Frames of reference

When consulting your memory, it is best to refer to it as only a single frame of reference.

Similar to being told a story, it's a bit unreliable when only one person tells you about the event; when consulting your memory, it is only a single frame of reference.

Bad writing. On the phone.

Tuition

Since 1990, college tuition costs have gone up 450%. Average salaries have gone up 90%. Thus, the only way to pay for college was to a) take a home equity loan, which only served as a primer to our housing market crash, or b) take a government loan, which limited the governments ability to respond to the housing market crash.

Experiences with Tumblr.

Three posts.

Who ever thought creating a name with random letters at the end would be a good idea?

JAMIE

Here is your post.

1:11

Not quite 11:11, but it'll do for now.

The night is silent, the house woefully empty. It's cavernous rooms and hallways seem to absorb any trace of sound, seeming to go beyond silence. Silence is merely a lack of noise, yet this moment contains something only explainable as a stifled noise, with a nothingness so silent that it roars upon your ears, leaving you deaf to anything other than the void of silence.

The night is dark, the house terribly foreboding. It is the dark that has long roared across the ages, the dark that has not been tamed by a trace of light. Elsewhere, a solitary light may tame the dark into a submissive void, but here, an absolute lack of light creates a primeval dark, the dark in a home similar to the dark of a cave. Absolute, inky black peers back as one peers across the room, and nothing but the dark separates one from any possible tragedy.

The night is empty, the house filled with possibilities. Who knows what lies in the dark of the night? Minds conjure fanciful images of horror, yet we know these not to be true. Yet, when one stares into the maw of such a terrifying dark, it is not voluntary, but rather involuntary that the mind begins to work. In the dark, one knows not if he is alone or not, yet one knows not whether the former or the latter is preferable.

This is where I live. This is where I sleep. In several hours, it shall be transformed into a palace of light and wonder, but for the moment, this is where I reside.

More Thoughts on Time

We now focus on the past. What is the past?

The past should be viewed not as a list of what happened, but as a general guideline as to what may have happened. When you think back to yesterday, it is a certainty that it had to have happened, correct? Yet, try to imagine it.

Recall every thought, every image, and every action. It is quite impossible, because your memory is not so sure of itself. Therefore, how do we know what we do "remember" is even accurate? You remembered eating frosted flakes for breakfast, and so confident in your choice of breakfast cereal are you that it is indisputable. Yet, perhaps you merely forgot, and had cheerios for breakfast? What then becomes the reality?

Assuming that there were no outside observers, it becomes your reality that you did eat Frosted Flakes for breakfast. Because you remember it, it then did happen to you. There is no mental proof that you did not, and no one to dispute the fact. However, perhaps your memory gave way, and you came to the revelation that you did eat cheerios? Well, perhaps that too is a false memory, and you did in fact eat Frosted Flakes. How do we know that the past is actually true?

Referring back to my previous post concerning the present, how do we know that anything we do is actual? If we assume that the present is infinitely small, then everything we do instantly thrown into the past. As soon as you comprehend and read this word, it becomes a past event, and is now in your memory. If it is in the past, then it is subject to tampering from our memory. What we may have heard 10 minutes ago may be something completely different, or we may not have heard it all!

A confusing topic, to be sure.

It's early

That's nice.

It's also been a while since my last post, which is something I find myself saying more and more often everyday. What is it with my recent lack of writing? I have no idea, but new ideas come harder and harder and everyday, drowned out by the constant stream of information provided to me from my actually challenging schoolwork.

Does anyone read this anymore? If so, I greet you! Like a monk sitting upon a mountaintop, waiting to dispense proverbial wisdom in the direction of any seekers of wisdom, tourists, passerbyers, or child seeking a mentor, I present to you my thoughts.

If you have read this before, then you well know the drill. I do nothing but send the first few paragraphs typing my thoughts and salutations, state the silver thread of an idea, only to leave it dangling, unfinished, with whatever promises of fulfilling such thoughts never to be carried out, delayed only by my apathy.

Onwards to another direction!

Imagine, if you will, the present. As in, right now. As in, this exact second, this exact time. Now it's gone. Now it's been gone. The only way to properly focus on the present, on this exact millisecond, is to focus on the imminent future. By doing this, by the time we have aligned our thoughts correctly, the moment has occurred, and we have correctly focused.

The present.

Imagine, a timeline. Stretching from the distant, primeval past to the far away, smoldering future.

Now imagine right now. There is only one instance of a "right now," and is fleeting, disappearing faster than a wisp of smoke in a hurricane. There is no "Right now," because by the time you muster up the concentration and perspective to label it "right now," the moment flew by before you could march your thoughts into the proper order. Indeed, a "right now" is so impossible to accurately imagine, that I have come to believe only a past and a future exist.

When you finish the next sentence, try to focus on a "right now." It will be quite difficult.

Done. As soon as you focused on the moment, it was gone, fading away to the past. Then, as you realize this, and focus to the present, you find yourself thinking ahead, to the future. It is, therefore, very hard to focus on a present.

There is an infinite past, and an infinite future, but there is only one present. Due to it's rarity, the present is often considered the most important of the trio.

Meetings.

I am convinced that the world consists of several millions of groups of about 700 people; all of whom are destined to run into each other in gift stores in Minnesota and Coffee Shops around their homes.

Lawdy Lawd lawd.

By now, I assume that many (by many, I mean majority, and by majority, I mean 2 of the 3 people who consistently read this) of you have come to believe that I have abandoned this blog, in pursuit of other past times and activities.

You, my dear reader, would be correct. Many a fortnights has since passed from when I last posted, and I leave many empty promises of fulfilled ideas and posts.

It appears that I have lost what I once had; ideas. Whereas once ideas and thoughts flowed liberally from my mind, I find myself blank, empty, with little to no original thoughts. Even now, I find myself spouting redundant and overly descriptive sentences in hopes of fleshing out a post that is assuredly lacking in content.

Upon which, I realized my problem. This blog, it has no focus. It has no topic, it has no content. All it is the ramblings of a slightly hyper teenager, with no clear purpose, focus, or actual theme. Just random ramblings, and that is something that is rather hard to elaborate upon.

But what? For someone as indecisive as myself, it is hard to choose a topic, and then stay upon it. I figured it would be a wise move to choose something that I feel passionate about, but what? Difficult answer, as my passions are terribly mundane and require very few insights.

A writer, I have come to find, without a purpose is much like a seamstress without a clear idea of what it is she is actually making, who ends up with a terrible abomination that we call a Snuggie.

A New World Record

I have a vast collection of books, and I wonder to myself; What exactly is the purpose of writing fiction? They are meaningless records through which we (the reader) can imagine that we are escaping our rather bland lives into something that is much more exciting and reliable to have a happy ending.

Twilight, for example, is a popular book written by a Woman for Teenage girls. I had the chance to skim through it sitting on a bus, and while it did seem to have a decent and articulate writing style, the only thing that particularily screamed out to me was that Meyer had created an impossibly perfect boyfriend figure.

The very mention of the title "Twilight" elicts screaming fans from across the room to butt in and mention just how wonderful and delightful Edward Cullens (The main character) is. When asked about the particular nusances of the writing style, I feel as if I had asked several kindergarten school children Where In the World Waldo really is.

My favorite fiction characters are wonderfully complex; they have flaws, personalities, and feel as if they're actually someone on this world; it's mindboggling how by creating a flat, two dimensional character, Meyer managed to be one of the most popular authors in our generation. He's mysterious, he's caring, and he's definitely hawt, but that's about all there is to him.

And on a final note, I realize that this generation will forever be remembered as the generation that grew up with Harry Potter, Twilight, and "lik omg!" texts.

I refute that, and post this blog for future "I TOLD YOU SO!" reference.

A Return, No Less Triumphant.

Over the summer, writing turned from a rather enterntaining hobby, like skateboarding, to something I would find difficult and unattractive, like watching Oprah.

I sat here, preparing myself to write something, when I found to my surprise that I had no ideas. It's worrying at best, terrifying at worst, to think that my apathy during this two month break resulted in lack of any fresh ideas. Has the moment come where I am to close this blog for years to come, only to return in several years to post whatever small number of ideas I dreamed up? Perhaps this blog will fade into further obscurity, yet another worthless effort by a teenager to express his feelings, overshadowed by blogs about Oprah and her fanbase (which, incidentially, is nearly as large as her double chin.)

I kid, enough of the Oprah hate. I rather dislike her, but I find no reason to bear grudges against her.

That's it for now; a rather meaningless post discrediting Oprah and her many flaw.s

Please, No Salt On My Fish

While originality is all good and fun, I must oft remind myself that unpredictability does not equate to complete and utter chaos. While somewhat related facts strung together in an unpredicatble manner is often funny, it's not quite so funny to throw in some random facts along the way, breaking the chain.

Monkey.

It is quite often the situation when a desperate internet user will cast around randomly for some sort of thing that they might find funny, and write about it in the most haphazard and eratic way possible. I, for one, am quite tired of it. Just like the internet learned Poop Jokes and Your Mom jokes aren't funny anymore, it must also learn that random humor is rarely funny.

Diarrhea.

Internet, when you brandish your fictional character, so lovingly named Poops McFart Butt, it's really not that funny. It's even less funny when he has a biography that was apparently written by a dyslexic 6 year old who had a few more caffeine tablets than is the suggested dosage for your average full grown elephant.

While pouring buckets of live morray eels down his pants.

It's really, not that funny.

Music!

Random note, but I noticed not too long ago that the New Boyz refer to Jim Crow laws in their You're A Jerk song. Last place I would expect to ever use 8th grade history.

Yo', who was that?

Oh, he's just a friend.

So yeah. Summer! Yet, it feels like winter, in both the fact that it's been damn cold out, and that it feels just like a long ass weekend.

Don't give me that! Don't even give me that!

You! You've got what I need!

I begin with practice; unbearable torture that inevitably leads to a wonderful season that I always look back on and think "Hey! That wasn't so bad," yet I find myself wishing death upon my oppressors during the summer heat (Or rather, this strange fog?)

You say he's just a friend, you say he's just a friend

Oh baby, you've got what I neeeeeddd,

Plans? No plans, other than to go places and do things. If you call that a plan, then you would best stay out of any kind of management position, my friend.

But you say he's just a friend, but you say he's just a friend.

Don't ever talk to a girl who says she just has a friend has a friend has a friend

Hmm. Perspective! Why must we draw an oval when we know it is really a circle? Why must we draw a rectangle when it truly is a square? Perspective is tricky, both physically and mentally. Physically, a miscalculation in perception could result in a stubbed toe, a poke to the eye, or a loss of mental stability. Mentally, it causes us to hate others, to dispute, and to destroy what we do not understand.

Yet, without it, we are no longer individuals, but a single uniform entity, as perspective is what keeps us unique. Take it away, and we have a perfect society, but we lack what makes us human, making it not a truly human society.

Respect. It is the key to perspective.

Word Play.

Sexual innuendo used to be funny until commedians started to shove it down my throat.

Just a few quick notes that I'll expand on later

• Perspective. My perspective is an outside one of everyone else, so how do I know you're real? You can tell me you are, but my brain would create characters to do so, thus making everything possibly fake. 
  Same goes for you. This may just be a creation of your imagination, and there's no way of knowing because I would tell you so. Persona creation.
• Present. The past is irrelevant. Right now, all the time leading up to right now, only took a second in the present. Which is always. It is always the present. Therefore, everything is irrelevant?