Meditations in the Key of J

An eremite: one who retires from society and lives in solitude, especially for religious reasons. Also, for some reason that entirely escapes me, the modern derivation of "hermit" also means "a spiced molasses cookie."

And monks invented beer. Anyway...

Sometimes, the fact that I'm forced to share this world with other humans tires me deep in my soul, because the vast majority of them are so, so dumb. The fact that I am apparently one of the most enlightened beings on this planet sometimes drives me to despair.

However.

Even though disappearing from society forever sounds good to me sometimes, I could never actually do it, for the simple reason that if I did, I would stop. Stop growing, stop changing, stop thinking in all but the most basic sense of the word. None of us could have become what we are without the influence of others, without the accumulated knowledge and experience of those around us and those who came before us upon which to draw.

Understand: I don't at all suggest that solitary contemplation is worthless. Rather, I suggest that it cannot be the end result, or the sole means to enlightenment. Without stimuli from other aware beings, it is difficult-- if not impossible-- to learn anything new. To truly learn more about ourselves, we must be presented with situations that are beyond our control. There are, of course, any number of natural events before which we are helpless, but these, in the end, are limited in their variety, by virtue of the simple fact that there is no intelligence behind them. To me, at least, nothing presents as great a challenge as that of striving for true comprehension of the nature of another human being. They come up with things I never thought of, say things I didn't expect, do things that, on occasion, make me just stop for a moment and gaze with wonder. I think that that makes up for all the exasperation, personally. On a planetary level, maybe... maybe not. I suppose we'll have to see.

Cenobite: "a member of a religious group living together in a monastic community." I've never been even the least bit religious, but... in a way, people are my religion. Heaven and hell and everything in between.

So thank you all, for helping to make sure my monasticism isn't entirely wasted in navel-gazing.

The Cult of Personality has personally invited me to another of his band's shows. Note to those interested: personal invitations will always ensure my attendance at an event, no matter how ambivalent I may have been before it was issued, because such an invitation almost always means that some meaningful social interaction is in the offing, no matter of what the event itself may consist.

That said, I'm just not sure that the Cult and I have all that much to talk about, these days. High school was great and fun and memorable and all that, but... it's also over. It's been remarked that I've changed a lot since then, mostly by those who knew me back then, and in most cases (Chantal being the notable exception) it seems as though I just can't relate very well to the old high school gang, because they, for the most part, haven't changed all that much.

Still, a part of me misses times past. I only wish I knew how to tell when trying to reinvent them becomes an exercise in futility. Of course, I do quite enjoy the Senate's music, so it's less of an issue for this particular event than for some others... and yet.

I really do need to get out more.

That... was the most educational New Year's I've ever had. Also, I think, the greatest.

I love watching fireworks from elevated viewing platforms. It gives the perspective of a camera shot, with the immediacy of ground proximity.

2005 was a year of great change... well, okay, the four or five years before it were too, but that's adolescence. I don't even realize how much I've changed, now. The people who used to inhabit this body are dead, and, for the most part, it's well rid of them.

I am cleansed. Let this day mark a new beginning.

The question of the night: can revenge be moral?

There are currently two people I've known in my life upon whom I wish real hurt. One I've (mostly) forgotten about, and I managed to wreck (one sector of) his life pretty well before we parted ways, so it's not that big a deal any more. The other... well, that grievance is both bigger and fresher, and I now have the perfect opportunity to send the little bastard screaming back over the mountains. Of course, this one has such deep-seated emotional problems that I'm torn between wanting him to suffer and pitying him.

It's not a case of solving a problem, which revenge can't really do, in my experience. Rather, it's a question of which path will lead me to the most emotional satisfaction: forbearance or indulgence?

... about twelve high school cross country athletes, doing their daily training on the Burke-Gilman.

Try as I might, I really can't find anything wrong with a dozen pieces of nubile young boyflesh straining and sweating outside my office window.

If still being attracted to teenagers even though I haven't been one for almost four years is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

So, it's about as official as it's going to get: a week from today, I'll be starting orientation at my uncle's surveying company in Bothell.

This job will, I think, be awesome for several reasons: first and foremost, the office is right on the Burke-Gilman Trail, which, for those uninitiated in the ways of Seattle, is a bike path that used to be a railroad, running through the city. I'll be able to ride my bike to work, which will save me from traffic and get me my exercise in one fell swoop. Also, I will learn how to use GPS systems and computer drafting software and all manner of neat procedures, which can only help me later in life. The company also has about 5 employees, which means I'll learn a lot of other things about running a small business, which I can also see being quite useful.

priorysion once said to me that he'd do just about anything to avoid the 9-to-5 daily grind, and after my recent brush with corporate America, I'm inclined to agree with him. The hours of this new job will, of course, actually be 8 to 5, but a significant portion of that will be fieldwork, actually going out and surveying sites, and to begin with, I'll only be going in three days a week.

Still not sure what I'm going to do with the remaining time-- there's an editorial internship with Seattle Magazine I'm thinking about, as well as a bartending course. I feel like bartending, besides giving flexible hours and lots of potential extra income, might afford me the opportunity to observe enough fascinating human interaction that I might actually be inspired to write fiction again. That, and I would avoid the aforementioned daily grind. I think that that, more than anything else, is the key to happiness.

Despite recent evidence, it may be that I do not, in fact, suck at life.

Landing of the good starship cherrysher: t-minus three days.

I just realized that this coming weekend will mark my first trip to Oregon since high school. That, I must say, is far too long-- I dearly love the state, despite (or, really, because of) its manifest crazinesses. Though really, being from Washington as I am, I'm hardly one to tar others with the crazy brush. For example, it's much easier to get by in Portland without a car than it is in Seattle.

The surfeit of fast, reliable public transport is one of the only purely material things I miss about the East Coast, lemme tell ya.

The plan, as I currently understand it, is to take the Greyhound down to Portland on Friday, and thence to get a ride to Eugene. (cherrysher, I'll call you tomorrow if you don't call me first? Oh, and bring something Goth-y to wear. :))

It's an adventure like in days of old for a while, and then, god willing, I'll have some deathly-dull temp job to replenish my sadly anemic bank account. It's not the ideal way to earn one's bread, of course, but it rarely happens that people in my stage in life can do much better, at least without some trade-specific education, which I of course don't have, having chosen pure learning over practicality.

And frustrating as my current situation is, not being given the chance to prove what I know I can do, I don't regret that choice. I have the rest of my life to look for jobs, but that opportunity only really comes once in a lifetime. And, of course, most people live and die without ever knowing the joy with which I've already, at this early date, been blessed. I don't think I remember that as often as I should. Though my ego insists that I should have everything out right! NOW! I don't, but that's okay. I still don't necessarily like it, but then I am nothing if not a superlative narcissist.

So, it's off to another interview tomorrow, then a concert and then, my non-homosexual life partner arriveth. Life, really, is pretty damn good.

Be well, all.

I canNOT stop listening to this song. Yuki's twee frou-frou hand movements hypnotize my mind, sucking me in to be borne aloft on the sheer shrill cutesyness of her voice, off to join the ranks of her faceless dancing minions.

In other news, the first book of Mercedes Lackey's most recent Valdemar trilogy is waiting for me at the library.

I really have nothing to justify how obsessed I've become with that woman's work, except that it seems to be a similar phenomenon to that which has made J. K. Rowling a more-disgustingly-wealthy-than-the-friggin'-Queen woman. That is, her books, when all is said and done, are bad. There're magic help-spirits in the form of horses, swords, sorcery, and sentient gryphons who can somehow form human speech despite their utter lack of lips. The dialogue is, frequently, overwrought, and the parts that are meant to be funny are forced upon the reader with such a wink-wink nudge-nudge overbearingness as to render the mere concept of humor void. Lackey far too often falls prey to that "never show-- you must always TELL!!!" disorder that afflicts many fantasy writers (and, sadly, Hollywood screenwriters and directors), beating her points into the readers' heads with a jackhammer.

Despite all this, I can't put her books down. Why? Because her plots are so finely crafted that I HAVE to know what happens next, be it even at the cost of my very sanity. The narrative is complex, far-reaching, and even occasionally goes in a direction I, at least, do not at all expect. Add to that the sheer hedonistic escapism inherent in any fantasy, and I can't help but salivate at the thought of beginning the next chapter.

I can only hope that this doesn't presage some harrowing descent into the middle-school-redolent depths of Star Wars novels, or something equally mortifying.

And his form suffered not in his absence.

I desperately hope that his reading of Roberts isn't too optimistic, but then, I don't set nearly as much store by an Ivy League pedigree as most people seem to-- I'm a snob, but I also know how easy it is to get into those schools if one knows the right people. That's not to say, of course, that there aren't a great many wonderful and amazing students and teachers at those institutions, but the same is just as true of other places that don't get nearly as much hoopla.

Still, I have to hope that being exposed to such a rarefied intellectual atmosphere has had a more beneficial effect on Roberts than it seems to have had on our current president.

At least in one respect, I think Rousseau may have been right: the drive to be recognized by another whom we ourselves recognize as an equal is one of the most powerful in the human psyche.

The slow, profound shock engendered by this recognition is the most precious feeling in all of my experience, if only because it is so sadly, beautifully rare.