actuality.log

However I try to sound in these parts, I’ve gone about my life in a structured and well-organised manner.

And then, after spending a week not budging from the bed with Crayola, I get this scary sounding letter that roughly went: “If you don’t stop by with your rent, we will evict you.”

Awesome.

Update: We’d initially assumed a few days would do. That became a week. And now it’s been over 10 days.

It must be obvious why there aren’t any journal updates.

If you’re ever in Colorado and plan to check out Boulder (which is way more awesome than I’d originally anticipated), you have to try out the Med in the Pearl street area.

The ambiance is brilliant and so much fun, the food is probably the best I’ve ever eaten, and the ultra-cute waitresses wear the tiniest skirts!

This was supposed to be a post on sexual tension and an inability to masturbate, but I can’t get myself to divulge it.

When I first started this journal a long time ago, the basic premise of the exercise was that I keep a log of the events in my life; an “actuality log,” of sorts. People who know me, are aware that I am notorious for forgetting details, and this journal was supposed help me in that regard; especially so that I would have something to reminisce about when I looked back. The fact that it was publicly visible was an artefact of the medium I chose, and wasn’t in my conscious thought as I began expressing myself.

And then, things changed.

I don’t know when exactly—perhaps it wasn’t even at one specific moment—but at some point along this journey, I became acutely aware of my primary audience pool: Women in their mid-to-late twenties. Single women mostly, and as it turns out, this includes single women who adore me. With this realisation came some shifts to how I went about articulating things. There were many more trips to the thesaurus, and a lot more conscious thought and proof-reading in general; for I began to care about how I sounded. Silently, I began to care about how my audience perceived me. This in itself wasn’t bad, because it typically meant that my posts started sounding a lot better—more refined and fleshed-out.

But the detrimental thing was that, at around the same time, I began to consciously work toward embedding within them a concocted idea of who I am; an idealisation, a fantasy. And with all this blurring of fantasy and reality, it turns out that actuality dot log has evolved to become anything but.

It’s just, “not actuality dot log” doesn’t have the same ring to it.

For the stalkers in the audience, I’m now in a college town in Colorado. The primary purpose of this trip is toward this conference or something, but you’d never know given how unprepared I am. The hotel is cheesy—with its crap “decor,” the weird smells in my room (ugh) and all its gaudy colours—and it sucks even more because the Internet connection here is beyond flaky. I’ve been forced to walk around for a while (ick) to find a signal strong enough so I can post this.

This part of Colorado is very different from another part of the state I’d been to earlier, and overall, it all seems very subdued and bleh. Totally underwhelming. The mountains aren’t really impressive, the colours aren’t really vivid, the … or maybe I just like to bitch. Now, I must leave, to go work on things toward talks, and then, on the talks themselves; to prevent making too much of a fool of myself. A little bit of a fool of myself is OK. A lot is not.

I miss my bed, with Crayola on it.

Update: Oh my gosh, perhaps I bitched too soon. I just stepped out of the shower, and that delectable shower-head just about made up for every other crappy thing about this place. Oh goodness, imagine the time I’d have had if only I possessed compatible anatomy.

Women get to have all the fun.

Now that the title has got your attention, I think it is only fair to warn you that this post has nothing to do with me or my emotions—or does it?

It all began earlier this evening when I was patiently humming away at a bus stop, pondering over the mysteries of the universe. There she appeared, Marie, walking arm in arm with Jack toward the bus stop. And by “arm in arm,” I mean that Marie had her arm gently wrapped around Jack’s; not that he was paying any attention.

I didn’t pay much attention to them either at the time, because, well, I had my pondering to get back to. But it turns out that Marie and Jack sat right across me as they entered the bus, and I was perfectly perched to observe their activities; which I did, for I am creepy.

Upon first glance, you’d think Marie is borderline-retarded, because she was soon asking Jack the dumbest of questions regarding one of their courses—electrical circuits. Jack, an obvious geek, soon whips out a textbook and begins to explain matters in great detail. So, there they were, pressed up close beside each other, and at the end of each round of patient, thorough and totally-clear explanations, you’d have the dodo Marie go “Huh? But why?” And Jack would repeat himself excitedly, because he clearly loves this stuff.

For a brief moment, you contemplate putting Marie out of her misery permanently, but you soon begin to realise what she’s doing. The whole time she’s getting him to talk, she’s amorously watching his mouth move, and she’s tracing her fingers around his as he moves them about the circuits on the page trying to show her stuff.

Then she says, “It seems so hard. (Holding his hand) I guess we just have to work a lot longer on those homework problems together.” And Jack just nods, oblivious.

I find myself beginning to scream, “Dude? Whatever are you thinking? Can’t you see she wants you? Stop staring at the voltages on that chart and do something!”

But then I stall, realising that I can’t.

I am Jack.

We haven’t done this in a long time, because I’ve not been shooting very much. But after much prodding, I was inspired to walk around for more than half of today with my camera. Here are some things I ran across.

It being summer, there are many of these bushy-little things running around.

I was desperately scrounging around for some joke involving a pun on “nuts,” but it turns out I am too refined for that. The next picture of a flower is the one I’m most proud of in this set. It has nothing to do with the picture itself, but the fact that I found this dainty little thing sitting amongst a see of mediocrity. For that one moment, I found myself remarkably aware of my surroundings.

It turns out, not everyone is as enthralled about their surroundings or respectful of it as I am. This saddened me.

As I was walking around, I couldn’t help but notice the following twig that looked like a π. Yeah, I’m a geek.

I also couldn’t help but notice that the town was a lot more crowded than usual. It turns out, just like the Ann Arbor Street Art Fair every July, there is also the Ann Arbor Summer Festival featuring a couple of weeks of all sorts of eclectic bands playing on the street.

And it was at this point that I stopped shooting, for I was distracted by the pretty lady singing.

As a reward for having angelic voices, hundreds of young boys were castrated to prevent their larynx from fully developing during puberty. This put them at the enviably unique position of having the vocal range of a young girl/boy, while having the strength and lung-capacity of an adult as they grew older; providing them with an incredible amount of vocal flexibility.

These were the castrati, the luckiest talents of the lands.

Now, you know.

This has been a public service announcement. We hope that your horrified squeal and subsequent wetting of your pants didn’t cause you too much embarrassment.

If you haven’t noticed, my takes on a lot of topics are warped and generally blown out of proportion. They’re warped because I don’t have any close friends to have intimate conversations with; you know, to use as sounding boards to help develop my ideas. And they’re blown out of proportion because… it’s just funnier that way.

Since the thought of my life doesn’t conjure up images of wild trysts or plot twists—emphatically static, remember?—like on the more popular soap operas, you’re free to dismiss the following as one of my frequent “warped and generally blown out of proportion” takes on reality. What began innocently as a seemingly-harmless crush intertwined with much admiration and respect of creativity, soon blossomed over the past few days, and now I have fallen head-over-heels for a most lovely woman. Anything I say about how much I feel completed by her closeness (or anything else for that matter) will sound corny; and I don’t do corny very well, so I will not go down that road. Maybe this explains my recent silence—I’ve been too busy cooing, sighing and daydreaming.

It is scary how I’ve survived so long without having a clue as to what being happy means. It’s scarier still when every bit of my thoughts, needs and emotions feel reciprocated.

It’s scariest when it dawns on me that she’s married; to someone else.

Fiddling around with this new computer has gotten me somewhat interested in technology again. I mean, playing with the Hurd while tinkering with a Quicktime video is an eerie experience.

Oh, and you know chicks dig the new Nintendo DS Lite.

Touching is good.

After nearly a quarter decade of being passive, I’ve finally decided I’m not going to take it any longer. The next time anyone tells me how “funny I am,” or how “creative I am,” or how “adorably-sweet I am,” or how “smart I am,” or how “talented I am,” or how “sensitive I am” … (you get the idea), I’m going to ask, “Yeah? Well, if I’m so <insert appropriate trait here>, why aren’t you sleeping with me?”

actuality.log — Providing retardedly simple solutions to complex problems since the early ’80s

After quite a bit more pondering, I think I’m ready to articulate why this was pissing me off so much.

It’s just that my parents provided me with enough that I can’t play the “Oh, look at me. See how much I’ve accomplished after being so deprived,” card[1]. But they didn’t provide me with enough that I can gloat, playing the “Oh, look at me, born with a silver spoon in my mouth and everything. Begrudge how much I’ve had handed to me,” card either.

I can’t elicit either pity-filled awe or jealousy-filled yearning. I never get to have any fun.

[1] And trust me, I’ve tried. It’s been shot down with extreme prejudice.

The bastard child of Gautama Nuddha.

I went back and forth for a bit on this post because it was skirting the boundaries of TMI. And by “skirting,” I really mean “blatantly disregarding,” but unfortunately for you, it takes more than that to thwart me.

It all started at the onset of winter toward the end of last year. Getting tired of bitching about my high power bills—caused in no small part by my crappy electric space heater, which barely covers 10% of my tiny home—I decided to do something constructive about it. And so began a phase wherein the colder it got, the more layers of clothing yours truly had on.

It was a brilliant scheme… on paper. I am sorry to report that it didn’t help lower my power bills, and it made it ridiculously complicated to move around my abode.

Anyway, as time progressed, seasons changed. With the emergence of vividly coloured flowers and the first sightings of the hiked-up mini-skirt, the ambient temperature of my dwelling was steadily on the rise; which in turn resulted in those layers of fabric gradually being shed. But, as it turns out, this new scheme had progressed to bit more of a habit than I had originally anticipated. What started-off with coats, sweaters and shawls soon made headway… and now, I’m typing this out in the nude.

Yes, over the past few weeks, my wardrobe around home has been starkly minimal; or non-existent if you want to be pedantic about it. I am not sure if I’ve really pegged-down how I feel about this—though I must admit it feels very comfy most of the time. It has also—unsurprisingly—reduced the frequency of laundry-doing days quite substantially. Definitely, this is one of the better perks of living alone!

But it’s not all rosy.

For one, the whole “We know what you were doing” smirk I get when I answer the door… after that awkward pause… with my clothes hurriedly put on, inside-out, backside-front? gets old really soon. And as easy as it seems on paper, being nude requires a tremendous degree of comfort with your own body; one which I presumed I possessed, until I had the opportunity to really examine myself all the time. It’s sad, in an almost funny, catch-22 sort of way: Having no one to impress means you aren’t going to try. Not really trying means you won’t look very good. And looking good is central to attracting someone beside you worthy of impressing in the first place!

Brilliant… ly… sad.

And this final bit of news does not really help matters: If sources—ones that I trust—are to be believed, the number of cases of straight, single men in gyms abysmally tiny. Zero, in fact.

Hmm, I wonder.

Yes, more audio goodness, just like the first time. Click the link you fancy below to listen to my thoughts on guys being “Knights in shining armour,” or not.

[MP3 ~7.61 MB]
[OGG ~5.02 MB]

(On a programming note, I ended up not using sucky GarageBand, and just mixed my recording in Audacity on my GNU/Linux box like I did the last time.)

Update: Here’s a transcript, for the people with hearing issues.