22 years old.

I wish there was some way for me to prepare for college, go through college and get a decent job all without ever coming in... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14068221/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14068221/ Wed, 08 Aug 2007 00:00:39 PDT
This dream wasn’t nearly as disturbing as another dream I had a few days ago. Here, I was battling a group of Christian extremists in an intellectual war. We would fight in the streets, shooting at each other and hacking each other to bits with knives and machetes and such. I remember a scene towards the end when the battle is over, and I’m speaking to one of my enemies. In this scene I tell him that I could never, ever believe in God because I had seen the look on the faces of my friends when I killed them. As I spoke I saw a girl lying against a cylinder with a knife sticking out of her chest. She is slowly dying, and I know there’s no way to save her life at all.

So I take a sword and stab her in the throat. As blood gurgles out of her mouth and she dies, I see nothing in her eyes. Then I know that there is absolutely nothing beyond this life. My hatred for the Christians is unbelievable. She was a comrade and a friend of mine. I think that it was my job to put injured people on the battlefield out of their misery with my blade.

This dream was unusually dark and morbid, even by my standards. I may kill people, and there is often a lot of blood and guts and gore, but the true death dreams are much rarer. You can tell those by the feelings they leave. You wake up with dread just sitting in your chest like a lead brick. It’s difficult to breathe. I can still see her eyes as they glazed over in the moment of death. Nothing... nothing at all.

What is it like to kill a friend? Or to watch one die right before your eyes? My mind tried to answer this, and all I could feel was my own death. We were one, the killer and the killed. I felt the sword go into the throat, and I felt the oblivion of death. Why do I always feel this at night? Sometimes I’ll wake up in the early morning before the sun is visible and I’m absolutely frozen with fear. I feel like I’m in the moment before my death, and all that I’ve ever done will suddenly mean nothing at all.

And then there are these nights in front of the computer -- supremely lonely. All I can really say about them is that my loneliness is the driving force behind all I do. Here, I find companionship in my words, and in my keyboard. It’s wireless and it often sits on my lap. It is yet another device that my body communes with on a daily basis. I touch the keys, and my words come out in imperfect form. Arrangement doesn’t matter, since few will ever read what I have written. The less the better, I say. I’ve had enough bullshit from people.

One of the sad facts of life that I’ve come to understand is that you can’t ever be completely fair. You can try and give everyone their chance, but you still have to make a judgment call; you have to make some assumptions which may or may not be fair. You see a guy on the street walking towards you, and he’s acting very nervous and strange, do you trust this person’s intentions? I wouldn’t, and I doubt that any seasoned urban resident would either. Sometimes the judgments we make on others will be wrong, but we still have to make them.

No trial, no matter how exhaustive and thorough, will still eventually become a just judgment call. In life, we never have enough information to be certain. Logic can help clarify things, but even then you’re leaping to a conclusion that may be wrong. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, we can assume that it’s a duck. We’re not wrong for thinking this, either, even if there’s an astronomically small chance that it’s just a lifelike animatronic duck. I get into a lot of trouble for judging people fairly quickly. People think it’s close-minded of me, rash, and not fair at all. But I know that I can never, ever be completely fair. It’s impossible in this reality.

What I can do is change my mind about things, and I’ve done that a lot. If new information comes in I’ll quickly re-evaluate. Though that’s a rare occurrence, especially when it comes to people. If it acts like an asshole and talks like an asshole, it’s probably an asshole.

I judge first and ask questions later. I used to be fairer, and I used to give people the benefit of the doubt. But I got screwed doing that. Now, everyone is guilty until proven otherwise. This is kind of a mean way to be, but at least they have a chance to prove themselves.

I am not an easy... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14052085/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14052085/ Mon, 06 Aug 2007 23:30:27 PDT
There actually was a health warning here for healthy people to avoid any strenuous activity. And if I got in such bad shape that I had to go to a doctor, it would have to be through the emergency room, since the clinics are overflowing with people who are suffering from respiratory ailments. The area where I used to live when I was a child and pre-teen is under a mandatory evacuation order. My old house may very well burn to the ground this year, and thinking about this is very depressing for me because I have a lot of memories of that place.

I’d love to go there again, just to revisit my childhood. Yes, I know you can never go home again, but that doesn’t stop you from wanting to. Back to a simpler time of childhood daydreams, with little of the duplicity and mistrust that plagues my adult life. Sure, all the elements that would eventually turn me into a mean, bitter and lonely bastard were all there, but they hadn’t worked their way to my inner self just yet. It would take a lot of betrayal and a lot of nastiness to make me the person I am today. An awful lot.

There were many nights that felt so endless and dark that I feared I would never see the sun come up again. You don’t think that it can break you at first, but eventually it does. Time can eat away at even the strongest steel, and devour even the mightiest mountains.

All I got out of it, is the truth. I can’t lie to myself about anything for any extended period of time. This is why I could only be optimistic for about a year or so. Eventually, I told myself the truth. My mental state since then has been sort like a perpetually deflating balloon, if that makes any sense.

If that old place burns to the ground, that would be an incredibly eerie metaphor for what I’ve been trying to do with my life. It’s been very difficult for me, because I have to tell a lot of people who were friends of mine basically to go to hell now. But I have to do this, because I have to learn how to be more assertive in my life. Even if this means that I’m a somewhat overbearing and controlling person, at least it’ll mean that I’m alive. I am sick of giving in to the will of others, and I’m not going to take any more shit.

This year I discovered a natural aggression deep inside of me. It’s this aggression that allows me to fly up some of these murderous hills around here on my mountain bike. That’s why I like to do it so much, because I see those hills like the things that have been beating me down all my life. Whenever I approach one I have this mental image of taking Iwo Jima during World War II; I’m going to attack that hill, and I’m going to raise my flag at the top.

Every problem in my life is the result of me doing exactly the opposite of taking the hill. I see struggles and problems in life and I head back towards flatter, safer ground. But my goals, what I truly desire most of all in this life, those things are all at the end of a long, turning, and ever steepening gradient. I have no idea when it will end, and how long I have to struggle to reach it. I may even pass out before the top. Yea, and there are assholes at the top tossing barrels down at me, just like in Donkey Kong. Got to look out for those.

Currently, I am trying to emancipate myself from the tyranny of the past -- especially past mistakes. After much thought I’ve decided that this is the ultimate salvation of any human being; to escape the baggage of history. When the slaves were broken from their bondage, it was a tradition that they were released from; the tradition of slavery. Whenever mentally ill people adapt to a better lifestyle, they’re moving away from a historical trend within their own lives; a trend towards disfunction.

Democracy, in the rare occasion when it does work, is a break from traditional rule. A past of aristocrats and kings -- a tradition that is very much still with us, albeit in shadow form.

This rut I’m in must be replaced by a new, more productive pattern in my life. One day I want to be free from my own negative historical trends. This isn’t to say that I won’t care about the past anymore; it’ll be something for me to study and learn from, little more.

And I’ll celebrate all the people who’ve been here for me to talk to all these years, even if there are only two of them still with me when I get to the top of this hill.

Maybe I’ve bee... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14036819/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14036819/ Mon, 06 Aug 2007 00:33:58 PDT
Alright, say you know someone for a few months. You don’t know this person that well, and are given no real reason to like or dislike him. Then this person does something hideous which reveals his true nature, so you have a nasty little argument and you do whatever you can to forget that the despicable little troll ever existed. And you’re happy with this. For years you don’t have to ever think about this ass clown; you are as far away from the hideous presence as you would like to be.

Then let’s say that you also know another person who you’ve come to consider as a friendly person who wouldn’t purposely do anything malicious to you simply for his own enjoyment. You are on speaking terms with this person, and there is some degree of mutual respect -- or so at least you think. But then this person comes out and purposely makes it a point to tell you that he’s made good friends with that same asshole whom you’ve almost completely forgotten about as an insult to human dignity. That he’s come to respect this person, perhaps more than you are respected.

That I, a person of conscience and thought is not as likable as some heartless fuck-faced prick. Or so it seems that has been inferred. Like I can’t tell that he’s talking to him more often than he’s talking to me.

But none of that is why I’m mentioning this. I only ask you, dear trustworthy reader, to answer this simple question: If the enemy of my enemy is my friend, than who’s the friend of my enemy?

There are very few people who are so utterly soulless that they have proximity effect. Most of the time I don’t care if you like someone whom I dislike. My standards are so high when it comes to people that I can’t get riled up every time someone else’s standards are a bit lower than mine. It’s a social world out there, and low standards help. For example, I am unabashedly bigoted towards furries -- won’t have anything to do with them. But some of you guys have friends in that community of deviated preverts, and I won’t hold that against you. See, I am tolerant of other people’s tolerance.

But then there are those few people who don’t seem have any remorse, or conscience, or any basic empathy for other feeling creatures. For someone to make friends with someone like that, is something that puts either character or mental astuteness in question. Either you are so indifferent and valueless yourself that you don’t mind this other person’s trait, or you are so oblivious to life that you can’t even notice their emptiness. To you, they are indistinguishable from someone like me. You couldn’t pick who was who out of a lineup, you’re so damn clueless!

Or perhaps you just don’t care about anything at all. That’s something I see in a lot of people, many of them misanthropes such as myself, but they are also ‘optimists’ sometimes. What matters most to these people is how much fun they can have before they die. It’s all about being entertained and amazed, constantly. Life is for hedonistic pleasure, nothing else. These people disgust me. I hate them more than people who have values diametrically opposed to my own; because at least those people can care about something.

What I’m trying to understand the most about this is just why someone would make it a point to tell me this. That’s like walking up to Superman and saying, “Oh yea, me and Lex Luther just went and saw [Insert Superman’s Favorite Metal Band] live and they kicked ass! Sorry you couldn’t come, but I only had two tickets...”

Yes, this is one of those ‘anonymous attack’ journals. This guy deserves some humiliation from you guys as you judge his actions. One of the main reasons why I do this is because it allows for an honest understanding of actions by themselves, because this may or may not be someone who you know. It’s funny how often I’ve read responses like, “That guy’s a total asshole!” coming from someone who was good friends with the person who was attacked anonymously. This is because I -- unlike some people -- don’t like interfering with other people’s relationships with each other. If I think one of your friends is a real asshole, I’ll usually just let you figure it out.

For the sake of fairness, and to ensure the friend of my enemy gets a fair trial, I’ll describe his actions again:

He tells me during an online exchange that he’s starting to like one of my enemies. This enemy he doesn’t mention by name, but it’s obvious who he’s talking about. Now he thinks that this person whom he knows I despise is actually a ‘ pretty cool guy’.

Doesn’t that strike you as... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14009093/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/14009093/ Fri, 03 Aug 2007 23:49:35 PDT
After attaching the toe clips to my bike’s pedals, thereby at least doubling the efficiency of each pedal stroke, I surveyed my subdivision using the wonderful resource that is GoogleEarth and discovered that my daily round-trip was not the meagre seven miles that I thought it was, but in fact was at least 11 miles. This is probably because the hills are so gruesome here that I forget the flatter parts because they’re so effortless in comparison.

So I decided that I shouldn’t just ride the same way everyday, and instead turn my daily training routine into a chance to explore the world around me; to venture out of the comfort and safety of my own subdivision into the strange, wondrous mysteries of a neighboring subdivision. What I was about to discover would utterly blow my mind.

I got to bed early, and got off today with a hydration pack strapped to my back and a bottle of gatorade between my legs. Today, I would go the distance. My destination of choice was a small, tranquil lake I had seen on GoogleEarth. I even plotted a little path of sorts, and I wrote down directions on a piece of paper to help guide me on my quest. But the first thing I did was fall over, before I even moved one inch. In my haste I had jumped into the clipped pedals and fell over on the bike. Now, this particular fall wasn’t the cause of my injury. I just fell on plants and got a little dirty.

Later on, as I neared uncharted territory, I made the horrible mistake of trying to take out my directions and read them while still pedaling. When I heard the Benny Hill theme song in my head, I should have taken it as a warning that I was about to do something exceeding clumsy. That’s sort of like my version of ‘Spider Sense’.

CRUNCH! My instincts hadn’t quite learned how to work the toe clip doodads, so when I felt the bike losing balance I yanked against the straps and that just hurled me right over onto my left hand. I yelped painfully as the sharp bits of gravel and dirt forced their way through my skin, and peeled off the epidermis. Now, not to exaggerate; this isn’t a very large wound. What it is mostly is a very painful wound, as there is no blood oozing out to clot. Just a peeled-off and very raw portion of my left palm. Sometimes I forget about it and wash my hands with hot water and anti-bacterial soap. That is very excruciating.

It was worth it, though, because toe clips are awesome. Not quite as good as clipless cleats, but they’ll build up the muscles for such a system. They’re unbeatable in terms of cost-effectiveness, however. I’m upgrading other things on this bike before I’m putting a hundred dollars into pedals.

Once I got back into my clips I only got off the bike once during the entire trip, and that was while I was going up a hill and I saw this old guy leering at me from behind a tree. I got so freaked out by his staring that I turned around and went back. It was a dead end anyway. Most of the time, however, I was like a shark, and I just kept moving no matter what. So long as I moved I wouldn’t lose balance, fall over and wreck at 0 MPH -- a most dangerous speed.

So I got some exploring done, but I couldn’t find a road that I had marked on GoogleEarth. I did explore the neighboring subdivision, and their strange universe of white road signs. A few miles west, where I live, we have green road signs that look like the standard ones seen all over. But in the Private Community of Bizzaro the signs are different; even the speed limit signs. As I kept going farther, looking for the right way, I ended up far down the wrong road. Here, I saw the makings of a truly nightmarish type of subdivision.

It appeared as a curving labyrinth of fresh asphalt, between which were empty lots and ReMax real estate signs. Once I realized that the road I was taking only lead me back to the interstate I cut across and rode through the subdivision in the making. Now this isn’t like my subdivision, nor is it like the Bizzaro parody. There’s no nature at all between the lots; everyone can see their neighbor’s house. No distance at all. It was alien even after experiencing the alien. Everything was curved and artificial in feeling, as if they were going to break ground on a new Wal-Mart next. It was so bleak and lifeless, it was like being on Mars. Such things do not belong out in the country!

I rushed back into th... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13979540/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13979540/ Thu, 02 Aug 2007 00:17:28 PDT
Maybe some of the most astute observers among our people had the clarity of thought to realize that this is no accident, but it is the result of an attack on the American people. It is a consequence of low standards. It is the result of an infrastructure stretched and starved to the breaking point. In 2001 the Transportation Department of Minnesota had the bridge evaluated, and preliminary signs of fatigue on the steel truss section under the roadway were found. But because the bridge hadn’t cracked yet, it wasn’t time to do anything about it. Just leave it, they said.

The reason given: It would be too expensive to build another bridge. Way too expensive. Looks like they’re going to have to build a new bridge anyway, assholes. The only difference is that they’ll have to dig a few graves.

Why is it so difficult for Americans to understand that if they don’t put in the money to shore up levees, they get really, really wet. And if they don’t keep up bridges, well, some of us are going to fall to our deaths. This is why we can’t have nuclear power, because we’d fuck it up big time! We’d strip the standards until some calamity happens. Then, and only then, will something be done about the problem. Or pretended to be done, more often than not.

I’d hate to see what the boobs running this country would do with fusion power. My non-existent God! It’s bad enough we have nuclear missiles.
Oh yea, and a highway overpass in California collapsed. You’ve got to be careful these days whenever your life just so happens to fall into the hands of a government institution. Like a government bridge or relying on a government levee for flood protection. Better to live in the mountains and spend all your time on firm, steady ground. Water is the giver of life but it is a taker as well.

I needed a lot of water today, to rinse the taste of wood smoke out of my throat. There is a horrendous fire somewhere in the mountains, and the smoke and fumes from it are disseminating throughout the valley, choking everything that breathes. But did that stop me? No! I just took an allergy pill and went on as I always do. Taking the smoke in deep, gulping breaths, feeling it permeate my being. This evening, the sun was an eerie copper disk, and my heart felt like it was beating an abnormal way. Probably just from the exertion of the day, though now it feels just like loneliness.

Right now, I feel very much alone. Like I could tumble down just like that bridge in Minnesota and no-one would notice. I am very deflated inside, and I can’t help but wonder if I am without something that other people possess, or is it just that I can feel something that they can’t? This burning, this chill; this utter blackness. Absolute horror and despair. Whenever I do feel better, and function despite it, it’s only because I’m running from it as fast as I can. I am manic. And the manic man, he must fall sometimes, and completely deflate.

Now I feel deflated because I’ve been reminded of why I am so alone. The way human beings are disgusts me. The heartless shells, whose blood moves through their sick bodies like that of an insect. Whose minds are likewise insectoid, and seek only to dominate and control; to manipulate in any way possible. Some of you have lots of friends and are surrounded by people. I used to have friends, too. Until I payed attention to what they say when I am not around; to who they are for others. They were one person for me, another person for another. Completely duplicitous assholes. Just personas without any substance beneath. Social beings. Get them alone and there’s human being there.

I had to see and understand the world without their influence. Even those who I still care about, they’re barely aware of this. Sometimes they even behave in ways that resemble those despicable people, but somehow they’re restrained and I can forgive them. Barely.

They don’t care, they don’t understand. You won’t have to be alone if you don’t care. You could always have someone to tell your ideas to, if you never have ideas that are scary to people. And you can always be an optimist when you choose to listen to their words more closely th... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13964091/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13964091/ Tue, 31 Jul 2007 23:27:00 PDT
Despite the tortures of weather, I’ll never be a gym person. There’s something I find deeply repulsive about gyms. There are a few gyms in town and every time I drive by I see people on stair climbing machines that ascend no stairs. They are on the little nordic track skis, but they don’t go anywhere, as they would on real skis. And they pedal for hours on stationary bikes, and they never feel the wind in their face. Lifting weights after that. Developing muscles, but not much else.

Me, I’d rather be skateboarding and surfing or whatever. Most things that are simulated in a gym are things that can be done for real in a vastly more satisfying way. Out in the open air, away from the sultry vapor of other sweaty, caged beasts; all while they wait their turn on the treadmills. Fucking A man, who needs a machine to run? Why, you could just run to the nearest gym, and then you wouldn’t even need to go in and pay a stupid membership fee. On the way home you could lift some rocks, that’s your weight training.

Treadmills are just like hamster wheels for human beings. Stuck in their little apartments, it gives the captive creature an outlet for the excess energies and frustrations of captive life. They measure their efforts in terms as abstract as stock quotes; estimated calories burned, simulated distance traveled. Effort is made, but there is no distance traveled, and achievement is measured in abstract numbers. Isn’t that just the ultimate metaphor for modern life? You work and you sweat and all you get in return are ‘oints’ in a game.

Get enough points, and you can level up. Make enough social connections, level up. Play the human game, stay inside. Drive to your gym, and your job, spend as little time as possible in the world between you and your destination. The burning streets an the urban decay. Ride in your car, with the windows up and the air conditioning on full power. No-one can hurt you, but you can hurt them. Sweet sense of security... right until the time an SUV smashes into you head-on and splatters your brains all over the dashboard.

Automobiles make being stuck in several tons of steel and plastic while it’s speeding down the road at 90 miles an hour feel much safer than it actually is. This is probably why so many Americans die in car wrecks every year; a false sense of security. You’ve got the radio going, you’re sitting in your comfortable seat, you’re in the ‘car space’. Unfortunately, this space has come to be one of the few refuges we have from the onslaught of the world around us. On the way to work, and the on the way home; in transit, so to speak. As we move from place-to-place, we are free from the corresponding obligations of either location. Home is safe, but it brings its own problems. Work is usually completely soul-draining and degrading, so you’re not going to try and get there early. You’ll wait in traffic, listening to your stereo.

Cars idling in traffic: Energy expended without distance traveled. Another example of our society.

Most of them are only carrying one person, but they usually seat four and can carry much more. They could easily travel that distance by bike, bus, carpool or even a moped, but non of those methods would give them the space and security that comes with an automobile. Cars are very possessive forms of transportation. They can bring great pride to their owners, and are in themselves a possession to be coveted. There are locks, security mechanisms, and a trunk to secure your stuff so that no-one may even see it. There is even a glove box that can be locked. So not only can you protect your possessions from people outside the car, but also from those inside the car.

Before we had the security of precision locking mechanisms, we had to trust at least a few people in our lives.

Isn’t it funny how a website that is supposed to be a community is called MySpace? Fuck, I’ve already got my own space. Too much of it, really. It’s all I’ve got. You can’t really embrace a sense of community when it’s just about you, and ho... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13949453/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13949453/ Tue, 31 Jul 2007 00:00:10 PDT
Just recently I’ve had a very dark and morbid feeling that death was imminent. It was like a black cloud choking me. The feeling is best described by the atmosphere of the Ingmar Bergman classic The Seventh Seal, which is probably my favorite movie of all time. Then I find out today that the great master has passed away at the age of 89. He finally lost his chess game, I suppose. He got to play it for a long time, though, and that’s commendable. I regret not watching more of his movies -- as there are so many of them -- and I guess I ought to get to work on that soon. May he rest in peace.

Moment of silence for the great artist:

...

...

...

...

I’d love to be able to say that I’m not afraid of death, but that’s not true at all. Matter of fact, I’m horrified of death and dying, every day of my life. So much so, that I often wish that I was never born, so then at least I couldn’t die, and live with such soul-numbing terror. I’m not a very brave person, I’m afraid. Actually, I’m quite a coward. The last thing I deserve is respect. -- however, I find it difficult now even being a coward, as my lack of courage also seems capable of killing me quite effectively. I’m so afraid of death that I shriek and run right into it’s great gaping jaws.

The next few years of my life will either kill me, or make me a very strong and capable person. I think that they will probably kill me, and I try to come to grips with all that I will be missing. I often imagine what my own funeral would be like, and what sort of songs should be played on that morbid day. Darkness, Darkness is one of my top picks. Seeing myself in my mind’s eye, I am lying in the open casket, pale and lifeless. Just dead organic matter, that’s all. And I wonder who would come to see me buried.

Because most people like me simply don’t make it. They can’t survive. I am not an optimistic person by nature, so this is the outcome I have to accept as most probable, intellectually. Emotionally I have to try and have at least enough hope to go through a day.

Less often, I imagine what life would be like if I did survive the torture. What sort of a person would I be? Whoever I am, wherever I am, I hope there’s someone there who I can really trust. Someone to confide in, who I could even talk to. That would mean that somehow I’ve unlocked myself, loosened up my seized emotions. I could live then like a real person, not this passionless beast I have become.

Maybe my problem is that I don’t really have anything to care about, or anything that really matters to me. If I had a wife and child, say, then there’d be some real, visceral reason to straiten out my life. It’d be no choice for me, then. Which would be good for me because I never do anything at all because I want to do it. I have to force myself to participate even in activities that are enjoyable. My natural state is that of extreme underarousal and I am entirely incapable of naturally paying attention to anything; I must force myself to sit still and focus on my activity. This is probably why I’m a very slow reader, but an above-average writer. As I read, my attention usually wanders away from the book hundreds of times an hour. Whenever I’m writing, however, my natural inattention is just transmitted onto the page. Am I talking about the same thing I was when I began writing? No!

Ideas are linked together by my own logic, which is how my mind wanders away from whatever I’m trying to do. This makes sense to some people, and it’s complete nonsense to others. I will never be a successful writer because of this trait. Good writing is supposed to be concise and to the point; I don’t even know what the point is. I’m stumbling around in darkness, feeling for the point, putting into words all that I’m touching. Any one thing could be the point, or they could all be points. What matters to you is the only real point, I suppos... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13921272/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13921272/ Sun, 29 Jul 2007 00:05:58 PDT
“Weeeeee! Eeeeeee! Ahhhhhhh!”

I have no idea what they’re doing that’s so goddamned fun. It may be a slip ‘n slide, or one of those wiggly hoses that go all over the place. Or perhaps they’re not having any fun at all, and I’m misinterpreting the sounds I’m hearing. Maybe Baba Yaga is out there, in her hut on chicken’s legs, and the children are shrieking because she’s about to eat them. I will probably never know. Children aren’t very integral parts of our society. They’re usually just stashed away and coddled and prepped for a life of drudgery and consumerism.

That might be what they’re screaming about. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a telemarketer my whole life! Eeeeee!” ... “I’m going to drive a Ford Festiva! Ahhhh!” ... “I’m going to have to live through HIGH SCHOOL! Oh nooooooo!”

And so on and so forth...

That’s why kids are so good at having fun. They’re partying while they still can. Getting all that Pokemon time in, playing with trading cards, reading Harry Potter books. Ah, but then comes the angst, the hormones, and the Metal. You look at the stuff you got into as a kid, and you are disgusted. Hair starts growing all over your body, and you want to screw everything.

I’m talking of course about boys. If you’re a woman and this applies to your adolescence as well, then you got some explaining to do.

FeMan, the woman who acts like a man. She thought she’d be alone all her life until she met EffeMale, who helped her get in touch with her inner emotional side. He taught her how to sew, and she taught him the secrets of effective strength training.

You see, they weren’t homosexuals! She isn’t a bull dike, and he’s just a lipstick lesbian trapped in a dainty male body. Ever since he started going out with FeMan, he has a sense of security. She protects him like a mother grizzly bears protects her cubs...

What the hell am I going on about now? This is what you get with a thousand words rule. But this is how I started getting enough confidence to write. I actually love writing about stupid stuff sometimes, because I do have another side. That’s one of the things people sometimes notice about me. One moment I may be complete, utter despair, without a hope in the world, then I am jester-like and irreverent. Like the two masks of the theater, Tragedy and Comedy. Those are the two masks I wear.

Not literally, though. I never wear masks, not even for Halloween. I think it all began in childhood, when I lost a costume contest to a rival in kindergarden -- I forget her name. My costume was way, way cooler than hers. It wasn’t even a dark theme; it was a hula skirt. Mine consisted of a sweat suit with a lot of velcro sewn on to it. Then velcro was also glued onto light sticks and then activated and attached to the suit. The concept was that I was a green-glowing radioactive man of some sort; and since I’d be going out at night, it would have a better effect. Or so I thought. But I had to lose to fucking Hula Girl. I’m going to go look up my old kindergarden class and find out her name, and then she’s getting a phone call from me.

“Hey Hula Whore! Remember me? I’m the boy whose life you destroyed! Garrrr!”

And since the experience wasn’t as traumatic for her as it was for me, she probably doesn’t remember it at all. Though she’d probably be frightened somewhat, getting a call from someone insane enough to hold grudges for that long a period of time. Come to think of it, the radioactive boy might have been a different Halloween. I think that year I entered wearing a karate gi. Back then American children were going through a major martial arts phase, so there were lots of little ninjas and karate kids running all over. One of the skills I learned from this phase is how to walk on my toes like a ninja to avoid being heard.

It’s useful for moving around at night and not pissing your parents off.

One of the most humiliating costumes was one I had no control over whatsoever. I was a leopard or some other sort of large spotted cat. I didn’t know how to walk yet, and if I did I’m sure I would have been made to crawl on all fours like an animal. They needed their cute picture, and they got it. Shortly after this experience I learned the word ‘No’. What the hell possesses parents to force their young children into the sinister, dark, twisted world of fur suit fetishists with those ridiculous a... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13907910/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13907910/ Fri, 27 Jul 2007 22:29:13 PDT
Needless to stay, my radical change in lifestyle has already affected my body. Today I fit into a small pair of shorts that I could barely get into about a month ago. It was these shorts that motivated me to lose all my extra moping weight. Now that I’ve lost the weight, for the most part, I know some assholes who are going to point that out to me and say, “Looks like you lost some weight.”

Make no mistake about it, this is just the polite way of calling someone fat; it’s just retroactively doing it. Like going back in time and pointing a finger at you while you were a pathetic lump of avoirdupois and going “Fatty fatty!”

This is an experience that is familiar to me because I’ve both been fat and fit many times in my life. So I guess you couldn’t say that I’m either a fat person, or a non-fat person. My lifestyle usually sways wildly between total sloth and gluttony in the winter and spring, to a frenetic asceticism in the summer and fall. Though I suppose that even at my fattest I wasn’t quite obese, at least by American standards. A resident on the outskirts of Chubby Town, perhaps. It is when I’m in my chubby incarnation that I make my most mean-spirited fat jokes. It’s just appropriate. Fat people have the right to make fun of other fatties. Just a fact of life. Like water always travels the path of least resistance. And then you get crooked rivers, and crooked men... or whatever.

Now most of my shorts hang down well below the underwear line, giving me a somewhat ghetto look. I’d wear a belt, but that’s really not appropriate for shorts. It may seem like I’m bragging, but I’m trying to make a point here. I think it is how easy it is to lose weight when you can get off your ass and stop stuffing twinkies down your gullet.

Or no rickshaw driver in his right fucking mind would take you as a passenger! I sure as hell know that I wouldn’t. Even rickshaw drivers have standards, you know. What makes the whole rickshaw system work is the fact that the vast majority of people in the third world are skinny ass beanpoles. That’s why it hasn’t been implemented in this country. But you just wait a few years, because this country is about to be put on the most brutal diet imaginable.

Some of us won’t survive.

If I survive into the post-American future, I plan on being a deep thinking rickshaw driver. Not like the chinese ones that are carried. More like Indian and Thai varieties. Perhaps I could even drive a motorized tuk-tuk! And I’ll contemplate the ultimate fate of the universe while I drive you to the other side of the ghetto. Negotiating through dangerous military checkpoints, avoiding gang territories. This isn’t your daddy’s rickshaw; it’s a super lightweight rickshaw tank, made for battle. In the back are two mounted flame throwers for dealing with attacks from the back. I command the vehicle from behind several plates of bullet proof glass. Mounted on the front of the mighty rickshaw are 7 foot spikes for impaling rival drivers.

Come to think of it... that would be an awesome video game. Rickshaw Wars! If the video game industry was even half that creative, I’d have a hard time resisting them. Because believe it or not, they are actually optional.

Video games and the systems that play them, are all part of the whole consumer industrial complex, or whatever. That’s what I was talking about before, and it’s what I’m supposed to be talking about now, since this is part two of It’s Not Easy Being Green. The whole title was a reference to Kermit The Frog and It Ain’t Easy Being Green. I got it wrong, I know. But I wont change it back because ‘Ain’t’ is a word I just ain’t going to use no more. Y’hear?

There has been an awful lot of discussion about what it means to ‘consume’ and be a ‘’consumer’. This is something I’ve always understood without the help of analysis, just by understanding the meaning of the word ‘Consumption’. According to Dictionary.com consumption is: 1. the act of consuming, as by use, decay, or destruction.

What happens after you’ve consumed something? You no longer have it. That’s the meaning of the old expression “You can’t have your cake and eat it too”. In an infinite world, you could. When these policies were created, and the consumer lifestyle began to blossom, t... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13894650/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13894650/ Fri, 27 Jul 2007 00:29:50 PDT
Haha... Summer is a season for idle thoughts. And recently my thoughts have turned towards the climate crisis and all the horrible problems caused by the means by which we acquire necessary -- and mostly unnecessary -- energy. People tend to think of me as an utterly hopeless and dour pessimist who can complain about the state of the world but essentially has no ideas of his own. A bringer of bad news whose heart is too black and cynical to create anything.

Perhaps that is true; but it’s only half true. Those who accuse me of senseless pessimism do not understand the root cause of that pessimism; my old sense of wonder about life. Because I used to be very interested in politics, I am now bitter about politics; and because I used to be passionate about global crises, I am bitter about everyone else’s complete apathy. A life without passion is not a like worth living, which is why I think ‘Meh’ is the worst fucking word in the world. Everything these days is just ‘Meh’. I never feel ‘Meh’ about anything. Either I like it, or I absolutely fucking hate it! Occasionally, I may feel lukewarm about something, but my passionate hatred for the ‘Meh’ mentality motivates me to express my feelings in a passionate way:

“This is so FUCKING MEDIOCRE!”

‘Meh’ is a word you say when you have nothing to say. OK? Am I making myself clear? I’m not a vindictive person, but if someone uses that word in my presence, I find ways of making them pay for it. You’ve been warned.

The idea that I had which reminded me of my old passion had to do with pedals, power and a debilitating disorder. You know all those millions out there who are suffering from Restless Leg Syndrome? Why not take all those people and put them all on power-generating stationary bikes? Those pedals will move non-stop, power will be generated. Gather enough of these people in one giant complex, feed them well, and let them get to work. And at night you strap their legs to generators designed to work in a supine position. So that while their legs move about all night, we do not waste the energy. Meanwhile, the suffers find guaranteed employment, and the gratification of what was once a burden becoming a boon!

Meaning you get to sit on your ass and watch television all day, just kicking away with those restless Rockette legs. Just think of all the good, clean power we could produce. This has to be one of the greatest untapped resources on Earth, man. It’s a win-win situation. We get our power, and the RLS sufferers get to constantly move their legs.

Yea, thinking like this is one of the benefits of living here in Dullsville. There’s absolutely nothing to distract you from your daydreams. In fact, paying any attention to real life at all interrupts the daydreams. Which are, in fact, much more important than real life up in these parts -- as they keep you from going insane, or going goober and manipulating mechanical things with your pants down and your ass crack wide open for ventilation.

Speaking of ventilation, I just spent about two and a half hours fixing up an old piece of shit industrial fan. I had a little help from my brother -- not because he’s enthusiastic about anything that I do, but because the shitty thing rattled so loudly he couldn’t hear his own stuffy thoughts. We practically took the entire thing apart, removing the blades and taking the motor off of the frame. The main problem with this fan was that the motor and blades were very loosely attached to the frame, so that it rattled very, very loudly when running on high power. I finally decided to fix the fucking thing at all costs when a nut rattled loose inside the fan and was shot across the room by the blades. Once an appliance starts shooting projectiles at you, it’s time to take out the tool kit and get to work.

So we replaced the broken screws and bolts with one working screw and bolt and a whole bunch of zip ties because we couldn’t find another screw long enough to work. I cleaned all the parts with SimpleGreen and blew out the motor with an air compressor. Afterwards we put the thing back together and turned it on for the moment of truth; and gave the devil horns when we realized that we could hear each other speak. It was beautiful because it worked just as well as it did when it was brand new. It’s humming now, quietly and beautifully ventilating my room.

We thought about t... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13881343/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13881343/ Wed, 25 Jul 2007 23:43:04 PDT
Jim Henson created the Muppets; he was the Master Of Muppets.

There is a point here, I just don’t know what it is yet. Oh yea, I’m thinking about the troops. As of this writing 3,640 of the dumb bastards have fallen in the name of fucking up the world even more. What fills me with a kind of hateful mirth is the fact that these jarheads rationalize their situation usually by coming to the conclusion that it’s not their place to rationalize or understand. That it’s the job of the soldier to follow orders without question.

And to fall in battle, heroically, no matter the cause.

While this situation is an abomination of human dignity, they’re probably better off thinking this way for the moment because if they were to ever fully realize the dreadful waste of their lives, they would surely crack completely. Some of them already have, and have paid the price for their own foolishness. For thinking that life is a game. Frankly, I think they all deserve whatever shit our government craps down their throats.

They thought it was a first person shooter game, they wanted to be all tough and show the world what American boys are made of: Paper thin lies and a whole lot of weapons. Trillions of dollars’ worth of murder machines, and nothing to make our lives one fucking whit better. Because we are taught to fear the arab in his cave halfway around the world more than the dying child a few miles down the road.

He’s dying from a simple tooth abscess because he has no health care. His parents would have brought him to the dentist earlier if they knew, but they chose to buy food this month. Ten miles to the north, a teenager in the suburbs contemplates suicide because he can’t get any attention on MySpace no matter how Emo he is. His parents are choosing between a new Escalade or an H-2 this month.

They own stock in many defense corporations. Moral of the story: Worship death and you’ll live.

Both these things really happen in this country. I am dead serious. What I want to know, and I wonder this every day, is why are we still considered a first world nation? Our standard of living, on average, doesn’t warrant the label. The type of country we now most resemble is the rogue state, although we’re so extremely powerful militarily that we get a little bit more respect than say, North Korea. Or not...

We used to be powerful economically, too. I suppose we still are, in some sense, if you can invest in death. The perfect investment, really. Death will never go away, and it can only grow...

Especially if we get that war we always wanted, and drop our bombs right on your fucking head. Boom! Boom! You’re dead. You were a useless fuck anyway, and you were probably going to die of a tooth abscess. At least now a contractor can turn a profit digging your mass grave. Otherwise that caterpillar would just be sitting there doing nothing, making money for no-one. And an entire nation of losers wouldn’t have a war to distract them from their shit lives, and give them something to feel good about.

Because dumping misfortune upon others always makes you feel better about your own life. Shitting on people is the best therapy, or I’ve heard. Just jab that needle in their eye, and shoot those depleted plutonium bullets in their general direction. Even if you don’t hit them, the dust will give them lung cancer in a few years. And that’s a good thing.

Back home in America, they’re mourning your little brother. A decade from now you will be able to regret not being there for your family in their time of need. Now, you just relieve the stress as best you can.

You shot a teenager the other day, just to watch him die. A life taken for a life. He wasn’t armed, but no-one saw you. Even if they did, they’d never take the word of insurgent-supp... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13862342/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13862342/ Tue, 24 Jul 2007 15:53:49 PDT
The only candidates that I could possibly stomach voting for are the ones who are considered joke candidates because their views are outside of the paper thin margins of mainstream thought. And that is to say, they actually have ideas. They say things that aren’t popular, and then they themselves aren’t popular. If our people had any sense, they’d understand that these people are probably better bets than the robots we have now for ‘realistic’ choices.

My brother watched a Democratic Primary Debate last night, and I derived great pleasure from predicting everything the serious candidates were going to say. Hilary Clinton is particularly hilarious because not only is her dialog robotic, so is her manner of speech. I can easily imagine her face popping off to reveal a cluster of silicon and computer wires. She’s hugely ambitious, though, so she understands what Americans want; stilted and scripted. What my people seem to look for when they’re appraising someone is the absolute opposite of what I look for. They want perfection, and what they get is just a shallow illusion of it.

Me, I like people who can fuck up seriously. I want someone who was on drugs, who was suicidal and crazy, and can admit his own frailty. People who have scars they won’t cover with makeup. These things, as far as I’m concerned, is what makes someone a human being. This is why I can’t seem to muster the same kind of contempt and burning hatred for politicians that my brother and others can; they’re just not real to me. I hate the media and the general population more for creating these canned personalities. Besides, it’s not like they’re even doing anything. Now if we could only vote for lobbyists, then we might have some real control over this fucking country.

I control about 50 square feet of this country; I do what I can. You might like living in my 50 square feet, if my insane habits don’t drive you mad.

So I’ve decided that for this next election I’ll probably abstain from entering anything in the presidential part of the ballot. What I’ll do is probably just vote on ballot initiatives and shit, because Montana gets such fucked up initiatives that you’d have to be retarded not to vote against them. And given the kind of bumper stickers I see around here, I’m not taking any chances. Not that Montana is even in the presidential ‘game’ so to speak. They might as well not even give us presidential ballots; at least then they’d be fucking honest with us about how the electoral college is fucking us over. Instead of just lying to us, giving us these little pieces of paper that make it look like we’ve got a vote.

We’re electoral niggers, officially. So my non-vote will only be about one quarter of a non-vote; I’m not even getting my full abstaining value!

I love describing the American system of government to people from other countries, because to them it’s just about the most irrational thing in the world. Sort of what baseball is to me. I just don’t fucking understand it, and I never have. A guy has to hit a ball with a bat, and then he has to run around like a damn fool. Most of the people on the field just stand there doing nothing most of the time. Oh yea, and they wear gay ass clothes!

For those of you living in countries that have the distinction of being Not America, baseball used to be our national pastime. This was long before the steroids in our drinking water increased our natural aggression by 400%. After that, we found football (Our own kind, which resembles something the Romans would make their slaves do -- with lions, of course.) much more satisfying.

Americans also used to observe much more finessed and interesting motorsports. There were rallies and stuff; some GT-type racing. But then we found out that it’s much more fun to watch really high-powered vehicles run around and around in an endless circle. This also has to do with the steroids in the drinking water.

We also like our erectile dysfunction medications because they’re useful for rejuvenating the average American penis; which is very tiny and raisin-like. Without these medications most American men would lose their penises after they became gangrenous and puss-filled from lack of blood-flow to the nether regions. Prosthe... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13852471/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13852471/ Mon, 23 Jul 2007 22:16:19 PDT
There’s no break, no stopping. But I wont allow myself a rest because I’ve already progressed far beyond where I was a few weeks ago when I had an absolutely horrible experience with nausea when the temperature was about 110. This was the first time in my life I almost threw up from exposure to the heat. I don’t get that anymore, but this heat is still sucking the life right out of me. What I’m really concerned about is passing out while I’m rushing strait down one of those steep hills while a car is turning a corner. Although I do pass out at home, usually right before I would get on the computer. If only the damn thing was closer to the bed! Argh...

Although my muscle tone is getting better. My arms haven’t been this big in years. I got a new bike as an early birthday present this year -- weird, I know, but getting stuff on my actual birthday just reminds me of it -- and I’ve been learning basic bicycle mechanics so that I may fix it up to my liking (It’s a little too small for me, but that’s a must in a place this hilly -- why do the ‘Men’s bikes’ have that ball-busting bar?) such as raising the handlebar and upgrading parts and such. Just learning a skill that requires the use of my hands, because I’ve never done much with my hands, manipulating real things. I’m even going to take a little class on it. Hell, don’t ask me exactly why, since it’s totally out of character for me to be interested in something physical. I suppose the main reason is economical, as I’m fairly abusive to my bikes and I don’t want to have to pay 50 bucks a week to get the thing overhauled because I keep knocking it out of tune. Might as well do it myself. Fuck, can’t be harder than figuring out Linux! (Not that Linux is that hard to use; It is hard to mess with internally, though. Most people are terrified of it, and that just makes it even harder.)

Yes, I know, I’m being sort of meat-heated this summer. It’s funny to compare what I was doing last year to what I’m doing this year. Last year was the year of the anima, the soul. This is the year of the corporeal, when I bring my weak body into alignment with my strong mental ideals. It’s not easy because I have certain chronic problems that need to be treated and I’m quite terrified about having to confront the health care system of this country, for obvious reasons. But going along with the general theme of my life right now, I must focus on the physical aspects of myself. This may sound like something you’d hear in a Jenny Craig infomercial, but I don’t care:

You see, I’m trying to learn how to love my own body instead of just sending wave after wave of hatred and contempt towards it for the pain that it makes me feel every day of my life. I’m trying to understand that it’s a part of me, not something that I must battle and oppose every day of my life. Hell, I’m trying to not even hate myself, though that’s a lot to ask. The most realistic goal for me right now would just be respect -- if I could respect myself as a somewhat intelligent, capable human being... I don’t know. And if I could have enough confidence in my own abilities, I may be able to develop the sort of ‘inverse optimism’ which is a natural evolution of my own dour pessimism. Or de-evolution, if you will. Inverse Optimism holds the same worldview as dour pessimism, only the view of the self is different.

To assist in visualization, I’ll provide this simple example:

The year is 1992. It is a parallel universe where the entire world economy collapsed as a result of the oil shortages of the 1970’s. Now the entire backstory of this universe is complicated, and all I’ll explain is that it branched from our universe in 1963 after the botched assassination of President John F. Kennedy. If a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a tsunami halfway across the world, imagine how much different this universe would be. Eventually the differences between the universes become huge. So much so that in 1992 this universe is a post-apocalyptic wasteland in the style of Mad Max. In this world we’ll examine the reactions of two... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13750443/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13750443/ Sun, 15 Jul 2007 22:53:30 PDT
I had slept through the painful bites, and when I realized what was going on I saw a little dark wasp on the floor by my bed. I took a flip-flop and smashed it to goo with all my fear and rage.

At the clinic I had gotten a shot in each ass cheek. One shot reduced the swelling, and the other shot put me out. I slept on the way home after buying some wasp killing pesticide sprays, then I stumbled into my room, and passed out until 7:00 P.M. that day. Feeling a lot better from the anti-inflammatory medicine I drank some coffee and watched a movie. I got to bed late but it didn’t matter because I had slept so much that day.

This morning I woke up feeling a lot better, so I ate and went for a bike ride through my usual round. This time I felt stronger than the last time I rode, as I could plow up hills on a higher gear than I had previously; every day I’m doing that, as I’m getting back into shape. My right hand was still quite arthritic and painful, but I blocked it out of my mind. Every night I’ve been trying to take less pain pills, and instead focus on mentally blocking the pain. I had done so the night before I was stung viciously, and evidently it must have worked, as I slept through the whole trauma of it all.

But let’s just say I have an understanding of what people with arthritis go through. I feel kind of like a wimp for having gone to a clinic for something as mild as a wasp sting, though I can’t really take chances with insect venom, as my grandfather has an extremely adverse reaction to the venom of honey bees. So I’ve been told to be careful with any insect venom I may be exposed to. As my thick bones and above average height may not be the only recessive trait I’ve inherited from the old leatherneck.

One of these days I might start driving a big van and watching fishing shows. Maybe I’ll don a pair of Kirkland jeans and suspenders and start listening to football games on a little windup radio. Hey, then at least I’ll know for sure that genetics really do determine everything!

But anyway, at least the itching stopped, and I sure as hell hurt the fucking wasp more than he hurt me!

The entire experience had put me in the mood to destroy things, so today I picked up the weedwhacker and proceeded to attack the great woody overgrown plants on the property. I didn’t get very far before my line wore down to nothing. Obviously, I needed something a little beefier, and I got it. For there are dangerous and brutal alternatives available for those violent, erratic types who simply cannot get satisfaction with flimsy spinning plastic wire; and I got my fix via a product called the Weed Warrior. A nylon blade upgrade kit for most weedwhackers.

Maybe I got a little too manic and a little too carried away. Oh, but what great destructive pleasure I got from reducing whole swaths of vegetation to a butcher green mass. Grasshoppers would sometimes jump up into the spinning helicopter blades of doom, and get blended into an insectoid pulp. I went above and beyond the call of duty, and set out to destroy whatever prickly and offensive plants I could find; sometimes even leveling innocent patches of grass and flowers. Only heat exhaustion and extremity numbness could pull me away from my great demonic massacre.

So I went inside, showered, and read until I passed out from sheer exhaustion. It wasn’t until much later in the day that an unusual fact was brought to my attention. Turns out that one of the windows of the truck was completely shattered, as if it had been impacted by a rock moving at high velocity. Having ruled out any meteoritic activity, I could only deduce that me and my weedwhacking was the cause. Seems that in my great blind destructive fury I had failed to realize that the nylon blades could fling rocks and pebbles much more effectively than simple string. While this incident was a complete accident, it’s not the first time I destroyed something in the process of dealing with unwanted vegetation.... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13713427/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13713427/ Thu, 12 Jul 2007 21:22:56 PDT
Like an animal. It’s easy to be an animal, because you already are.

Not a civilization, but a cage. Our great minds are animal minds, shackled by the limited thinking of institutions. This thinking I shed as well.

As I shed the people who are uncomfortable with me. Those who shrink at my flaring anger; those who once spoke openly and fluidly with me, and who are now reticent and reluctant to engage in any communication with me. Those who only speak to me when they are spoken to. They will no longer have to worry about speaking to me ever again.

If that’s how they feel, if they can’t talk to me... I won’t talk to them.

My body must be like a weapon, sharp and quick. From now on I will be pursuing a grueling fitness program designed to completely re-invent my weak body. No matter what pain, what fatigue, I will press on. Today was an especially hard day on me because of the hundred degree heat. My skin is burnt but my mind is refreshed. There is a distinct pleasure in having sweat pour down your face in torrents, and collapsing from fatigue at the end of a day.

When I hid from the sun, I was always hot. But when I go outside every day and face it, my body adapts to the temperature. As it will one day to all this pain I’m feeling.

I think about the world, and I realize that it’s going to cut into me so much that I’ll either bleed to death or develop thick scars all over. My mind, I think, must also feel the heat. So I solve problems. This has been a year of problem solving. I’ve solved the problem of my room getting too hot every day by taping up sheets of paper in the windows. I’ve completely re-intialized my DVR; no more T.V. for now. I’ve fixed up my bike; and I’m starting to fix the most broken thing of all, myself.

Just to stay alive. If nothing else, that.

I’ve come to be at one with my own deep pessimism and despair, and I’ve come to understand that I must deal with it just like the heat. I must experience it to such a great degree that I’ll adapt to it. You will reject me, and I’ve already adapted to it. Just like the Borg adapt, but with a little bit more soul. Like a soulful Borg.

You can betray me, and I’ll adapt. Cut me, hate me, spit all over me, and I’ll adapt. I’ll hurt, yes. I’ll bleed all over the pavement. But somehow, I wont die. I haven’t died yet. Maybe I want to, I’m certainly not a big fan of life, but still, I’ll fight. That’s what life does.

My heart is beating, my eyes are watering. I can feel strong emotions once again, and that is the only thing that I’ve really got going for me now. So long as I can feel like a living being, even if all I feel is sadness, I can live. You take away my passion, I might as well die. I need a lot of it, too, to take on the entire human world.

That is what gets me down the most, the realization that I’m completely alone in my suffering, and my struggle. It’s me against the world. Such a big thing to take on, but I didn’t make this choice, and I refuse to loathe myself for things I cannot possibly help. I forgive myself for my own hostility towards others, for when I am at my lowest I cannot bear how unfair it seems that they’re not alone, or at least they’re not taking on the whole world.

A world that will swallow you whole.

But they didn’t choose their lot in life either. They just benefitted from chance; the cosmic coin toss. Whatever genetic quirks I have that make me a completely neurotic mess aren’t present in their DNA.

Because my experiences are so different, so utterly bizarre, I can’t ask anyone to understand me in any way whatsoever. This is probably why I’ve become increasingly unsocial as I’ve gotten older. Some differences cannot be comprehended in easy, casual ways. You don’t feel what I feel, you don’t see what I see. Yet you try to tell me about my world, about optimism and perseverance.

Anyone who is optimistic has no need for perseverance. That’s for me, and my people. Those who have fallen from your high place, or were never privileged enough to dwell there. We can’t have outlook, we can’t have ‘erspective’, we can only fight and claw like animals in the pit of wretchedness that is our lives. Blame the DNA, or just blame us.

... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13627996/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13627996/ Thu, 05 Jul 2007 23:48:18 PDT
I never have to deal with anyone at all while I’m sleeping. All I have to deal with is myself. The worst nightmare creature of my nightmares would only be myself. This is something I thought about today, but not exactly in this way. I was thinking about people who are afraid of things like occultism and inward-looking mystical doctrines. Like why would something like that scare a rational person? What is the worst monster that such weird practices could dredge up? Only yourself. The worst monster you can find is yourself.

Then I imagined myself as this monster with big teeth and claws.

I’m feeling more open to communication with other people today than I’ve felt in awhile. This is because I’ve recently had to deal with someone who has the most horrible people skills I’ve ever witnessed. Someone who can’t talk to your face to explain something. Someone who hides behind ‘civility’ as he hides his true feelings from you. After this, I thought to myself, I can at least do better than that.

I can at least try and treat others with respect, even if they’ve offended me. So long as they were being themselves, and weren’t trying to do anything at all. It’s not right to condemn someone for speaking the truth as he feels it. No, not at all.

You, at least, I can treat with respect. So long as I have this personality trait, there’s bound to be someone out there who can appreciate it. Maybe... I’m not putting much stock in it though.

Right now, just to speak my mind, I have a very awkward feeling of elation and sever depression happening at the same time. Elation from the day of sunshine and physical vigor that has just ended, and sever depression from the thought that struck me while I was out in my brother’s car listening to Killing Is My Business... And Business Is Good! on battery power. What I thought just killed me, as it’s a thought that recurs in a slightly different form every year about this time. Summertime, of course.

This was the thought: I will never, ever be 21 ever again. I am closer to death.

My heart sank with a regret that soaked up my more positive emotions and left me dripping with anguish. All my regrets, they kill me every year. Kill me and kill me again. I have to die every year for death is the only thing that kills my pain.

Speaking of death, I’ve wondered lately if it’s normal for someone to think about death every minute of every day. Since this is what I do, I’m curious to know if others do this as well. Or maybe it’s just me and my morbidity. I also think about suicide much of the day, too. Although I wouldn’t say that I’m suicidal, as these thoughts have little emotion to them. They’re more like practical thoughts about possible suicide methods and such. My favorite being hari-kari.

Is there anything in our culture worse than death? I thought about that today as well. If there was anything worth falling on your sword for. What would I die for? If anything at all. What is worth that much to me? I don’t know. My reality is so thin to me, I don’t really feel alive. I don’t think I’ve ever really explained this, but the best way to describe my life is that it’s like a very dim and incoherent dream flittering before me. Yesterday was years ago, and last week was decades past. This might be why I’m so obsessed with dream recall, because I want to remember my life so badly.

I’m feeling extremely lonely right now. Most of my journals are very lonely because I write them to feel less lonely. The words on the page keep me company, and writing them makes me feel like I’ve got someone to talk to, and I’m talking just then. It’s very pathetic, but it helps. Most of the time I just bite my lip and deal with it, and I don’t complain or anything. That’s too weak. I don’t want to be weak.

I used to have this fantasy world in my head, and I had all sorts of normal life things in it. Here, I wasn’t crazy, and I lived in a little house in the city. My house was full of things that were absolutely mine. I had a very big, nice stereo and all over the walls were posters of my favorite bands. Yea, and I had a wife and a car and a regular job. Because in this fantasy world I wasn’t crazy, and I didn’t have nervous breakdowns. It kind of hurts to think of what my life would be if just one tiny aspect of myself was different.

I had lots of friends, and non of them were crazy. They’d visit and we’d do things. We’d go driving o... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13558564/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13558564/ Sun, 01 Jul 2007 00:27:55 PDT
This is all part of an amateur experiment in dream recall, and I will be taking another 100 milligrams of B6 later on tonight with about a pint of milk and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to prevent stomach upset. Hopefully I’ll actually be able to sleep after this, and non of it will result in alien abduction experiences because of sleep paralysis. Yea, I’m being foolish. I’ve nothing better to do with my stinking life. Might as well explore something.

My hands are also kind of slow for some reason. A little bit like how they are when I come from a really ice cold bath. I’m listening to really heavy metal. Early Death Metal, actually. The good stuff that I don’t make fun of because I like it. It doesn’t like a frog belch. More like this B6-crazed fury I’m going through right now. Morbid Angel rocks my fucking world. This doesn’t make me a hypocrite. Man am I fucking whacked right now.

Don’t take anything I’m saying right now seriously, because I had no idea that this much vitamin B6 would have this sort of effect on me. Maybe you think I’m a little bit silly because you’ve never had this reaction to the vitamin. Geez, I might have had some sort of deficiency. My great grandmother used to have to have B-vitamin injections. I don’t remember her, but she visited me when I was born. From what I know she was an unbelievably sweet and frail tiny Irish thing.

Yea, there’s some Irish in my ancestry. There’s also a lot of French, probably Frankish and Norman; so in turn I am also a little bit Nordic. And then there’s the English and the Cajun; and because of the Cajun ancestry I probably also have traces of Native and African American in my makeup, because there was a lot of inter-marrying in the old days. There’s also a lot of Italian in my cultural as well as genetic heritage, Sicilian actually. Because of this just about the only thing I can cook is Spaghetti. Oh yea, there’s also German in there too. I am sort of ethnically amorphous.

Yes, white peoples are still ‘ethnicities’. Americans seem to have just one white-bread culture that’s fitting for those of us whiter than a brown paper bag, and that’s it. My cultural heritage is more that of the disenfranchised blue-collar American white guy. Working people. Gritty, rough, mean people. What am I rambling on about? Geez... how can they sell this stuff over-the-counter?

They’re just vitamins. But still, I haven’t had this kind of weird focus and concentration since, well, since the first cup of coffee I ever drank. More than that, even. Almost more like what Adderal was like, and I swear that stuff could fucking wake the dead. In fact, an Adderal-spiked energy drink would probably be one of the most lucrative products imaginable. Perhaps with a touch of cocaine, but that’s it. Shit, if that stuff was legal over the counter, we’d have 12-year-old college graduates everywhere. There’d also be a lot less 13-year-olds, however. But everyone hates teens anyway; even teens themselves.

“I hate myself because no-one likes me!”

I’d be a terrible mentor, too, because I’d just tell the kids the truth:

“Now, you know, your life’s not going to get any better than it is right now. Only worse.”

That’s because I’m not an atheist, really. Found that out just today. In fact, I am a Cosmo Negativist (Just some term I made up). This means that I subconsciously believe in a negative force fucking up the entire universe, and sucking the joy and beauty and life out of everything. My God can be proven in a laboratory, though, where his name is Entropy. Everything is in fact less than what it appears to be, not more. Complete chaos and emptiness wasn’t quite enough to explain how I feel about this universe; nothingness is too much. No, I’m such a negative fucking person that I need a negative God, an UnGod who perpetually dissolves the universe.

If we could reverse the passage of time, and go backwards in time, UnGod would then be God. But we can’t do that now, because the UnGod, knowing this, took away our innate time-traveling abilities on December 31st 1997. If just one human being had awoken to these abilities before that time, we might not be in this predicament now. But we are, so might as well ease the pain.

“Might as well do drugs kids! Because we’re all dead tomorrow! Hahaha!”

Terrible mentoring, really. No-one deserves my acquaintance, because I’m a jackass with... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13478922/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13478922/ Sun, 24 Jun 2007 23:58:07 PDT
People make it worse because I can’t control them, and very often they do stupid things and trample over my boundaries like the big stumbling oafs they are. In times like these, I really don’t care about others one damn whit. Often, I’ll even laugh at the news of some horrible earthquake or massacre or whatever, just because I hate people that much. Of course I know it’s kind of callous, but that’s how I am sometimes. Perhaps it’s just how I vent all my bitterness at being treated like an absolute fucking idiot all those years I preached about love, tolerance and understanding. If feeling sympathy is foolish, than I’ll be the wisest asshole on Earth!

“Fuck you people! Can’t you feel the love now? Hahaha!”

Recently, I’ve just been trying to discover who I am. I used to think that I had already found out, when I had the dreams of a better world, and hoped to act those dreams out in my everyday reality so that maybe, just maybe, I’d have a little bit of that better world for myself. Something to hold in my hand; something to show others. To let them know that the life they are living is but one life out of millions of possibilities, and that those possibilities matter far more than any day of the week. I was bitter, and I was pessimistic, but I still deluded myself somehow. Held on to a shred of hope that this world, and I along with it, could still hold on to a modicum of decency and warmth. No matter what, I still believed in a totally naive limit to human degeneration.

Like civilization still meant something to me. It doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.

I understand now how little friendship is worth now. Not even one transgression, not even one insult. Nothing now. It would only mean something if we could stand completely naked, no secrets in our minds. Nothing that isn’t revealed, nothing held back. Only precious truth, a truth that’s hard to determine. Only what you feel in your soul, that would be it. Complete honesty, so I could know if you were going to hurt me. So I know never to turn my back to you. As I never turn my back to anyone.

All they want from me is normalcy. For that frontal lobe of mine to be wired up correctly, so that I wouldn’t be like an animal, and embarrass their conceptions of what it means to be a human being. Then, and only then, would I be welcome to the care and resources they have to offer. All this pain could be gone, if I only submitted to their will.

My animal brain doesn’t want this. For some reason known only in the farthest regions of my unconscious, it fights like a beast in a steel trap, and calls me to a place no modern man may understand. A place of death, snow and inhumanity. A place beyond the realm of intolerably dull everyday existence. It is empty, it is bleak, but I know this place more than I know this world.

I see my own kind through alien eyes that do not understand their behavior. How I have come to feel so utterly unlike all that is around me, I can only speculate. My world is on the outside of this one, as am I not a part of it. Only through thin and inadequate exchanges do I touch this word. I’ll pick up an object, and the sensation of it will pass through the tiny conduit connecting my consciousness to my body, and I will feel a dull sensation of it. So dull, to be a human being.

I’d rather be a wild animal, stalking the forests at night. Animals don’t need to know, they don’t need to rationalize and justify before they fight for their lives. They just do. Whatever has severed my kind from their core being has not happened to them. They live where they were born to live, and die there too.

I feel so far away from my barely definable primeval homeland that the thought of dying here fills my heart with the deepest dread imaginable, and it’s one of the very few things I can still cry about.

Seems so selfish to cry about your own death... I don’t want to see all this go, though, as much as I loathe it. Even if it’s all an illusion, then let it be, for illusions have always been my dearest friends.

The illusion of security when I can’t sleep.

The illusion of friends when I am completely alone.

The illusion that life really does matter, when I think of ending it all.

The illusion that life is some kind of never-ending well, when fear of mortality burns out my poor little animal mind. Wh... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13284554/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13284554/ Sun, 10 Jun 2007 00:03:43 PDT
That, and the ability to appreciate dark forms of art.

Other than that, all I’ve gotten is bitterness and hate. An absolute anger towards everyone and everything intact. The other day I had to try very hard to let go of my hatred for someone, because I realized that it had very little justification. This person I despised because he is a good-natured and well-adjusted person who achieves whatever he sets out to do; things that I set out to do and fail. He chooses happiness, and finds it; I choose truth, and find endless emptiness inside.

Sometimes I’ll just attack someone who isn’t a complete dysfunctional mess, because that helps to ease the pain. And I can’t say here, in this little honesty zone of mine, that I wouldn’t love to see all their blessings stripped from them. I would relish their pain and suffering as they were dragged down to my level. Only after a few hours had passed, would I begin to feel a little guilty. Then that would pass after a day or so.

Then I’d smile, introduce them to my hell. Nice guy, eh? Everyone needs a taste of my hell, though. To wallow in absolute self-loathing and hatred through all the ‘best years’ of your life. To have chronic pain and fatigue strip you of all the blessings of youth; to look like a child and ache like an old man. And then, as a final insult, to even be robbed of your own disabilities by the soulless fucking people around you as they insult you every fucking day of your life. Call you a lazy bum, and an idiot ignoramus fuck who’s too stupid and blind to solve his own problems.

Then you retreat into yourself, so much that you can’t have any real relationships with other people. All you can do is pretend, and never be. You can pretend to listen, and care; and you pretend to talk back. But nothing is ever complete, because you can never tell anyone at all what you really think, and really feel, because once you were fucking cut down to nothing. Leaving you now with no-one to confide in, but a piece of cold machinery. No-one to speak to you, but the music in your ears.

You talk to it, it doesn’t talk back; it speaks to you, you wont speak to it.

And there’s no-one to confide in, not when you sky is blotted out and you’re possessed with fear you cannot contain. You can only go so far, and take so much, before you finally collapse. Yea, and then they notice you, for how pathetic you’ve gotten. They never talked to you when you needed them.

Didn’t even know you were alive.

You can spend hours staring at a clock, counting all the minutes of life you are losing. Less minutes you have to live. ‘Have’ in the sense of obligation, not possession. Because of all the problems you had growing up, and the problems you have now, there is a deep-rooted intuition that your life isn’t anything you have any control over. Even your own sense of identity is completely apathetic. The genetic patterns that make up your personality will dictate your life, and there really isn’t any hope for change. Because you have the DNA of both your parents, you will make all the mistakes they have. And there is no getting around this. Genetic Apathy.

After you’ve stared at the clock, you turn the television on. Not to watch any of the drivel on it, not to pay attention to it. Just to have something moving in your life, anything at all, because by then you’re feeling completely dead, and you’d love to cry your heart out, but that’s not going to happen.

That’s when you know that you’ve been so lonely, you don’t even know what loneliness is anymore. If you’re lucky, you can cry about that. I wasn’t so lucky.

Awareness slowly illuminates a part of yourself that you’ve lost without even realizing it; a part of you that died. You’re forced to watch it burn into nothing all by yourself. No-one could know what it was like you do. Because they are there and not here, they couldn’t possibly sympathize with your plight. Really, they don’t care at all. Maybe they’ll try, but the result is the same.

Then the resentment sets in, because every one of them has what you have lost forever. Without even having any idea what it’s like to die from the inside out, they dare to judge you. Dare tell you to get a job, to embrace any aspect of this life you’ve come to abh... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13158229/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13158229/ Wed, 30 May 2007 23:49:09 PDT
What if always going against what’s popular itself became popular? What would we do then?

And what if enlightenment is just finding out there’s no such thing? You’d become enlightened by knowing you’re not enlightened. But then you’d be enlightened. So on and so forth.

Riddles are awfully annoying, too. I don’t expect any of you to try and answer these. Does that alleviate the annoyance factor? Good, because there are plenty of annoying people out there and I don’t want to be among their ranks. I’ve always tried my best to be a more down-to-earth kind of person, despite my inherent hostility. What separates me from other, more self-absorbed people, is the fact that once, I tried.

I tried to open people’s minds to new ideas, and lost my naivety. As much as I hated feeling foolish, I hate being cynical more. My small list of friends is getting smaller every month or so, and I apologize to all of you who have stuck with me through the years.

Duration, that’s what really matters over the internet; a realm dominated by ADD fads and 15 minute stars.

Today I had to strike another person off my list of friends. It’s kind of weird for me because I don’t really experience the bitterness I expected. More like the sadness of memory, and of losing someone. The ones who deceive you all along are so much easier than the ones who change. That’s kind of why it’s being mentioned here.

Because it deserves to be mentioned; I’ll never have so many ‘friends’ and ‘buddys’ that I could completely alienate and lose one without even noticing or caring about it. You can tell me right now that I’m no fun anymore, and I’ll listen. You can talk to me; heck, I’ll talk to you. I’m glad this happened, because it made me realize how important I am because I have a choice, and I can choose to do better.

I want to be crucified by every one of you if I ever become indifferent. Heck, it’s for my own good. We like to spite others by not letting them ‘get to us’, because being callous and insensitive these days is considered the same as being tough and resilient. But it’s not. How can you be tough if you’re not being exposed to the hardship? Nah, I can take it, because it’s there. I’ll bite the fucking pain.

Not that I’m going to eschew any appropriate ‘spiting’ action, I’m just going to do it in a different way; by being a better person to be friends with, so that losing me is losing something. I’ll listen to what you all have to say, and I’ll talk to you like you matter. And if you say something I don’t like, I wont try to shut you up or silence your voice. Some of the things I think about aren’t riddles at all, but absolute simple truths which help me put the riddles into perspective; because in the end the simple things matter more.

To me, at least.

One of these truths has to do with how you treat those of whom you call ‘Friends’; you don’t treat a ‘Friend’ like he’s second tier. You don’t even talk to him at all if that’s how you feel. At least you don’t make him feel that way, because that’s just wrong. If I’ve done that to any of you, I apologize now. That’s low, even by the internet’s atrocious standards.

Yea, I know it’s boring to read other people rant on about personal things like this, and I usually try not to do that, but now that I’m thinking about this, I’m starting to have ideas that are relevant, I think... so bear with me...

I have a tendency to get very worked up and bitter about small things, because I see everything as part of a pattern of predictability. So whenever I feel even the slightest feeling of betrayal, I begin to feel like this is all part of a general pattern of betrayal, and that everyone else will do it. No-one’s really a part of anything anymore, all alone inside. Maybe there’s really no escape from the emptiness inside, and it’s just some kind of pseudo-Buddhist sort of thing here. That nothing will ever even come close to alleviating this unbearable suffering short of complete disconnect from material world...

And that it’s not even noble to try to touch something decent and heartfelt...

I don’t even try anymore.

I take whatever salve my wounds will take, but there is no hope of recovery for the injuries I’ve sustained; because of this I see the world as divided between me and it, and I am not a part of it. No matter what happens, I’ll always feel like an outsider. Maybe I can come close to feeling some of what you take for granted; forgetting what I am by remembering who I am.

There is only so much salt I will take, and only so much offense I will bear. We’ve got to... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13092712/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/13092712/ Fri, 25 May 2007 19:06:37 PDT
Like the thick sludgy haze in my mind preventing me from discerning the different between ‘effect’ and ‘affect’, a distinction I used to be able to make with a fair degree of precision and certainty. Maybe I’m living in a ‘Sick House’ and there’s a bunch of stachybotrys growing in the basement and the fumes from it are eating away at my brain. Television, in general, still doesn’t seem like the omnipotent oracle it is for so many others. So maybe there’s something left, and I can still affect some kind of effect. Or something to that affect... effect.

But I did have a thought, right? And that thought was something I felt was worthwhile enough to mention to you. Yea... must concentrate on that moment of clarity. Here it is, best as I can remember:

You know how some beliéf systemés think that death is an illusion and life goes on after death? Well, I had a distinct impression today the the absolute opposite of this might be true; that death is all there is, and that the only illusion is that we’re not dead yet. And if that’s so, and one were to come to a full realization of this one would completely cease to exist, just pop out of reality. In fact, one would have never been born at all, never have thought the thought that unthought the thoughts. Or so I’ve thought.

Come to think of it, there is a bunch of black shit growing in the basement... I don’t know what it is, technically there are other black molds. It creeps along the surface of the wood like creeping death. It’s totally black, sinister. Threatens to make me stupid. I don’t want to be stupid.

My incessant hunger threatens to make me fat, too. So I have to accept the fact that I’ll always be hungry, or else get fat. It’s no fun being fat, because then you can’t make fun of fat people. One good thing about America, though, is that you have a long ways to go before you even get close to being considered fat.

I live in a realm of the gargantuan land whales; hear them calling. Just big fucking herds of them, roaming the endless Wal Marts, grazing on beefy hamburgers and sugar cookies to replenish their blubber. Mrrrrm!

Yea, it’s not fair to make fun of fatties, because any one of us would be fat ourselves if we had an automatic cheesecake dispenser. What’s for breakfast? Cheesecake! What’s for lunch? Cheesecake!

WHAT’S FOR DINNER? Cheesesteak!

That would be my diet if I had absolutely no fåt cells in my bødy, and what a diet it would be!

Like I was saying, delusion may be all we have. Even the most shallow people hold the delusion that the inane pleasure they partake of are delusional because they mean something. Once that whole matrix of delusion falls apart, there’s only your unconscious prejudice to the order of your life that keeps you alive. Mankind’s traditional means of keeping its delusional life intact is religion, but that’s not an option for those of us who understand the Children’s Crusade. That’s what we lose when we grow up, and that is what we gain.

There is so much mindlessness and stupidity these days because it really does hurt to think, to understand, and it’s comfortable to rely on the ideas of others, or to hide behind a mask of indifference, like non of this really matters. But the fact that nothing matters at all, matters.

Send the children away, on this fool’s mission. Sacrifice them to the gods of War and Avarice! Drown them all in your beliefs, stifle their souls and their minds.

Like whatever substance is stifling me in these recent months. It’s like being drunk all the time, but without any buzz; so then it’s even worse than being drunk. It’s being fucked up and almost incapacitated without being messed up enough to think you’re really doing great.

Maybe if I just believed I was doing well, then I’d be doing well. Then again, it’d be too sickening to think this was alright. Because it isn’t. Not at all. This is å disaster that I can’t stand, but there’s nothing I can so, so I guess I’m not going to stand anytime soon.

Because sometimes I revert to instinct when the amount of anxiety and stress that I feel is above anything I think most people could understand. When I get like that, I have to do anything that I feel will relieve the anxiety. If I had the compulsi... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12972212/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12972212/ Tue, 15 May 2007 23:37:41 PDT
About the only thing taking some of the joy out of this for me is the knowledge that out there, in Armpit Nation, there are millions of fucking brain-dead Christ-Crazed zombies screwing each other, and from the worn and over-used wombs of their breeding mares the next generation of these soulless cockroaches will burst forth into the world. Little fucking drones for Jesus dropping all over the place.

And the first things their tiny little hateful mouths will say, “Jesus hates fags!” ... “Jesus hates Science.” ... “Jesus hates you!”

They just keep spreading the Falwell seed in trailer parks all the place, being the disgusting mindless filth they are. Their ideas are too atrocious for any reasonable person to adopt, so the only way for them to realistically increase their numbers is to fuck like crazy and drop out the pious brood! The ultimate Fundamentalist Christian woman would be just a huge fat naked giant with a hundred vaginas and a thousand wombs. Sort of like a big fucking queen ant, just a Baby Factory for the bloody Church of America! And like insects, they’re born completely programmed with doctrine!

Plop! “We’ve got to ban this album!” Plop! “We’ve got to shut out this movie!” Plop! Plop! Plop! “Look hunny! We’ve bred ourselves a whole congregation! Huhuh!” One-by-one, the little brats will ooze out of their mothers’ slimy wombs like beans from a can of chili...

And they will grow up hearing no ‘evil’, seeing no ‘evil', thinking no ‘evil'. They will only listen to Christian music, and watch Christian propaganda fucking television. Their entire childhood will be centered around the Christ-conditioning, and the rest of the world, intellectual, artistic and otherwise, will be off limits. Because, you know, they have to come to Jesus in their own way, right? But they can’t do it if they come out of their childhood capable of individual thought. Obviously... the fucking pieces of shit.

RoboJesus demands it! March into the cRapture!

Poor Jesus, I really mean it. I don’t think any human being who has ever died has had more of a mishandled legacy. And to tell you all the truth, I feel kind of sorry for the dude, even though he was an asshat. That’s about as much respect as I’ll ever have. So you might as well shut up right now.

Now if only Pat Robertson could fall down and die, and then all the rest of these fucking ass-lickers drop one by one, like wasps after I’ve sprayed them. Then I’d serious believe in some V-like anti-hero who’s going around poisoning these fuckers after first bombarding them with a verbose rant...

Put the poison in the Kool Aid... drink it down. The world is coming for us, there’s nothing else to do. We’ll all be together on the other side... Ah, Jim Jones, my favorite religious ‘leader’ of all time. We need more suicide cults in this world, I say. Something to help kill off all these gullible fucking idiots who are one dead brain cell away from being the next Terry Schiavo...

A human being who religious fucking twats like like Satan’s fresh new piece of ass would have denied even a dignified death! Because of fucking shit suckers like Falwell, we have to wonder if, when our time arrives, we’ll even have the ‘Right to Die’. Who the fuck are you to take that away from me?

You want to understand this hatred? How could you not? Those who would take away the dignity of even our deaths, and poison the minds of our children with mindless doctrine, deserve nothing but pain and death.

I hope he experienced an immense amount of pain before he finally died. I hope he felt it all; choked, gurgled and twitching... I really do. So then we’d at least have something on him. He’d experience the thing he would have forced on any one of us; an undignified, agonizing death. Even one death like that, wouldn’t be enough for that fucker. A million soul-wrenching deaths would be too good for him.

Hatred of an institutional and systemic nature is always evil, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with hating these pompous fucking beasts. In fact, it would be wrong not to hate them. It’d be wrong to suppress any of this angst and rage, because there’s no hatred more harmful than suppressed hatred, and that’s what our pansy-ass fucking system does to us, by shutting us up when we tell the truth about these fucking turds:

“I f... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12882827/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12882827/ Tue, 08 May 2007 01:04:33 PDT
I am suffering in such a way that it’s irrelevant whether anyone cares or not what becomes of me. For those who do care don’t help me anymore than those who don’t. All they can give me are their words, and all I have for them are words of my own; empty words.

This loneliness is eating a hole in me, and this hatred is just a little to much for me to bear. I am very sick, and I’ve been sick for so long it’s become my health. My normal way of being is completely deflated, despondent and bitter. As much as I want things to be different, I feel like this will always be.

I’d say more, but it hurts too much;
I’d do more, but the pain is too great.

Every time I get up, I am dragged down deeper than I was before, and then it takes more energy to get up again. Energy which I do not possess.

My envy for you burns inside; it’s an envy I always try to hide. I don’t know if this is true at all, maybe it’s completely false, but it always seems like everything comes so easy for you. You people who can think about their lives and not want to curl up inside yourselves. Talking seems so effortless for you, because you’ve got so many friends. Speech for me, however, is difficult, as I have no friends when what friends I have are out of contact. Not a friend in the world.

You, in your pain, seek out help and often get it. I seek out help, and I am told that I’m my own disease, then refused.

When you apply your energies, you find satisfaction in what you do; there is something for you at the end of the day. I apply my energies, and all I ever get is frustration and emptiness.

And I have nothing but pure hatred and contempt for those who can’t appreciate what they have; I’d love nothing better than to trap them inside me and force them to live my life. For that would be a gift to them, to finally know what they really have. How could they waste it then? I don’t believe they could at all.

Then my envy might burn a little less, and I’ll feel a little lighter when I crawl back into my hole like some kind of primordial beast, and sleep the heartache away.

And then tomorrow it burns yet again, for I am always reminded of what I am, and I what I could have been. Knowledge of this, is like a hand squeezing my heart; which beats on, of course, until the bitter end.

Yes, another whining journal entry. But if any of you knew me as I am here, all alone, you’d never hear me cry or moan, for I suffer like an animal -- in silence. Everyone I meet I greet with a smile; there is no expression for what I am going through. Just as there are no words to describe all that eats me up. Except for the empty ones that fall upon no ears.

If they knew the truth, they’d think I was weak. Easy prey for a predatory society. Better to let them believe I am like them, and be left alone. We don’t need anymore novelty; we don’t need anymore difference.

But I can’t help but wonder, if I really am weak, wouldn’t I have died already? Doesn’t even matter, I suppose. Non of this pain is real anyway. When I watch the sun go down, and feel as if I were already dead, it’s only because I’m not on antidepressants. It’s just so much manufactured angst, lingering on from the teen years.

And it’s so easy for you to tell me that I can do it, will do it, because all of it was easy for you. You touched the burner while it was off, and I touched it while it was on. Searing heat burned off my skin, leaving me raw and exposed. It’s only easy to do because it never injured you.

For as long as I can remember, I have honestly and deeply believed that I will come to a bad end at a young age. That somehow my life would become so intolerable that I’d just simply die from the agony of it. Either that, or I’d die of cancer. Getting just what I deserved, for being just another nasty human being.

I’m the least hypocritical misanthrope I know, because I hate myself every bit as much as I hate humanity. Another disgusting, ugly example of this virus upon the Earth. This is why I’m pro-abortion, because every time I think about my parents, I think, “If only...”

Why bring something into life that’s only going die? So very long, so very slowly. Abortion is one of the most humane things I can think of.

What is life but a long, drawn-out death?

I’m being depressing, I know. That happens when my heart is in my throat, as it has been for months and months now. You all cherish your lives because you’ve drank the wine and... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12737237/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12737237/ Wed, 25 Apr 2007 23:26:23 PDT
And that’s what music is to most music nerds. They’re always like, “This band is the best because they change time signatures fifty times a minute!” Or “This fusion group is awesome because they’re way more complex than 1-5-1-5 fag rock! Yea!” Sticks out tongue. Pulls down pants and moons.

For most of my fellow music nerds there always seems to be one element that is latched on to at the expense of all others. Some only care about guitar virtuosity, or how intense the rhythm section is; some may only care about song-writing or atmosphere. Monomania is a way of life for many nerds, not just musical ones. It’s a weakness we have to learn to overcome.

What concerns me the most is what, exactly, the role of the music nerd should be. Just about the only thing we’re good for is keeping track of the trivia and history of our great musical legacy. Metal nerds keep Metal alive through the apocalypse of NuMetal; Jazz nerds stand firm to true jazz principles while Kenny “Death To Music” G shits on it!

We know just about about music to be snobs about it; but not enough to actually make any of it.

Our contribution to music is in fact an existential one. If art does not exist until it’s appreciated, then just by appreciating it we are ontologically contributing its existence. If the band rocks out in the woods, and no-one is there to appreciate the performance, did the band, indeed, rock out?

We buy the nice stereos. We should decide what goes on the next Voyager-style ‘Golden Record’ for the aliens to listen to!

I’d put Slipknot on it. So then they’d know we’re all absolute fucking morons and come wipe us all out. If we put something genuine like Tool or Pink Floyd on there, they’d get a very distorted idea of our current level of enlightenment.

Slipknot, I am loth to admit, is more representative of our current level of achievement as a species. And we pat ourselves on the back for all this crap we make, and give ourselves a fucking grammy for it! I was considering Death Metal, but at least Death Metal is humorous, to me at least. And is, I am also loth to admit, much more musical. Enough exposure to the worst that NuMetal has to offer, you wont even notice Death Metal.

It’ll be as ambient as the sound of rustling leaves. Elevator music for the absolutely jaded future. That’s a prediction you can hold me to.

One of the greatest perils of being a music nerd is becoming an obsessed fanatic. Because the musicians we adore possess an arcane skill which we barely understand, it is easy to go overboard with the idol worship. To keep this in check I’ve actually learned a little bit of music theory. But even though I know what an octave is, I have no conception of the sounds connected to it. My understanding of music theory is about as experiential as my understanding of Navajo mythology.

And just as useful.

Had I been some kind of child prodigy, I would have certainly reinvented the left-handed electric sitar. But that year I got a Sega Genesis, and that’s what I learned how to play, and can still play masterfully to this day. I was the Sonic master. And all was well until the day I got Super Sonic. That’s kind of like being high on amphetamines, I guess. Once you go back to being to just regular Sonic, the whole game loses its fun. You become just like a junkie, gathering gold rings like crazy for your next Super Sonic ‘fix’.

After you’ve gotten all the chaos emeralds, there’s no point in even living anymore. Might as well jump on a randomly placed spike field and commit Sonic suicide!

Boing!

Back then video games were still mostly just innocent childhood fun. Imagine that.

And then the rest of my childhood was just isolation, misery and hell. But you already knew that. Others may say they had unhappy childhoods, but I have actual proof of it; nearly two decades worth of psychological evaluations depicting me as an emotionally unstable, thoroughly miserable child.

Music was one of the only things that could ease the pain. No matter how cynical and cruel the people around you may be, music is a sympathetic voice. And it can make me feel, when nothing else can. This is probably how I ended up being a music nerd in the first place. Addictions usually start... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12649442/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12649442/ Thu, 19 Apr 2007 00:05:34 PDT
And I am obsessed with him, I hate to say, because as a quiet loner I will spend the rest of my life being singled out unfairly because of him. For as different as my interior life is, my exterior life must appear to others as similar.

Shying away from any kind of one-on-one human contact. Paranoid and distrustful of others. Obsessive and strange. Just thinking about how I probably come off scares the hell out of me. And now, after this, it might even scare others. And being someone who suffers from overwhelming social anxiety, I feel quite powerless to dispel the stereotype.

I can’t reach out not because I don’t want to, but because I simply cannot. All I get for this is condemnation from others, and it makes me wonder why I ever tried in the first place. Getting bullied in school has a lot to do with it. And it’s not so much that you feel victimized, but that at that tender young age these assholes have such a large influence on your opinions of humanity. From that point on you are an outsider, and always will be. As we’ve seen, some people can handle this better than others.

The worst thing about evil is that non of us are born that way. Somehow, we’re all twisted into it in the process of living on this planet. And some of us are twisted way more than others. Tossed into the Pit Of Despair, and left there until mutated into something beyond evil. Before any of this happened, I remember reading about a contraption used in Harry Harlow’s infamous experiments on rhesus macaque monkeys, and finding in it a metaphor for modern existence.

From Wikipedia: “The pit of despair, or vertical chamber, was a device used in experiments conducted on rhesus macaque monkeys during the 1970s by American comparative psychologist Harry Harlow and his students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. The aim of the research was to produce an animal model of human clinical depression.” ... “Harlow placed baby monkeys in the chamber alone for up to six weeks. Within a few days, they stopped moving about and remained huddled in a corner. The monkeys were found to be psychotic when removed from the chamber, and most did not recover.” -- [link]

And others will say of me, “He is obsessed with dark, twisted animal experiments!”

There is always this debate about whether or not it’s just evil, or insanity at work. I think that if you put anyone in the Pit Of Despair long enough, they’ll be pushed to insanity. And evil is just a kind on insanity. It’s not part of my worldview that consciously doing evil is in any way rational.

And I find it darkly amusing how it is so that when one person decides on his own to kill a few dozen people, it’s beyond twisted; but when someone kills thousands of people at the order of his government it’s perfectly normal, sane, conduct. Maybe even heroic.

The Nazis didn’t need any imagination to commits their crimes; they just had to follow orders. A psychopath is only a single human being who manages to be as evil and cruel as a government or corporation; a group of people. Most evil doesn’t even have a face. It’s more enigmatic when it has a face, ergo our obsession with serial killers.

People in a position of complete isolation could go either way, though. They could become psychopaths like Mr. Cho, or perhaps something inside them will rebel. Over the years I’ve desperately tried to feel love and warmth, because all I had was anger and hatred. I wanted what I didn’t have. So that’s why I talk about compassion. Because I know what can happen to you if you’re left alone for too long with your demons. You can lose perspective up in your head like that, and become the only observer.

And I’m not trying to excuse the killer with psycho-babble either; not at all. But I can’t help thinking that if at some point in his life, maybe a long time ago, if he just had one friend, you know? What makes this so intriguing to me is that this very well could have started a long time ago, with an event in childhood so traumatic it completely severed his connection to reality, and others. From that point on he was the ‘Quiet Loner’, and being that he was always treated by others differently than if he were anyone else.

“He’s the weirdo, stay clear of him...”
... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12626847/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12626847/ Tue, 17 Apr 2007 00:56:43 PDT
And some of us even have a talent for making those nightmares a reality. As we have seen in Virginia, much to everyone’s surprise. But not mine.

For one day, in one small portion of America, our country experienced the kind of thing that happens in Iraq every day of the week. And I sense that a lot of the frustration that those who were close to the disaster are experiencing is because this disaster, just like what’s going on in Iraq, didn’t have to happen.

Two people were murdered at 7:15 A.M., and the gunman got away. And what did those students, who are now among the deceased, know of this? What sort of warning did they have? An e-mail which these academic slaves missed because they were too busy doing what they were supposed to do.

So, business went on as usual, which always happens at the taking of human life. We are accustomed to murder, so most of the time it doesn’t get in the way. Unless some creative maniac goes and pushes the envelope. Kill them all and kill them here; that’s how you get their attention! If you kill them anywhere else their deaths will be as inconsequential as their lives.

I got away from the TeeVee sets and the talking heads because I couldn’t stand hearing about how we had to make their ‘deaths mean something’. Like we have the power to do that. Like that could even happen. Nothing about those people matters anymore, if it ever mattered at all. This is how I see death.

And I broke my coffee fast to clear away the suffocating fog of my mind just so I could write something about this.

Because I felt a strong urge to say something ever since I saw the video of the police waiting outside; waiting for action. Shuffling through procedure and bureaucracy while the very people they claim to protect are being gunned down by a maniac. Yet if they thought they could find a few dime bags of grass, they’d fucking raid the place. Raid the very same students, probably. I’m talking about perspective, here.

Because the truth about this country is that guns are far more easy to get and unfathomably more deadly than drugs, and black souls who have lethal intentions consistently find them and use them to destroy other humans; not just themselves. What I’m trying to talk about is hypocrisy and lack of perspective. And I’m not just trying to talk about a whole bunch of people getting shot in one place. This happens all the time, everywhere.

We like our guns, and we use them well. I’d like to have a gun, but I wouldn’t want anyone else to get one! I believe in gun rights for me and me alone. Take everyone’s guns and give them to me.

Just about the only segment of the population who the police make me feel safe from are potheads. But they have obligations to the goverment bureaucracy which spawned them. I find it sad and tragic how the gung ho cops are always there to harass people, yet when there’s a nutcase blowing people’s brains out, we only seem to get the bureaucratic meatheads. Fuck, and this is just about the only thing the cops have to do! That’s always the retort I get whenever I bitch about how corrupt and horrible our police system is: “You sure wouldn’t complain about the cops if there was some MADMAN shooting at you.”

Yea, I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t complain because I’d be dead already. Fucking thanks a lot!

I’m thinking about this a lot today because of my overactive imagination. In my mind I’ve seen the brains impacted with the lead and all the blood flowing down the halls. This massacre I can envision so much clearer than all others because it’s in a more familiar environment for me. Columbine was a similarly vicarious experience for me as well, for the same reason. And we, as a people, have a cultural bias about warlike carnage in the motherland. Our collective memories of warfare are of what it’s like overseas; what it’s like, mostly, for those who fight it. Our civilian population, in wartime, may suffer a degree of fear and worry for loved ones who are on the battlefront; yet we’ve never had enemy tanks rolling through the streets of our cities.

We can dig through our history and get a fairly good idea of what modern warfare is like for the soldiers who fight it, yet we must look farther away to find out what modern war is like for the non-combatants. Therefor we must have some sort of a cultural bias about our own country. We say to ourselves, unconsciously, “Such things could never happen here.”

T... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12571741/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12571741/ Thu, 12 Apr 2007 19:00:12 PDT
The man who taught me that comedy and tragedy are sometimes the exact same thing has died. And the world is a lesser place because of it: [link]

And the little birds are still singing... Poo-tee-weet?

Oh well... So it goes...

]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12544533/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12544533/ Tue, 10 Apr 2007 19:12:51 PDT
I didn’t notice my withdrawal symptoms over Easter because I spent my Easter doing what I do every Eater: Eating lots of candy. Yes, I still get candy. The Easter Bunny has no idea how mature I am. He has no clue about my real age.

I was so high on sugar the past two days I didn’t notice the other withdrawal symptoms, but today I’m coming down from both sugar and caffeine. Just when I thought I couldn’t get any fucking moodier; just when I thought my headaches couldn’t get any worse. And hell, how could I have fucking possibly gotten more tired than I was before?

Now all I can do is sink into my chair, blasting Heavy Metal on the headphones. Eyes shot red, hand shaking. And this is after having a cup of coffee. I’m just cutting back at this stage! Tonight I’ll be having a glass of iced tea, just to take the edge off this headache. And I’m eating what’s left of my candy, and that’s not healthy either. Over the past weekend I’ve ingested a lifetime’s worth of calories. Which I guess I’m burning with all the shaking I’m doing.

Coming down from sugar is in some ways worse than coming down from caffeine. The first thing is does is make me extremely hungry, because it drains your reserves completely.

Here I am, re-learning everything most people have learned by the time they’re six years old! Give a little kid some sugar, and it’s like winding up a toy.

Weeee!

I want to go play on the swings, I want to play video games. I want to run around screaming! Weeweeeee.... and then comes the brick wall of sugar low. Like a giant just stepped on your tiny little body, crushing it. Nothing is any fun anymore. Until you get yourself some more sugar, that is.

You slowly creep back into the house, where your mother gives you more pop and candy. Oblivious to the addiction behavior patterns she’s teaching you. Because when you’re a toddler sugar is like amphetamines, and as an adult you can’t get those from mother. At least, most mothers.

I think so, maybe I’m wrong about that. You never know these days, and it’s hard to stay ahead of the moral backslide; if staying ahead of a backslide were at all possible. Staying behind, perhaps.

Ritalin is like speed. That’s why it has the nickname ‘Kiddy Speed’.

I used to be on Ritalin, and also the SSRI family of drugs. And having grown up on these fucking drugs, I must not have a normal brain chemistry. They don’t think about what your life is going to be ten years later when they give you these fucking drugs. It’s all about fixing the problem now, making the kid sit still, making him stop wanting to kill the teacher.

To stop wanting to kill anything at all.

But I should really be proud of myself, despite all I’ve done wrong. I’m not a psychopath despite having grown up under conditions that could have easily flattened my empathy, but did not. I may be messed-up, and I may find it extremely difficult to relate to other people, but at least I’m not like that.

Completely cold, completely beaten, completely indifferent. Maybe at times, when I sink lower I’m like that, but I come out of it. Just like a yo yo, I suppose.

To tell the truth, I’m sick as hell of being like that. I want to be just a little bit less bitter, a little bit less hostile than I am now. It wouldn’t take much. Maybe a little more personable and out-going. As much as I advocate an introverted outlook in the sense of ‘Know Thyself’, I’m not particularly fond of this reclusive Howard Hughes-style OCD hell I’m living right now. Not at all. Just a little bit too much of this to take. No-one who showers as much as I do should feel so dirty.

If there’s one meaningful thing I got out of Operation Onslaught, this is it. My pride as an introverted neurotic had been blinding me to my own overwhelming loneliness. Only an extremely tiny portion of the population is introverted enough to get by like that. I may be very, very far on the introvert’s side, but I’m not 100% there. Perhaps 99%, and that means I can only talk to 1% of all people; can only tolerate that much. My personality is such that it thrives on stimulation, new things. A new work of music that I appreciate is sometimes enough to make me positively hypomanic with new ideas. What I do best is assemble things. Most of what I’ve done so far is the act of assembling images and words and id... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12490590/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12490590/ Sat, 07 Apr 2007 00:37:44 PDT
I can’t even explain to myself what it’s like, because I can’t even relate on an internal level. I’m not suicidal anymore, that phase is over. But I feel like I can’t live anymore. Just like when you knock a ping-pong ball up in the air for six hours strait, and then you feel like you can’t do it anymore. That’s what I’m going through now. Living, simply existing, takes so much out of me that I don’t feel that I can even do it anymore, no matter how much I want to. The activity itself is just too strenuous.

And I want to. I want to take it all in, as much of it as I can get. Lately I’ve been obsessed with this image I have in my mind of this girl. She’s about my age, and she takes in little animals with broken limbs and nurses them back to health. She heals and nurtures like the females of the species are supposed to. Dark hair and dark eyes; she has tattoos of roses all on her left arm and hand. The flowers are like vines growing on her skin. Although she’s a little shorter than me, she’s also a little fat. Not like obese, much lighter than that. Obese only by obscene super model standards. Wind will not blow her over. Full is the word.

But that’s besides the point, because all that matters about this woman is that she forgives, she loves. Sometimes people use this to take advantage of her, but she can’t harden up like I have because that’s just not who she is. To ask her to ossify would be asking her to die.

And she forgives me for everything I’ve done wrong, like I was just another animal she took in.

She’s the main character of an extremely lucid daydream I had over a week ago. I’m in front of a keyboard, desperately trying to come up with something, because my thoughts have been slowing down so much lately because of my deep dysphoric state. I’ve got to write, and I’ve got to write well. But there’s no confidence there, the flame of life burns pitifully low inside me. Then she walks into the room, stands behind me and just puts her hands on top of my own; her fingers on top of mine. And then she guides them to the keys I want to press. No-one ever really sees me writing, because it’s so deeply private to me. I could never meet any one of you face-to-face because of what you know of my writing.

There are two worlds, and this is the only one I can be candid in. People say that our online personalities are just deceptions, and our real life selves are all that matters. That’s never been the case with me. I am more myself now than I’ve ever been. My real life is the deception, this is truth.

But I can tell her the truth, she can have my secrets. I don’t even know her name, but she can know all my vulnerabilities. That’s the least I can do for the person who forgave someone like me. How could I not give everything to someone who could love someone like me? Could do it until somehow I felt like I existed again.

And I’ll be cold and vicious and hostile so she doesn’t have to. I’ll take on the world. That’s what I can give her: my lost innocence. What a small price to pay... so small.

I think what I’m just coming to realize now is that I’ve never felt any love at all, in my entire life. There are some who obviously do feel this emotion towards me, but I’ve never felt it. They never understood the importance of making me feel it.

This... woman of my dreams (Oh how I laughed cynically as I wrote that!) makes me feel it. This isn’t some sappy romance thing we got, not at all. It’s more like some kind of divine medical procedure.

But she doesn’t have a name. She isn’t real. I think it’s for the better that she’s not real, though. Because although she could relieve my suffering, she would suffer in this world. And I know she doesn’t deserve that, not at all. And maybe I do. Probably, I do.

All this war, this hatred, this hostility and waste, it’d really get to her. She’s the only one who can still really fucking feel. And this world is no place for the feeling. She’d want to help all the orphans, she’d cry everyday for this dying world. Empathic as she is, she can’t turn it off like I can.

Like I have, to my shame.

It’s not that she’s perfect, but that she’s so compassionate she makes perfection irrelevant. And that in itself is a kind of perfection beyond grace.

Fuck... I’m so sappy now. I’m trying not to be, I really am. But I’m also trying to describe something that’s gone from my world. And in doing this I’m feeling a lot of emotion, and it feels good to feel. Except for anger, because I feel tha... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12463311/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12463311/ Wed, 04 Apr 2007 21:55:36 PDT
At least it wasn’t one of those infamous summer colds! Those’l kill a man. My great granddaddy died from a bad summer cold. But mine was only a spring cold, and because of this I still live, unfortunately.

And I did what I always do when I get sick, and went on a Television Quest, because I didn’t feel like leaving the bed and had nothing to read. This basically meant watching television for about 12 hours a day, tears in my eyes, and counting all the times I heard the phrase: “You should have killed me when you had the chance!”

I must have heard it like once an hour, and then I just stopped caring. Whenever I hear that phrase I hear it like this, though: “You should have stopped watching this shitty fucking movie when YOU HAD THE CHANCE!”

Though sometimes I admit they can get creative with it, like when it’s the other way around: “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Which makes all the difference in the world, of course.

I don’t know why I watch so much crap T.V. when I get sick. Perhaps it’s my way of punishing the body that failed to stop the virus, and to punish myself. Because it should have stopped the virus, when it had the chance. Oh, but it had to show the virus mercy earlier on, and now it’s paying for it! Maybe it’s been watching too much fucking T.V. I should have got rid of the T.V. when I had the, eh, opportunity to do so.

The protagonist always has to get over his troubled past before he can save the day. This is basically an approximation of emotional development, and it usually happens after some cheesy conversation about philosophy with one of the co-stars. About the only movies I enjoy these days are either the really good ones, or the unbelievably stupid ones. Because the stupid ones are great fodder for my own internal humor mechanism.

Once I get tired of the movie channels I play a game I usually play with my brother. The name of the game is “The Worst Thing On T.V.” and the rules are simple; just find the absolutely most atrocious and inane shit that is on television at this moment. My strategy usually involves starting at the Country Music channels and working my way up through the religious nut channels. Because sometimes you can find something absolutely nauseating on those praise-a-thons. My brother, on the other hand, usually taps the news channels to fuel his abominable bile. He has often pissed me off by teaming up with Glenn Beck.

But then I sneak into his room and put it on some tractor show in Iowa, or some auction in Nebraska. Then I hide the remote, and run off. And then later on he’s got Pat Buchanan doing the pundit crap he does now, and he knows how much of a low tolerance I have for stupidity. So then it seeps in through to my room... and I can’t help but get angry at how stupid it is!

Whoever reaches for the remote to change the channel first loses the game. So the game is one of tolerance, and just how much horrible shit your intellect can withstand. We play a similar game with the XM channels, except it’s with music. Crappy, crappy music! The insipid garbage that passes for art these days.

Because it’s much easier to find something that makes your soul scream for mercy on television and radio than it is to find something of artistic merit. And I used that to motivate my immune system to fight the virus that was plaguing my body. It knew it couldn’t possibly survive another American Idol gossip post-show! No more Pant’s Off Dance Off! Too dumb! People too dumb!

And now I wonder why I’m so mother fucking angry now. I’m better from the cold but man, I still hate the fucking world and everything in it. On the last day of my cold, I just flicked through the channels and judged my own reactions, and I hated everything, no matter what!

A pika on Animal Planet, hate it. A mother holding a newborn baby, hate them. A show on the Science Channel about the human digestive tract, hate it. Then I knew I had become ridiculous, because usually I only hate most things and people; about 90% of all objects in the known universe. However, judging from my reactions during the Television Quest I had a hate quotient of nearly 100%!

One of the things I hated was a shot from the Hubble Telescope, and I said to myself, “God I hate tha... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12394884/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12394884/ Fri, 30 Mar 2007 21:29:44 PDT
“No thank you!”

Now this alone does not mark someone as an ass clown. You can choose to live off of mung beans, rice and mineral water for the rest of your fucking life. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being absolutely boring. However... when you start rubbing your fucking inhibited lifestyle in other people’s faces as a mark of your own superiority, well then the gloves have come off and it’s time for you to go back into the health food store you crawled out of, you supercilious faux-hippy mother fuck-tard!

And no, I don’t drink a fifth of Jack to start my day. In fact, I haven’t done any drugs more potent than Robitussin. I don’t eat cake and pie on days that aren’t holidays. I could also probably muster some of this fucking superiority. But I don’t, because I’m not an ass clown like these idiot asshole yuppy pricks! My biggest vice is how much coffee I drink; way too fucking much. I’m not here to defend excess.

However, in a world where human fucking beings are becoming more like inanimate objects -- no, they are inanimate objects in many places! -- I find it extremely offensive to be reminded of how immoral my bowl of yogurt is. Offensive that you, in fact, are not on the front lines of dehumanization. That you’re not in the middle-east with a bomb strapped to your torso strikes me as a greater injustice than all the coffee and yogurt I’ve consumed in my entire life.

Or how about the children in Africa who get their hands chopped off so they can’t harvest diamonds?

Still want to chew me out over my expresso, huh? It’s Fair-Trade you fucking cock! More of the money I spend on it goes to the farmers, who spend it on big, juicy streaks. Mmmm! And some of them, I bet, even spend it on dope. Hallucinating new ways to grow coffee. So long as it works for them, I don’t care.

Or how about all the war orphans in Iraq because of a war you fucking faux-hippies failed to prevent?

Still want to bitch about our average dope head -- let’s call him Dave -- and all the dope he smokes and acid he drops, huh? Just find something to feel better about. Real or not. But you see, I’d rather ally myself with Dave than any of you, because Dave has the munchies like a mother fucker and therefor has tremendous motivation to find food; a useful survival skill I want to learn. And he’s not anal-retentive, either. He’s just partaking in the time-honored human tradition of... getting fucked up!

Oh yea, and RFID chips will soon track all our movements. Which means for you your movements between your yoga classes and your late-night veggie burger runs! Crazy life, man!

Carob bars with pomegranate juice! Living dangerously! Make sure to drink plenty of water afterwards. Wouldn’t want to pollute the body righteous!

And guess what, folks, you’ve still got all kinds of chemicals and nasty shit in your blood; from the growing ambient pollution. And you’ve derived absolutely no pleasure whatsoever from them. Dave probably has a bigger buildup of chemicals, but he fucking enjoyed every single one of them. And could name them, too. Fondly remembering them and the effects they had on his body.

And you, in your tofu-fueled righteousness, also missed the upcoming war in Iran, the threat of Peak Oil. Translated into terms you can understand; no more big trucks delivering seaweed to your door. So long after me and Dave have learned how to hunt, and have regressed into primal hunter men and fulfilled our destiny, your skinny vegan ass will be eating grass. And you’ll still be righteous about that. And since women will have regressed into a primal state as well, me and Dave will have have whole harems of ‘em because females of the species are attracted to males who exhibit traits that are conducive to the future survival of their children -- in turn the species in general.

What do you think is more important? Bringing down the big game, or whining about the cream I just put in my coffee? Or the big joint Dave just lit to celebrate the successful hunt?

Fresh killed protein... or righteous bitching. Just what do women want? I’m dying to know...

“They call me the Hunter... that’s my name!”

Fucking deer end up as road kill anyway! Might as well put them to use as... jerky. More dead deer means less dented hoods. Let’s eat just the troublesome fucking animals; that’s my progressive diet plan. Hunting is another time-honored human tradition. Or else all those cave paintings... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12369412/ http://HousesOfApollo.deviantart.com/journal/12369412/ Wed, 28 Mar 2007 22:22:26 PDT
And it’s not like the flat desert, either. It’s the mountainous regions. So like I’m traveling through there on some kind of a vision quest. Like the next stage after Operation Onslaught. And I’ve got that really cool Robin Trower album on, and I’ve got those big motorcycle cop style sunglasses on, and I’m just driving all over the place. A year ago I wouldn’t have thought of doing something like that, but now I am. I’m thinking about running away and never fucking coming back! Ever!

Because I believe that I may have come to terms with my ‘depression’, but understanding that it’s just not depression at all. It is only misery, pure and simple. There’s nothing unnatural about my emotional response to the world around me. I found it kind of hysterical how happy this revelation made me: “I’m miserable! Woohoo!”

You know you’ve been in the gutter too long when you start jumping up and down at miserable. But just knowing that it’s legit -- having a deep-felt conviction that it is -- makes a tremendous amount of difference. What was once a disease is now just a problem to overcome; no matter how difficult that may be, it’s far better than ‘depression’. That’s the problem with the mental health care system. It treats mental problems just like physical disease, and far too often medications are given and then the problems are left alone.

Yet medication can only alleviate the symptoms. They can make you live a normal life and live like a normal person. They are very capable in that respect. But they do not heal you. And in fact, they made my problem much, much worse in the long run. Right now I am paying for the peace of mind I used to get from a pill bottle, and I feel the need to warn others that there is no better living through chemistry. What matters to your mind is your mind. And that is what must be set strait before everything else.

You are hurting now, and your first instinct is to stop the pain, alleviate the misery. And it is this instinct that can trap so many woeful people! Because what they really need is more pain, because sometimes pain is not just simple suffering, but a signal for healing. Once you hurt, you know you must heal.

I’ve talked a lot about doing exactly what I say I’m going to do, so that must mean everything. So now I say that one day I will live that vision of the desert. That I will travel through the most scenic portions of the Southwestern United States and document the odyssey. Can’t tell you what year I’ll make this trip, or exactly why I’ll do it, but it will happen, if I can help it. There, I’ve said it.

First I must list the conditions required for it, then work to fulfill those conditions. It’d be an expensive trip, especially since I’m not going to make it without a laptop. So I need to get me a laptop. I feel a very strong need to change my personality type from a desktop computer type to a laptop computer type.

I’ve got to calculate how many tubs of instant hand sanitizer I’ll need. Probably not as much as if I went anywhere else, as the scorching rays of the burning sun acts as a decent disinfectant; something to like about the desert. And oh how I’d love to bake in those rays. I don’t give a shit about a fucking beach, or the ocean, because I can’t swim. Going near a large body of water is an irrational thing for me to do because I can drown in it. I’m perfectly happy being landlocked.

The deserts of the Southwest are the nearest biosphere that I haven’t experienced. And it has the qualities of what I like in an environment: Desolation. I remember going up in Glacier Park, where there’s a lot of tundra, and I loved it there. But I’m sick to death of the cold, the rain, the fucking cloudiness. I want to go out in the fucking desert, see a vision of the Master Control Program from Tron out there, get abducted by aliens, be someone else with a totally, absolutely different personality. Rock out in the open air in the middle of fucking nowhere. All good stuff. Montana is in the process of becoming a desert climate anyway. In a few decades or so it’ll be a hot and arid place. It gets hotter here every fucking summer. So I might as well go get a preview.

But that’s besides the point, because by saying that I’ll have enough spirit and motivation one day to go on some crazy stupid trip it means that I’ll also do all the things required to m... ]]> ~HousesOfApollo