NaNoWriMo

I recently found out about NaNoWriMo from a friend at work. It's a non-profit, friendly writing competition—meaning there's no real prizes, or, I guess I should say, no tangible prizes. All prizes from this competition will come in the formless form of self-gratification and confidence in your writing abilities—which, actually, sounds pretty damn good to me right about now.
Basically, the idea is to write 50,000 words in one month (November). In other words—the idea is to write a novel (draft) in one month. Right now, for me personally, it sounds crazy, and scary, and pretty much impossible—especially when considering my past history of spending weeks writing opening paragraphs to stories that end up going nowhere—end up being stuffed into various trash-receptacles. Despite all of my weaknesses and insecurities, however, it's these impossible things—these seemingly unattainable things that keep me breathing and moving forward in life.

Or, maybe I just really like to write.

Anyway, wish me luck—whoever you are.

Perfect Paragraph

"Ann's skirt is made out of a shiny red fabric that looks as if it could be used for spacesuits. She's wearing a transparent chiffon blouse and her usaual three-inch-heels—today they're opera pink. When Amos leaves, she catches me staring at her and makes a fish face."

—Frederick Barthelme, from his story, "Box Step"

Dancing spiders

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GgAbyYDFeg

trying to comprehend addiction

When I was seventeen I became addicted to the prescription pain medication, Lortab. I had shattered my elbow while snowboarding (while pretending to be way more cool and experienced than I actually was) and my doctor, in order to to help get me through the intense physical-therapy that lie ahead, prescribed to me what seemed to be a Costco sized bottle of the pill (with no set limit on refills). After returning home from my surgery and my hospital stay, I quickly realized that the prescribed dosage stated on the bottle was not going to be satisfactory. I had become accustomed to a constant flow of morphine, and now I was somehow expected to get by on just two 7.5 Lortab pills every six to eight hours?
Yeah— No. Sorry. Not gonna happen.
Within one week I was taking four pills every six to eight hours. By the time I was done with physical therapy, six months later, I was taking six pills every six to eight hours. I leveled off at six pills. That was my max, and I knew it. I'd tried seven once. Seven made me completely immobile. I was at work "watching", "assisting", "accommodating", a group of mentally-challenged individuals. These individuals required 100% of my undivided attention, but with me being on seven pills, all I could do was lie on the carpet and watch the blades of the ceiling fan turn into spinning sabres of fluorescent light. I remember getting kicked in the ribs and in the head. I remember someone defecating in a corner of the kitchen. I remember the front door opening and several bodies going in and out. I remember sweating and laughing and not giving a shit, but at the same time wondering if that apartment was going to take my final breath.
After that experience, I decided to keep my dosage at a maximum of six pills. Six was manageable. Six was safe enough. Six made me feel somewhat invincible, which was perfect, considering the fact that my job required me to be little more than a human punching-bag. These mentally-challenged individuals that I "looked after", for the most part, seemed to have been genetically bred to administer pain and suffering upon any and all physical beings. On six pills, I could get punched, clawed, kicked— whatever, and not feel a goddamn thing.
Then one day my mom came home and informed me that my prescription for Lortab could not be renewed anymore. I was to ween myself off  by taking tapering dosages of Tylenol.
Yeah— No. Sorry. Not gonna happen.
But it did happen. The only thing that seemed to bring me joy in life was suddenly removed— Distinguished. Eradicated. Extricated. And I know that that thing was bad for me from the very start, but like a knife in the chest, it tends to feel better if you just leave it in.
I started stealing meds from the mentally-challenged (psychopaths) that surrounded me. Before they went to bed I would give them all their meds, all the while making sure to save a little bit for me. "A little for you, a little for me, a little for you, a little for me." I didn't even care what they were. Red ones, blue ones, pink ones, yellow ones, white ones, big ones, small ones, medium ones, giant ones— I took them all. What did it do to me? Well, it did lots of stuff. Lot's of fun stuff, lot's of scary stuff, and everything in between. Who knows what the lasting effects are, or will be.
Then I found out that a guy I was working with was selling pain killers. Don't ask me why, but for some reason when I started buying pills off this guy— that's when I finally realized that I had a problem, and I needed to stop. Why did it take so long for me to come to that realization? I'm not sure exactly. Denial; the inexplicable euphoria of a high; the chemical imbalance in my brain— all of these things probably played a factor in the long duration of my addiction. Nevertheless, after much deliberation, I decided to begin my ascension to recovery. I decided to do it alone, and now, looking back, I wish that I would have sought some help.
I pushed out the toxins through sweat, anger, tears, despair, relapse, self loathing, determination, perseverance, sheer will, and then, perhaps, some help from someone/something above. A year later I was pure of that vice. Unfortunately, this cleansing process did not rid me of a myriad of other problems that were tearing away at my soul. For every one thing healed, there will always be another crutch to fill its place.

The beginning stages of relationships have the same dopamine induced effects on the brain as narcotics (there are studies on this, you can look them up). Whether the relationship is a one-night-stand, or the bud of some lasting love, the brain doesn't give a flying fuck— it just wants more and more. Pretty soon your behavior spirals out of control, becoming erratic, reckless, and unpredictable— doing anything for another fix. Pretty soon you can't live without it. Pretty soon every waking moment of your life becomes devoted to this high— this high of being accepted; being admired; being adored— desired.  And just like the effects of the excess Lortab, you become somewhat invincible. You could get punched, clawed, kicked— whatever, and not feel a goddamn thing.
Then one day you are informed that this drug— this drug of intense human connection, must come to an end.  You try to ween yourself away. You try smaller dosages— longer durations between hits, but despair inevitably sinks in.
You start to seek acceptance and understanding from anyone and anything that comes your way. You take anything you can get— red ones, black ones, white ones, yellow ones, big ones, small ones, medium ones, giant ones— you take them all.
You try to go back. You try to back-peddal your way to where it all began. But nothing is the same. You're just a fool now. A fool who's been fully revealed— naked and ashamed, you have become nothing more than a lost and fallen duplicate of your past-self.
Then comes rock-bottom, swift as a knife. And this is where you are now— down on the rocks of that dark place.  So, what comes next? What's the next chapter? How do you fix this? Detox? Could you do that? Do you have what it takes? Could you handle the sweat, the anger, the tears, the despair, the relapse, the self-loathing, the determination, the perseverance, the sheer will, and then, perhaps, the help from someone/something above?

Don't think twice— just make a move towards something that makes you smile. If you can smile, then there's hope. There must be. Smiles don't lie.

Worlds #1 Badass / Way to go Felix!

I watched the entire thing. I felt like the man deserved all of my attention. This is what I was referring to in my previous post— we, the human-race, are capable of doing anything. Felix Baumgartner (a "Daredevil" they call him. I wish that I could be referred to as a Daredevil. How badass is that?) The man sat down in a little capsule attached to a huge (the largest ever constructed) helium filled balloon (the thickness thereof was something like the thickness of a sandwich-baggy), then floated up 25 miles-ish, 128,100 ft. into the stratosphere, stepped out onto a platform the size of a skateboard, and let himself fall into the void. 
You can read all about this online. I'm not saying anything new, but still, I feel compelled to write about it. It was special. Is it strange that I almost cried? Maybe— maybe not. I had my son next to me, and I was trying to get him pumped up about it (I succeeded, I think). I told him that this crazy guy was going to jump out of a spaceship and go faster than any man has ever gone before. I tried to explain about the sound-barrier, but he wasn't having it. 
When Felix fell from his craft, and the cameras were showing his body mercilessly spinning around and around, as if he were about to disappear into the drain of Earth's kitchen sink, my son looked at me and said, "I want him to do it again, Dad."

Today a man broke the sound-barrier with his body— what did you do this weekend? I sat on my couch with a Diet Pepsi (wishing that I had a RedBull—all of those advertisements were really taking a toll on me), and watched Felix fulfill his lifelong dream. Way to go Felix. Unfortunately, you will probably be forgotten by Wednesday of next week, but for now, you're the #1 Badass on Planet Earth (last week it was that guy that gave his life for his lifelong dream of devouring twenty-pounds of cockroaches).

Some stuff that I believe in right now.

I believe that the outermost reaches of the known universe are born out of the intellectual capabilities of man.
I believe that the mysteries of man are not attached to discovering new depths in scientific/technological/biological explorations.
It's true, I believe— that we are literally capable of accomplishing anything that our minds can conjure.
Then what are the so called "mysteries of man"?
I believe that they are the things that we cannot see, but must believe in:

Faith, Love, Trust, Empathy, etc. I believe that these things are the real mysteries.

Advances in science, medicine, exploration, technology, etc.— come what may, these things will unavoidably come to pass because of our innate, natural fear of complacency; our fear of being alone; our fear and realization that this life may be the end of us.

–––––––––––––––––––


All streams are born out of the woodwork of the earth's foundations.
All streams, surging with the juice of life, give birth to rivers.
All rivers flow and give birth to the ocean.

A greater whole.

All capillaries and arteries are born out of the foundations of man.
All capillaries and arteries, surging with the juice of life, give birth to veins.
All veins flow and give birth to the flesh of man.

A greater whole.

McDonald/Derrida/Deconstruction

I really enjoyed listening to Prof. McDonald speak. I can imagine that an hour long discourse on Derrida and Deconstructionism would have been emotionally taxing had it not been presented by someone like McDonald. I'd never met/seen him before, but the man exudes passion and enthusiasm (he reminds me a lot of Quentin Terentino). I was blown away by the material, not so much because it was new to me, but because it was presented by someone that really cares about the subject.
I won't pretend to know much about Deconstruction, or Derrida. I can't even think of a solid definition. But the concepts get me riled-up, and anxious— anxious to learn, anxious to know more, anxious to figure it all out. I think a lot about the concepts of deconstruction without consciously being aware that I'm thinking about the concepts deconstruction. I have a tendency to "deconstruct" pretty much everything that I see and come in contact with. I don't fully understand anything, and I am not able to comprehend the "entirety"/"definite-value" of anything, therefore, I find myself constantly questioning the reality of myself and my immediate surroundings.
McDonald discussed how any object (a dog, a cat, a chair, the Queen of England) becomes that object in our mind— only through language ("Nothing exists outside of the text"), also, that "things" only exist in our minds because we compare them with other things that they are not.
That's a very interesting concept; one that coincides with another similar theory (do theories only exist because of the existence of other theories?), that nothing exists outside of the conscious mind— everything, before we consciously view and interpret it, is nothing more than probability waves waiting to be constructed. But that's a whole other animal to dissect.
I enjoyed the presentation, and now my mind has something to munch on for the next few months.

Psychoanalytic Group Project Idea

Hey guys,I found some stuff. I came up with an idea.
What if we based our presentation around Mourice Sendak's, 'Where The Wild Things Are'? Too childish? (I don't think so.)
I found some stuff online that I'll attach.
The book is short, everyone knows it, it's deep in a non-deep way, it's fun, I have the movie (we can show clips), etc.
Let me know what you think. It's just an idea. CALM DOWN! We don't have to do it.

http://www.thepsychologist.org.uk/archive/archive_home.cfm?volumeID=22&editionID=180&ArticleID=1569

http://voices.yahoo.com/where-wild-things-as-method-psychoanalysis-4539535.html?cat=72

http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/health/2012/05/08/maurice-sendak-the-pointed-psychology-behind-wild-things/

Let me know what you think, people.

Death of the Speaker/Birth of the Listener

If someone is talking to you and what they're saying is upsetting you, or maybe it's just not sitting well, then try to view their words as a mere rough/first draft, or nothing more than verbal-vomit (with future potential). People should not be held accountable for all of the ignorant bullshit that comes out of their pie-holes. What I'm writing here, for example, might seem like bullshit to you. I'm not really thinking much about it. I'm just writing what I think, what I feel. And if you don't like it, that's fine, you don't have to. But don't fucking judge me for it. Anytime that anyone says anything that's anywhere near "off-the-cuff", you can, without a doubt, be sure that it's 95% bullshit. Right now, for instance, you might be wondering where I got that obviously inflated statistic (completely justified/understandable).

Answer: I made it up. I'm making all of this up. This may not be much of a revelation/groundbreaking information, but it does, however, prove my "Bullshit Theory". Which in and of itself is nothing more than pure bullshit, or verbal-vomit (with future potential).