More people watching

People are endlessly fascinating. When I walk the chaotic hallways from class to class I soak in all of the little mannerisms of those around me—each one a minute treasure of raw emotion. It makes me realize that everyone, when absorbed through these snapshots of recognition, is truly beautiful.

I see a deaf girl and guy flirting with their hands. (or perhaps they're just two students studying sign? Maybe it's more exciting to not hear each other speak? I can imagine that being so.)

A skinny-spiky-blonde-haired-kid turns around in front of me and scratches the back of his head with his index finger. His eyes glance at mine before instantly looking down. He's agitated. At what I wonder?

Some good looking/well dressed guys stand behind a table with a bunch of pamphlets and booklets. One of them does a karate-chop through an invisible...piece of wood? The seemingly unwilling patron viewing this act takes a shocked step backward after the swipe.

A small group of dancers in spandex are relaxing—lounging on each other on the floor against the wall. One guy has his buzzed head resting on the leg of another guy. His smile is so casual and inviting. These people are so at ease together! It amazes me. I don't have anyone that I could rest my head on like that.

A girl is looking at her phone—no, she's smiling at her phone. She tilts her head to one side and looks up for a second to make sure she doesn't run into something. Then she looks back at her phone and continues smiling. I glance at the screen as she passes. It was a texting conversation. I wonder what was being said? With whom?

Tanka #1

All was said and done,
So God closed his weary eyes,
And sighed a deep breath.
"Don't forget that I made you."
He thought, drifting off to sleep.

This is a blog post about a TV show that I watched that was about some dogs that were being treated poorly and were saved by some animal-loving people.

I saw a show on TV a while ago that showed how these animal-safety-activist-superhero-people had saved a bunch of dogs from a house where they were supposedly being abused/malnourished, etc. Their plan was to take these dogs to a park and let them run around on the grass and bask in the warm sunlight—which was, I guess, something that these dogs had never experienced before. When they got to the park they opened the back doors of their animal-rescue-van and opened the kennels and they were expecting the dogs to just jump right out and run around and have a great time. Instead the dogs started pissing themselves and curling up in the rear of the kennels. After a long time one of the dogs was coaxed out of the van somehow and when its paws touched the green grass it didn't know what to do. It couldn't stand up. It just slumped down and laid there whimpering. My guess is that its paws were not used to the softness of the grass. They were probably used to hard concrete and chains and coldness. Eventually the dog gained some confidence and started walking around.
I have to go, but just one more thing: That one brave dog influenced all of the other dogs to jump out of the van and face the unknown. Maybe they thought the sun was going to kill them. Maybe they thought there was fire outside of the van. They had a lot to be afraid of, but they eventually faced it all and realized that all of the things that they thought were scary were actually good things that could make them happy. Anyway, I'm glad that I stayed up late and finished watching that show.

SOCKPUPPETARMAGEDDON

I created this blog upon request for a class. Since then it has become somewhat dear to me. I realize that (starting with this post) I, meaning you, Bryan, are the only person that is going to be reading/writing anything pertaining to this blog. Is it worth continuing? Wouldn't that be kind of strange? Writing a blog to and for yourself?
Probably.
You could try and gain a devoted fan-base—form a cult, perhaps. The Bryanists. But that will never happen, because you're an INFP and you don't seek attention,, acknowledgement, or fame.

But, am I not writing this, and this, and this and THIS, because I crave attention? Am I not writing this in hopes that, perhaps, God willing, some stranger (possibly some literary talent-scout-stranger?) might stumble upon my blog and see my writing for what it truly is: Brilliant and Original and Twisted and Poignant and Clever and, let's just say, a myriad of other cliched adjectives.

Anyway. Maybe this really is your last blog entry, Bryan. What do you want to say? Do you want to say something Poignant and Twisted? Or maybe you want to say something Brilliant with a dash of Clever and maybe just a pinch of something Twisted?

Something Like:

As I was driving to work today I counted seven flags at half-mast. The flags, of course, got me thinking about the Newtown massacre and how fucked up things can get in this world. Then I started thinking about December 21'st and how it might be the end of the world and how, especially for the parents of the Newtown victims, it might be a good idea for God to seriously consider following through with that plan.
If I was God and if I was trying to come up with a cool way to kill the earth, I think I'd gather up all the guns and the ammunition and the steel and the iron and the copper and the gold and the silver and the nickel and all the things that have built up our collective conglomerate of evil and I'd melt them all together and form them into a massive bullet-shaped-projectile-device and I'd blast that bitch at the speed of light straight into the earth's black heart.

Mr. INFP

Today my work asked me to fill out the online questionnaire: Carl Jung and Isabel Briggs Myers’ Typological Approach to Personality, and, to be honest, I really didn’t want to be a part of it. I didn’t want some internet site telling me who I am, or who I should be, or could be, or can’t be, et cetera. And even now, after having taken the questionnaire, I’m not really sure what to think about it. I will say that I’m a bit surprised at the depth of the end result. It wasn’t just some formulaic answer to life’s conundrums:

*You do not do well in stressful situations, Mr. Nolte. You might consider seeing your doctor about a possible risk of high blood pressure.

No, the results were detailed and thought-provoking. I ended up wasting a few hours at work (they started it) researching this stuff, and everything I’m reading seems to be pretty legit. Reading something that describes who you are specifically, in an almost obituary-esque fashion, is a rather surreal and uncomfortably revealing situation. I can only liken the experience to one that I had three years ago, an experience in which I was given the rare opportunity to speak with my future-self in the year 2067.

So, this is who I am:

INFP

Introvert (100%)
iNtuitive (50%)
Feeling (25%)
Perceiving (89%)

The percentages are important and have meaning, but I don’t feel like going into that. Which would explain why I answered “YES” to the statement: “Your decisions are based more on the feelings of a moment than on the careful planning”

If you want to know who I am (this article is possibly a blogpost/non-published/POS, but it's ripened with flattery and doesn't focus so much on the fact that the word "introvert" is really just a synonym for "asshole". But, then again, INFP's rarely give themselves enough credit.) click here:

http://www.personalitypage.com/INFP.html

If you want to know who you are, click here:

http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

Rolaids for writers-block

http://www.tinhouse.com/blog/podcasts

sorry, but you're a racist pig.

Are you feeling good today? Are you feeling good about yourself? Are you feeling confident with your fine-tuned persona? Are you feeling confident and assured with the way you view/perceive/tolerate your fellow man? If so, then perhaps you are in need of a serious reality check, my friend.

Take some time with this site:

https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/

By doing so you will most likely come to this singular, incontrovertible conclusion:

YOU SUCK.

Perfect Paragraph / #2

Two paragraphs from 'Disgrace', by J.M. Coetzee:

He has dinner with his ex-wife Rosalind. They have been apart for eight years; slowly, warily, they are growing to be friends again, of a sort. War veterans. It reassures him that Rosalind still lives nearby: perhaps she feels the same way about him. Someone to count on when the worst arrives: the fall in the bathroom, the blood in the stool.

"That's wonderful, then. I'm sorry, my child, I just find it hard to whip up an interest on the subject. It's admirable, what you do, what she does, but to me animal-welfare people are a bit like Christians of a certain kind. Everyone is so cheerful and well-intentioned that after awhile you itch to go off and do some raping and pillaging. Or to kick a cat."

more people watching

A boy and a girl are sitting together at a small round table. His hair is big and all in disarray like a young Einstein. His demeanor seems to be saying that he has no time for her. He is obviously busy and deep in thought, or at least he is trying to appear so. His face is craned over scattered books and papers. He refuses to look up at her. He completely disregards her pleadings. She is desperately trying to gain his attention. She wants to know something. I can see her mouth form the words, “Tell me, please, just tell me!”
She seems to be entirely out of his league—blonde and just plain gorgeous head to foot, so I’m intrigued by his subtle and reserved ability to resist her. She clearly wants him. She is leaning over, revealing everything she has and everything that he could ever want, yet still, he shows no interest whatsoever. His gaze remains fixed on his books.
She lays half of her body over the table. She puts her hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her. He seems repulsed. He seems to not know her at all. She tries to kiss his lips but he averts his face and pulls away.
Her body goes limp with defeat. She says, “Fine. Whatever,” and takes a big bite from his sushi platter. She stands up and waits for a sign of recognition that never comes. She looks around the room, embarrassed from her rejection. She puts on her coat and gathers up her things and before leaving him there to be alone and free of her, she leans over and whispers something into his ear. Whatever it is, it causes him to lift his head and watch her walk away through the busy crowd of student bodies.

So,

So, I'm walking aimlessly around UVU because my class is cancelled and I'm looking at everyone walking around and I start wondering why no one else is looking at everyone walking around. Why am I the only person staring at other people? Am I some kind of creep? Must be.
This also happens when I'm in a car. Whenever I'm at a stop light, or whenever I pass people, or whenever people pass me, I always have to look. For some reason I always have to see whoever is in that car. And I'm always impressed with the people that don't have to look. I'm impressed that they can just mind their own business and not give a rats ass who's next to them at the stop light. Cheers to them.

Sometimes

Sometimes I'm like a dog that's sniffing poop and then my nose gets kicked and I go running off all sad that my nose got kicked and I think to myself NO BRYAN! you're not going to go back and sniff that poop but then I do go back and sniff that poop because I can't remember why I'm not sniffing the poop so I go and sniff the poop and I just keep getting my nose kicked and I keep going through this cycle of not knowing why I'm being kicked and not knowing why I keep sniffing poop but one day I'm telling you one day I'm going to snap and I'm just going to go ahead and sniff all of the poop that I want to sniff because it's my life and if I want to sniff poop then by God I'm going to sniff poop and there is nothing that anyone in this world is going to be able to do about it.

nanowrimo—day 4

I hate writing. If I could alter the chemicals in my brain to be addicted/obsessed/passionate with something else, I would. Why do I want to write? Why do I want to write a novel? What's the real reason? Am I writing for others—an audience? Or am I writing for myself—so I can feel important and accepted and fulfilled? Either answer sounds awful. What are my real intentions for putting some nouns and verbs and excessive amounts of articles, et cetera, onto a blank piece of paper? I just don't get it. It intrigues me beyond measure—to write, yet with every word, every sentence, every paragraph—I feel like a conceited, self-gratifying, attention-deprived asshole.

Oh yeah, and I'm dyslexic and I write as slow as a constipated tortoise—therefore, this writing fixation that has been instilled into my soul, drop by drop, must be a result of God's obvious disdain toward my very existence.

In other words— No. NaNoWriMo is not going very well for me.

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.