After Dinner on July 21st, 2003 (Italics vs. Other Cursors):

So has it been half a year already? Six whole months? Roughly 0.5 percent of my lifespan? Time does fly indeed, and now I must caress and comfort and coax my webpage before she'll even let me near her again. I really ought to apologize for this lack of attention. . . Anyway, I was staring at Microsoft Word (During an e-mail composition, mind you. This is not one of those watch-grass-grow scenarios) and realized something outright shocking. A most bizarre observation that I stumbled upon, which I will attempt to summarize in the fictional story below. Please note that all cursors resembling actual individuals we meet on the streets (granted that not many Americans we meet on American streets will resemble cursors given their culturally-developed body shapes), are purely coincidental.

In a land far away, long ago, there lived a nation of cursors. In general, these cursors are very harmonious creatures, though like all living beings under the sky, (or in the sky, depending on your physics understanding) they have their own little quirks and idiosynchrocies(sp?). I repeat, though, that in general, these cursors lead harmonious lives, with neighbors greeting each other every morning, wiggling their tops in cute little waving-resembling patterns at one another. There are cursor schools, where young cursors learn how to blink appropriately, and also the mundane grocery stores, farms, etc. Different cursors live in the same neighborhood, nobody is despised if they're bold cursors, or if they're underline cursors.

However, not too far off the coast of CursorLand is a small island, and on that island is a wholly different scene. Only italics cursors live on this island that is called, not surprisingly, ItalicsIsland. This segregated, though fully independent community are harmonious among themselves, but have little contact with the mainland. Interestingly enough, despite the naturally amiable attitude of Cursors, no one from the mainland has visited ItalicsIsland since their separation decades ago. No one on the mainland even mention ItalicsIsland, and when children see the distant island and point and ask, they are hushed and brought inside the house.

Our story begins on ItalicsIsland, inside a household not too different than any other -- a loving couple and their young, 10-year-old daughter. One might question how different sexes can exist in a purely one-dimensional entity. Let me respond by pointing out that their copulation and reproduction is evidence enough for the distinction. Anyway, this household is, like I said, not too different from any other in the neighborhood. The father, Mr. Tilt, is a carpenter, and works in his garage building furnitures for other Cursors. The mother, Mrs. Tilt, is a full-time housewife and prides herself in her clean kitchen and well-disciplined child. The main character of story is little Dian Tilt, a cute daughter who contributes to the family by her warm kisses, gentle hugs, and occasional tantrum.

It is the custom of ItalicsIsland that, when a child reaches his 11th birthday, he or she is allowed out of the house. Oh, did I not mention that yet? Well, a young Cursor is very fragile, not quite wide enough to really support themselves, and infancy is as long as 10 years! Different than human infancy, though, by the time these little Cursors mature, they have read enough books, and had enough conversations with their parents and other visiting relatives that even if they haven't been out of the house, they know very well all the day-to-day activities in the neighborhood.

Being the curious, enthusiastic, healthy little Cursor, Dian couldn't wait for her 11th birthday to get out of bed and explore the neighborhood in person. . . um, in Cursor. So, after enjoying delicious cake for breakfast, (and under careful supervision of her loving parents) Dian Tilt leapt out of bed, wobbled out across the living, and opened the door to the openness outside. As with all little Cursors, the first sight of outside is truly spectacular -- the sky extends out to infinity, and the horizon is much wider than they ever imagined. However, again like all little Cursors, she raised an immediate question to something that she hasn't learned about from books: "What's that big thing across the ocean, mommy?" And like all loving Cursor parents, Mrs. Tilt glanced slightly embarrassedly at Mr. Tilt, then gently guided Dian's shoulders somewhere else (Yes, the Cursor's shoulders. You have any problems with that?)

"That's nothing, dear. Hey, lets go have a party for your 11th birthday!" nudged Mrs. Tilt.

And now the pivotal moment of the story: Whether it's unusual Cursor genes, or whatever reason, Dian Tilt, unlike the thousands of little Cursors before her, did not simply let that mass of distant land fade away into the background of taken-for-granted. Throughout the next year, Dian continued to insist on questioning her parents about the mysterious other nation. It's little surprise where Dian inherits her stubbornness though, because her parents are just as capable as she is at putting up a good fight with not talking about CursorLand. Dinner conversations are frequently as the follows:

"Darling, could you pass the salt shaker please?"

"Only if you tell me about CursorLand." (Dian had overheard the name of the mainland from one of her parents private meetings in the kitchen)

"Well, dear, could YOU pass me the salt shaker then?"

"Of course, dear."

"Tell me about CursorLand!"

(quiet meal-eating silence)

"TELL ME ABOUT CURSORLAND!!"

(continued awkward silence, alleviated only by the sound of chewing and plates sliding about the table)

So, as you can see, Dian's relationship with her parents quickly deteriorated. They still love each other in the way that, if one was drowning in the sea, the other would rush to their aid and dive into the water without a second thought. But their everyday conversations lessened and lessened, until Dian, now twelve years old, exists as an autonomous entity in the household, only leaving her room for meals and for her blinking classes at school. Dian's first lesson did not start until half a year into her eleventh birthday -- she was born in an awkward time, where attempting to rush to class would result in her being the youngest student in her grade; Mr. and Mrs. Tilt opted to keep her at home for another half year before sending her off to school. Unfortunately, by that time, Dian has already developed a habit of frowning at passerbies and refusing to speak to anyone. As one might imagine, she didn't have any friends, much less anyone to talk to about CursorLand. Mr. and Mrs. Tilt even spoke to the teacher ahead of time, so Dian's class instructor promptly moves on to a different topic whenever Dian raises her. . . cursor-hand into the air during geography class. Things were not progressing very well for our Dian.

Have I mentioned that Mr. Tilt was a carpenter who works in his garage? Well, Dian began a secret project of salvaging leftover wood and hiding them in her room in an attempt to build a raft that would carry her to the mysterious, yet infinitely alluring CursorLand. (Come on, if we heard that there's a place in the world named HumanLand, wouldn't we want to visit?) Though stubborn and boyish, and I use that word understanding the full sexist implication behind it -- not that I condone such implication, but rather it's the only word that came to mind in this impromptu storytelling session, Dian also has a knack for secrecy, and her secret project was not discovered by her parents until she has fully assembled a mini-raft, complete with food rations and clean water to prepare for her journey. Having stared at her father's woodworking for a decade, Dian's raft was surprisingly well-built! And perhaps fueled by an increase in teenage hormones, Dian angrily climbed out the window with her raft one night after a particularly nasty fight with her parents, and set sail for CursorLand. It took Dian quite a while to get the raft into the water, and herself onto the raft, since the Italics have scrapped their harbor long ago to completely sever ties with the mainland. Our little heroine climbed over rocks and tugged at her raft through the beach until at last, she collapsed backwards onto the deck of the raft and promptly fell asleep.

A comfortable breeze filled the air that night, under the beautiful, glowing moon, and the sound of water lapping onto the side of the raft only helped Dian fall into a restful slumber. Had the currents been working against her will, Dian would have been returned to the cruel island -- or even worse, blown off to distant ocean where she would starve to death. A bleak future, if you ask me. However, as the almighty author, I commanded the current to tow Dian slowly, yet steadily towards her intended destination so that when she wakes up, she would find herself in the gentle embrace of CursorLand.

. . . . . . time passes. . . . . . .

When the first stroke of dawn splashes against Dian's face, she did not stir. In fact, she did not even open her eyes until much later, when the voice of an old lady entered her ears, and a pair of wrinkled. . . um. . . hands stroked her. . . er. . . hair. Dian felt feverish and cold. As she barely lifted her eyelids, she only saw the face of a kindly old woman, and the lack of a raft by her side. Apparently, the breeze was more than comfortable last night, and Dian has caught a dramatic cold. She did not even remember tumbling out of the raft and onto the shore, and that her raft then floated away. So, for all intents and purposes of the old woman, Dian is merely a sick little girl, lying by the shore, needing her aid.

When Dian awoke again, she found a warm comfortable blanket over her slim body, and the delicious smell of chicken broth in the air. She tried to move, but her head ached so much that she groaned.

"Ah, you're awake? Would you like some broth, little girl? Where are you from? How did you get here? My my, I shouldn't ask you too much. Here, take a sip and get some more rest," a kind voice spoke, and Dian felt some warm soup enter her mouth and trickle down her parched throat. Barely mumbling a thank you, Dian dozed off once more.

The third time Dian woke, she felt invigorated, if famished. Her fever had died, and she was once again the fit, healthy, curious little Cursor that she is. She opened her eyes and surveyed her surroundings. She was lying in a humble little wooden cottage, adorned with pine cones hanging from the ceiling and a few rustic paintings on the walls. The fireplace blazed warmly by her side, and sitting at the table in the middle of the room was an old elderly couple reading books. The lady turned her head as she heard Dian stir in the bed.

"Ah, you're awake! I knew that family recipe would do wonders for a sick child like yourself. Now, we have some food here that you ought to. . . . my goodness. . . "

The old lady stopped as she hobbled towards the oven on her cane, and the old man also back in his chair, jaw agape (yeah, jaw on a cursor, I know) and staring at Dian who is now standing on the floor.

"You. . . you're an Italic! Why I never!"

The old lady's smile quickly turns into a grimace, as if a dog she has rescued had bit her in the ankle. She face hardened. Even her wrinkles curved into a much less likable countenance. As the old man continued to gape at Dian, she poked her husband with the tip of her cane.

"We've rescued an Italic, can you believe that, Roger? My goodness. . . get her out of the house!"

As the old man and the old lady both stood up, Dian noticed something very odd (besides her current situation) -- they were both standing upright! All throughout her life, Dian had never seen another Cursor stand upright! They were always. . . tilted. . . and she has assumed that Cursors are supposed to be tilted.

"Um, ma'am. . . I. . . "

"Shut up, you little. . . you little. . . oh, just get out of the house."

With the old lady continuously poking her in the behind with her cane, Dian could only escape out the door and into the streets. As the door slammed shut behind her, she could hear the last phrase of the old lady trail off.

"Well, Roger, I guess you carried her home for nothing. . . . "

Confused and indignified, Dian decided that this old couple was only a minor glitch in her paradise. Straightening herself up as much as she could, though with little success since her anatomy is simply built for being tilted, she paraded on the streets. However, as more and more upright cursors noticed her, and then avoided her like the plague, her confidence waned. She even saw a mother close her hands on her child's curious gaze, which reminded her of her own mother. Dian's march slowed to a trudge, then eventually she stopped altogether, both scared and sad of the crowd's pointing and staring. Tears that she had held back for a decade swelled, and at last she broke down in the circle of emptiness, which is surrounded by a dense crowd that dared not approach the Italic. It seems that a few hours had passed, when a man pushed through the crowd and stopped by her side.

"You there. I'm the local sheriff of these parts. You've violated the ItalicsCursorTreaty code number 181 by crossing the strait and entering CursorLand. I now place you under arrest. . . "

What happened afterwards was much of a blur the Dian. She soon found herself thrown onto a fishing boat to be deported back home. As she gazed at the silhouette of the fisherman against the setting sun, Dian again broke down into sobs and tears. Had her paradise been an illusion? Why had she fought all the way to CursorLand, only to be thrown back home? The fisherman, who had a wooden peg for his leg (yup, only one leg), turned around to Dian.

"W're almos' ther', gir'. Anoth' 'our an' we'll be at yer homelan'. Don't c'mback, I tell ya! Dey'd killya if ya did 't aga'n!"

But Dian only cried at the first quasi-kind words directed at her in a long time. The fisherman sighed.

"If ye ask me, I'd say tha' 'is all stupi'. Jus' 'cuz dem bold, 'nderline, strikethrough cursors all look 'like, dey throw ou' de Italics. . . bu' then, dem Italics kinda lef' on 'eir own anyway. . . . . I tell ya. . . "

And the old man continued to console, in his own way, the crying Dian as she entered, and was thrown out of, a land where she did not belong.

And that ends the story. Inspired by the fact that the italics cursor is the only cursor that looks different than the other ones, with a unique tilt. Not too fair, if you ask me, since it's the only cursor given special treatment. It could be argued that the cursors on CursorLand separated the Italics not from hatred of difference, but rather from jealousy, but that goes much deeper into the psyche of the cursors than I'd like to today, and perhaps it's better to leave the story here as it is now.

Evening of Jan. 18th, 2003 (Reed Thoughts):

Sometimes I think to myself. . . perhaps I don't need this homepage after all. Why not simply write in a diary? Is writing on the web not so other people can see? And perhaps praise these thoughts? And, like a groveling dog, am I not grinning wide-eyed at the Internet seeking attention. Attention from the Net, from perhaps random passer-bys who'd say "Awww, good job" and pet me on the head. And I'd purrrr and revel in the warmth that's a deliberate effort. Hypocritical warmth? Like the sun, brazenly displaying his light and fire, pelting the backs of human beings with his eagerness for attention. "Feel me!" He says, glaring down, causing naught but distraught, sweaty brows, parched tongues, dry throats. On the other hand, we have the moon, a much more elegant, proud existence. And that, unlike the sun who makes people turn their gazes away from the intense light, draws our attention, and keeps us at ease with a comforting smile. The moon. Not the sun. The elegance. Not the hypocritical, self-righteous quest for the smile from others.

Of course, such pessimistic thought is unhealthy, and do not accurately portray my frustration recently. Perhaps they are merely thoughts stemming from a less than perfect mood. A sort of verbal tension release akin to throwing punches at the wall, yet in an attempt to be more eloquent than mere swear-word ejaculation. Heh heh. I was going to write swear-word screaming, but I thought ejaculation might be a much more provocative word suitable for the situation. ;)

What has really been causing the frustration has much more to do with reeds. Here is the story.

Before I returned home for winter break, I seem to have discovered the secret of reeds, or somehow the universe aligned with the correct vortex, and they suddenly came natural to me. (Some background information: Reeds are Clare's voice. However, they're fickle little beasts prone to behave poorly whenever you need them not to, causing much stress for clarinetists, oboists, bassoonists alike throughout the world. So you can imagine my ecstasy when they seem to respond to my beckoning) This joyous event was marred by an act of extreme, utter stupidity paralleled only by the compression of all of the three-stooges movies into a 1-second flash of idiot-density -- I forgot to bring Clare home with me! I didn't realize this until I was standing in the airport with the boarding pass in my hand. Upon the shock, I was depressed for several days. And that's only the prelude to the story!

After returning, I begged for Clare's apology. She reluctantly forgave me, under the condition that I would never do something like this again. While never is an extremely powerful word, her forgiveness was much more important than the philosophical implications of an eternity. Then it happened. The reeds didn't work. So, these past two weeks have resulted in disastrous distress (note the alliteration), where I'd spend hours every day gazing at these little bamboo devils, knife in hand, heart in the trash can. It's one thing to have never found a system to work with these arbitrary incarnations of evil, but after tasting the sweet fruit of what might be coincidence or experience, the frustration multiplies when it slips from my hand again.

The logical thoughts broke down quite easily enough. Either the reeds really did respond to the sudden drop in Evanston temperature and placed their latent talents (It's definitely interesting how similar the words latent and talent is) into deep hibernation, or I've simply lost my touch. Either way, the result was identical: utter anguish and torment on my pride. Such dramaticism may seem unnecessary. Trivial pieces of cane, after all. Yet, they are the soul of Clare. To think that being out of practice with these demons is a result of the utter stupidity occuring a few weeks before chisels at my self-esteem and sanity. See, for some reason, I just cannot believe that weather alone can impact so immensely these reeds. The computer scientist in my schizophrenic lifestyle insisted that reeds, like C++ code, must behave according to a pattern. And their evident pummelling in quality is related to an unskillful clarinetist, not an unmerciful weather.

Today marked a breakthrough. I retraced my steps in the past 2 months this afternoon, and, I hope, was able to pick up the recipe that led to good reeds. And now, while the yellow hue of cane still glows in the background of my sight, I feel a need to write down my discoveries in ink. Well, in an electronic string of zeroes and ones. While I realize that the subject of reed science cannot possibly entertain the readers of this webpage, what better opportunity to reacquaint myself with my deserted webpage, and accomplish the archiving of such important information, at once? Killing two birds with one stone. Something like practicing one passage that occurs in two spots in a piece of music.

I've discovered that the secret of understanding reeds is to understan that they vibrate. I've recognized the fact ever since the physics course in middle school, but the catch is this: adjustment of reeds, while affecting nothing more than the shape of the reed, is ultimately an attempt to modify its vibration. Thus, one's mental model of how to adjust the reed should be mapped to how it vibrates, and not how it's shaped. Modern reed do-alls (fancy machines similar to a key-copier), and many reed-adjustment philosophies of clarinetists revolve around the shape of the reed as opposed to its vibration. You could take the shape of a good reed, measure its thickness at various parts, and make another reed the exact same shape. The problem is that each reed, being organic plants, contain xylems and fibers that are unique, and while one shape may provide first-class resonance for one reed, it may simply destroy the balance of another.

But how can we know the vibrational patterns of a reed? The most obvious method would be to play it. Yet, the muscles in our oral cavity and the millions of fibers on a reed are so complicated that it's next to impossible to understand their connections. And that is the root of the problem for most clarinetists, and the origin of the incredibly true statement that experience is the only real teacher in reed-adjustment.

I propose, however, that you can simulate the vibration by bending the reed with your fingers. By no means do I expect anyone to move the reed up and down 440 times a second to produce a concert A, but you can feel the resistance of each fiber by bending the reed, and make adjustments based on their vibrational resistance instead of their shape or their "feel" upon playing.

The above paragraphs are the essence of the discovery I re-made today. There are several things that a reed ought to attain, and one must understand that adjustments should be made based on the vibrational resistance to achieve these balances. First, the reed must be balanced. I believe that the left side and the right side of the reed should have very similar resistances, so its vibration isn't a lob-sided struggle, but instead the left and right side work in each other's favor to enhance the resonance without the need of so much air flow to force them into vibration. Second, the very very tip of the reed affects a certain "smoothness" in the tone. Here, as most people do when discussing tone, I must depart from technical, concise terms and instead rely on a much more abstract vocabulary. The very tip, being the thinnest part of the reed, should be what vibrates the earliest, and a tip that's too thick will result in a delayed, clumsy tone while a tip that's too thin results in a sharp chirp before each sound that is equally irritating. Third, the entire tip of the reed works best for me, when it is longer than the cut that comes with Vandoren reeds. A theory in the works is this: If the lower portion of the tip (and by this tip, I mean the entire upper area of the reed that produces the majority of the sound in vibration) is allowed to vibrate more freely, then more harmonics can enter the sound and enrich it. Experience and a firm understanding of the sound that you wish to attain is crucial in discovering the best vibrational resistances suitable for you.

Extending upon this theory, a reed that's too thin vibrates much too freely. I'm inclined to believe that the thicker portion of the reed provides the lower harmonics, while the thinner portion of the reed provides the higher harmonics. So, if the main vibrational area of a reed is all extremely thin, then the overall tone will sound shrill. If the main vibrational area of the reed is all extremely thick, then the response will be slow, and the tone cannot be focused. The trick to master is giving the reed a pleasant blend, and a smooth curve from non-resistant to resistant in its body.

This will conclude the establishment of my theory for reeds today. It's time to go to bed. And my dear homepage, I am glad that I'm back. I suspect, however, that my visits here will be in larger installments further apart.

Evening of Dec. 4th, 2002 (Flock of Crows):

There are these crows perched outside, on some trees just opposite my apartment -- two hundred of them, at least. I've concluded that they sleep there at night during the winter. I never see them any other season. And though logic fails to understand why a flock of crows would migrate to somewhere cold, and move away when it's warm, that is their pattern, and I can understand that as I understand that I took a step with my right foot first this morning. An understanding based on repetition as opposed to comprehension. It's not inferior to comprehension, since the infrastructure of our minds are based on understanding by repetition, and comprehension can only emerge after enough fundamental pieces have been constructed and solidly supports more complex thoughts.

So there is a big flock of crows perched on some trees. It's tough to make out their silhouettes in the night sky, especially if I just stepped out of my brightly lit, computer-screen-glimmering room and into the silent, cold air. But their figures emerge in a few seconds, and the familiar trees with familiar branches are suddenly transformed into irregular landscapes of living, breathing, black birds with head drooped and wings closed, sharing the silence and coldness of the air that surrounds them. My stomach always jerks a little when I see the two hundred of them perched quietly. Whether it is because of superstitious concepts of crows bringing bad luck and death, or whether their lack of movement shrouds the flock in eerie mystery, I do not know. But my stomach always jerks a little. And I stare at them for a few seconds before turning away, and journeying to whatever destination I have, fighting the wind that's always capable of sneaking into my bones and chilling my heart. Sometimes, when I walk under them, I worry about bird droppings. However, since I've had not much trouble with unanticipated nocturnal excretion since the age of 3, I tend to believe that these black heralds have as much control over their own bodily functions.

The concept of a flock. . . it shouldn't be too foreign to us humans, us humans who requires each others' attention to thrive. Yet, when I see them traveling the sky, this concept, this flock, is so visible and graphic that it takes me several head-tilts to fully believe the intrinsic similarities of the two. The realm of the flock in the sky is clearly defined. Rarely, if ever, will a single individual escape from the path of the group. And even though no net pulls one crow to another, their instincts maintain the closeness between everyone. A cage of the heart? The word cage has such negative connotations, however. . . and the humanity's attraction to itself just is -- not a good thing nor a bad thing. . . merely a trait that the human race exhibits.

On a slight leap of topic. . . if nobody is there to hear it, will Beethoven's music not be great, nor groundbreaking, nor a pioneer of the art of sound as an exploration of the human soul, but just an arrangement of tones that have no consequence? The unique individuals, the creative thinkers, the outliers. . . they are only themselves relative to the group, the flock? And viewed upon i-n-d-i-v-d-u-a-l-l-y, do not affect. . . well, anything?

These questions I'm posing for myself are extremely unfair. Without the collection of minds, would anything be of any consequence? Arrogantly: Without us to see it, to hear it, to think about it, the universe exists without purpose, without consequence. Only consciousness, sentience, self-awareness, makes anything be of consequence. Thus, the more you recognize and understand not only your surroundings, but also yourself, the more you could feel engaged and participating in what a fuzzy awareness perceives as inconsequential.

The crows. I shall assume that they do not own webpages and philosophize (whatever that word means) over their own existence and their collective idiosynchrosies. The crows, then, only barely exist. The significant events of their lives are having found an extra-large piece of half-finished bagel, or found a mte for the season. . . And my looking at them, my thinking about them and writing about them on this webpage, stamp their existence into humanity's reality. Though it may not be fair to the crows, who by all possibility, could debate among themselves the flux of time and the reality of self every day, humanity's reality and my reality are marked with crows who flock together, perch on some trees, eat half-eaten bagels, and migrate to other places when it gets warm in Evanston. And the power of the mind is thus: the ability to shape reality and transform the world from what it is, to what it seems like.

Morning of Dec. 1st, 2002 (Conversations with the Moon):

I walked under the night sky, and looked up to the moon, a quiet, serene, gently smiling entity that looked down at me. Her cheeks pushed outward to form an expression of benevolence, as she looked down at me, following my steps with her gaze. I stared at her. . . it's impolite to stare, but I couldn't help it. And though the air is cold, and the ground is hard, I felt her warm, silver glow trickling from my eyes to my face to my neck to my chest to the tip of my fingers and the tip of my toes.

"You'll stay there forever, right? Watching me?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

I walked under the night sky, and looked up to the moon, a winking, smirking, almost giggling girl who hid half of her face behind a veil. Her long eyelashes fluttered as I squinted and attempt to make out the fine details of her cheeks, and a light blush floated onto her alabaster skin. My lips extended to a smirk as well, and I wrinkled my nose at her with a mischievous smile. And though one might expect immortality to dull the acute sensations and emotions, the moon giggled, a silver bell trail of notes falling through the dark air, and landing on my hair, my shoulders, my arms, my hands. No words were exchanged that night, only grins and satisfaction.

I walked under the night sky, and looked up to the moon, a slender, sensuous, seductively resting woman who lay herself down upon a silver hammock. I gasped, jaw dropped, surrendering to the beauty of the moon. She turned and looked down at me, crescent eyes half closed, full lips pouted, and she extended her pale, slender arm towards me, motioning me to join her in the comfort of the sky. I stopped mid-step, helplessly devouring her with my gaze. The edge of her lips rose slightly.

"I cannot come to you, even though my love for you is endless," I said morosely.

The moon did not reply. She blew me a kiss and continued tempting me with her eyes. My heart crumbled at the thought of our distance to each other, and though I have no tears, my throat itched and my nose tingled.

I walked under the night sky, and looked up. The moon was not in sight. I paused to survey her realm, then continued my journey.

"She will come to keep me company tomorrow," I smiled and told myself.

Before dinner on Nov. 30th, 2002 (Hunger, for lack of a better title):

So the rice is cooking, the chicken is marinating, and I'm starving. I'm not PARTICULARLY hungry today as opposed to other days right before dinner, but I thought it'd make an interesting introduction to today's muse. *Grin* What's annoying is that I often forget about cooking until I'm already starving, and then it makes the waiting process that much more unbearable. Not a big deal, really, since the meal then actually tastes fantastic every time. Perhaps famous restaurants only get good reviews because their customers wait for such a long time that, by the time food arrives on the table, its quality is of little importance. And I tend to believe that we have most vivid memories of recent events, so the painful wait is promptly replaced by the memory of supreme satisfaction. Mmm mm. . . . and the more I think about supreme satisfaction, the more my stomach gurgles uncontrollably.

I hope the past paragraph hasn't given away the fact that there really hasn't been anything too sophisticated on my mind lately. Just *ahem* procrastinating during this luxurious Thanksgiving weekend with games and anime and Clare. Doesn't mean that I can't plop down this muse where I may type a lot, but say relatively little. *Grin* See, this muse is just a sloppy attempt at driving away my homepage's loneliness. I wonder if my homepage should be male or female. . . Clare is obviously female. And in the spirit of intense personification, perhaps I ought to provide a sex for my homepage as well!

It's interesting that my homepage doesn't possess a physical body, but is actually just a string of zeroes and ones! In that respect, it's even less "real" than Clare, who definitely owns a sleek, seductive torso, is. Am I progressing into abstract personification? Perhaps in a few years, I'd begin to personify. . . erm. . . perhaps sheer concepts? Communism can be a chuckling old man, embracing his children. Capitalism would be a skinny European with a long, pointy moustache -- he has a habit of twirling his moustache whenever he's thinking about business strategies or counting his money. Freedom. . . . a winged angel, in the influence of Joan d'Arc. A magnificent being. . . with long flowing hair, a fierce gaze, and a sword upon her back. . . Why a sword? Perhaps because freedom is most recognize as we are struggling against, and breaking existing oppressions. Thus, ironically, freedom in my mind is closely associated with battles. Self-righteous wars? Ah, but which wars are not self-righteous?

Enough for today. I'm hungry.

Evening of Nov. 26th, 2002 (With Snow):

"Come play with us!" they screamed, giggling as each rammed into me in great mischief. And I could not help but chuckle in return.

"Now now, I have to get to class. Maybe later," I tried to hide that fact that I've fallen helpless for their innocent buoyancy, and attempted a straight-faced reply, all the while squinting as they bounced all over my face. For one of the few times in my life, I found glasses to be a welcome addition to the arsenal of sweaters and jackets to protect me from Evanston's winter.

But, of course, they didn't pay much attention to me. And how can I blame them? When your lifespan is but a few short seconds of freedom in the air, why would you be concerened with the thoughts of one as mortal as myself? So the faeries pounced me in the face, in the chest, in the arms and legs, and brought me to laugh loudly, drawing the suspicious attention of a few less cheerful pedestrians by my side.

Then I lifted my arm, and found a few stubborn ones to cling to my jacket with their little crystal arms, in such delicate hexagons that I had to bring each very close to my eyes to examine clearly. Each of them. . . different. Each a unique personality that parachutes from the sky, riding the wind, and screaming with ecstasy. Then they lie on the ground, panting after the excitement of a lifetime, and fall into a deep sleep, blanketing one another to form quiet landscapes that blur the sharp edges that is human creation.

If I would die, perhaps falling in the snow, bringing these faeries around me until cold is warm, and falling into a deep, quiet slumber as part of the landscape would feel comforting and fulfilling.

"Would you take me with you? If I asked?" I whispered to a flake on my glove. It didn't reply, already fast asleep. I smiled and left it with its friends. Then I walked towards class, no longer entertaining thoughts that would undoubtedly upset the less cheerful pedestrians by my side.

Near midnight on Nov. 22nd, 2002 (Professionalism):

Once again, it's been nearly an entire week before I decide to sit down and exercise those philosophical brain cells. Contrary to popular opinion, however, this overdue muse is delayed because of WORK instead of GAME. *Grin* I won't go into the details, but this past week has been some of the few times where Rabby stayed up all night to do work. Now that I look back upon the experience, it's not as much pain as you might imagine it to be. But sleep is always good. It's perhaps the most important aspect of a successful student career! See, if you don't sleep, then you can't pay attention in class. If you don't pay attention in class, then you won't understand everything. If you don't understand everything, then you have to either spend time to study and understand it by yourself or suffer a bad grade. If you spend that extra time to study, then it cuts in further on sleep time. So it's a vicious cycle, really, lack of sleep for a student. Don't do it!

As is custom to the introductory paragraph, it has little to do with the topic that I am preparing to muse about. And today, I won't even bother to attempt any segueway (and I probably spelled this word wrong) into the actual body of the muse. It is somewhat ironic that my muses are getting more and more structured. . . not only do they possess a title, but they even follow a vague form! Hmm. . . well, no matter. . . as long as the final product serves to organize my thoughts.

Playing in orchestra is a very unique experience. Much more differently than playing solos or playing computer games *wink*. For one very important thing, besides being responsible to the audience, an orchestral positions means you're also responsible for the 63 other people you're playing with! If you're not prepared, then everyone suffers with you. So excellent preparation is really a prerequisite for a successful and long-lived orchestral career. I feel that the orchestra playing I've had up until now are really rather misleading in this respect. I glance over the music rather quickly before the first rehearsal, and that first rehearsal if acknowledged as a "sightread" session for the entire orchestra. However, after I witnessed my colleague (Heh heh, makes me feel all grown-up and mature to say that word) talk about how ashamed he felt when he didn't prepare well for one of the rehersals, I feel my attitude requires an adjustment.

Yet, why is it that I have not been very professional up until now? There is no doubt in the satisfaction of perfect executions of technical passages, so what is this other mysterious force that steals the motivation to prepare? Laziness is part of it, of course. That intrinsic inertia suggesting someone to remain a lump on a chair rather than pursue an active lifestyle. But, there is more to it. The very nature of participating in a large ensemble also contributes to the lack of motivation. While it's true that one is responsible for 63 other people, it's the same responsibility spread over 63 times thinner than it would be in a solo work. So when I glance over the music and see some ridiculously fast, complicated passage that involves playing the clarinet while jumping on leg and juggling three porcupines, I say to myself, "Ah, they probably can't hear it anyways" and toss the music aside before going in to the first "sightreading" rehearsal.

And. . . . . . I believe that actually brings to muse to a close! There isn't much to debate over, really. . . the result of the muse should be a pursuit of professionalism, and we reached that conclusion quite quickly indeed. I resolve to be more responsible in preparing for large ensemble repertoire! Done. Lets call it a day.

Near midnight on Nov. 17th, 2002 (Encounter with the doorknob):

I reached for the doorknob, without much thought other than to operate it at its only function -- to open the door. Surprised, I was, when it greeted me with an electric shock that pierced my skin, scurried up the fingertip's nerve ending, through the arm, into the lungs, until my heart skipped a beat and I stood frozen with surprise.

I glared at the doorknob, somewhat angry. It did hurt a bit, after all.

"Tee hee. . . it was my bursting with love for you! A thread of electricity that connects your heart to mine!" the doorknob snickered cutely and unapologetically. "I missed you! Where were you all day? Don't you feel guilty for leaving me all alone in the apartment like this?"

". . . excuse me?" I blinked a few times, not quite accustumed to talking doorknobs. Much less a giggling one.

"I said. . . don't you feel guilty for leaving me all alone like this?" the doorknob pouted. Now, you might argue that an inaminate object without lips most likely cannot pout. But the keyhole bended convincingly to form a pout.

"Well. . . um. . . " I stuttered a little, then quickly regained my composure. "I'm terribly sorry if you felt lonely. It just never occurred to me that a doorknob would have such rich emotions. Hahaha." A forced laughter. If I had to talk to a doorknob, I'd much rather talk to a happy one. Yet the unusual situation sucked all the comfort right out of that laugh. I looked left and right, not sure if I hope my roommate saw me talking to a doorknob. The doorknob was too sensitive not to notice my awkward discomfort though, and obviously was offended by it.

"Pay attention when you're talking to me!! And how dare you accuse me of having no emotions? Did you not witness the extent of my love for you? I've wished and hoped for months upon months before I could conjure such a powerful jolt that could remotely represent my intense feelings for you. I stare at you when you sleep, watch you play computer games, listen to your dialogues with Clare. Not a single moment has passed since you first lived here that I don't think about you. And now you say I don't have emotions?" a drop of tear unmistakably fell from the doorknob to the carpet underneath. I followed its path nervously, hoping that it doesn't wake up the carpet too. Fortunately, the carpet appears to be much less sensitive an individual.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't. . . "

"You didn't what? Think that I'm alive?? And yet you pay so much attention to that piece of wood you name Clare? How come you never doubted HER sentience, hm? How come you were willing to invest so much in her, when she has never spoken to you the way I do?" Her initial cuteness all but disappeared, the doorknob asked five questions in a row, each sharply insinuating how insensitive and unforgivable I am. And what could I do except repeat some futile apologies that merely fuels her anger further?

"I don't mean to sound blunt, Ms. . . erm. . . Doorknob. . . But we can't possibly share a future together. After all, I'm human and you're a doorknob," after what must be 15 minutes of the doorknob's infuriated outbursts, I decided I must end this relationship once and for all.

The doorknob suddenly fell silent. Her lack of words now more piercing than the previous barrage of incessant questions and demands. I wasn't sure what I should do. It seemed rude to simply turn her as one would operate a non-sentient doorknob, yet there was no other way for me to enter my room except by such a cruel, cold manipulation. At last, she spoke again, her voice now but a frustrated, hopeless, whisper.

"Yes, you're right. . . you're human, and I'm but a doorknob. I have no talents like Clare that could keep you close to me. I'm sorry for what I said. Come inside. . . come inside. . . "

And so I reluctantly put my hands on her. As I was about to turn, she spoke again, this time with more urgency.

"But. . . please don't forget me. Don't forget that jolt, the thread of electricity that connects your heart to mine, even if it lasts but an instant. Please. . . think about me occasionally. . . and I will be satisfied. . . " More tears poured from her keyhole, and felt a sour tingle in my throat. A tingle of sympathy and guilt. I caressed the doorknob and promised her that I will keep that jolt of static electricity in my memory always. Then I opened the door and entered my room.

Afternoon on Nov. 16th, 2002 (A good performance part 2):

So I've been extremely lazy in regards to putting words down on this webpage. Hey, it gets kind of busy saving the world from approaching meteors and invading aliens every day as my true identity -- a superhero with supernatural powers who battle supervillains in superdimensions. Bwahahahahaha!!! And, to keep the world from panicking, I must hide my identity and use the college student guise as a cover to remain in touch with human society while still conveniently performing super missions involving helping old ladies crossing dangerous streets and such. ;)

Now, before your eyebrows raise higher than your forehead and you hurt yourself from extreme disapproval of such obviously untrue claims that, while remotely entertaining, suggests a mental state less than stable, understand that imagination is humanity's greatest tool. And it alone, makes the Harry Potter book more enjoyable than the movie, and puts food on composers' plates all over the world. I was merely indulging myself in this superb entertainment to provide a relatively exciting introduction to a muse that is intended to be more focused, and serves as an actual sequel to the one on November 11th. What about the title of the page that says RANDOM musings, hm, you ask? Well, I've decided that I've put too much efforts into the contemplation of the validity of religion, and the concept of fate. I should squeeze some thoughts mildly more productive through these fingertips and onto the white background that is my homepage. As a musician, what more appropriate topic can there be besides, well, music? *Grin*

See, last time I was musing, in a vague attempt at poeticism (if that's even a word), from the perspective of a performer. Yet, it is merely one side of the story. Though with such mysterious, arrogant figures such as Beethoven and Paganini in our music history books who suggest a certain haughtiness and self-seclusion in every artist, I believe that ultimately, the goal of music is to connect with people. (Well, that's the first step at least. The next is to make the world a better place, thus fulfilling my role as a part-time superhero) And if performers cannot understand the mindsets of listeners, how can they hope to achieve this result except by a sort of hit-or-miss attitude? Fortunately, the roles of performers and listeners are not mutually exclusive in the least. And the one crucial step before engaging such analysis would be to ensure an appropriate mindset. Ah, Rabs, you're spewing forth more vague and undefined words at me again, you say. Perhaps, perhaps. But I'll explain it further. Too often, performers, with such intense music theory training, aural experience, and sheer amount of exposure to attempts at crafting sound into art, the intuitions become blocked by intellect and knowledge. What I say now is definitely my personal opinions only: Music should appeal to the masses. Hold your influx of questions please! See, I believe that a classical musician's role as a performer is to translate the cryptic compositional techniques to accessible languages that everyone can understand. Many composers are at fault for squeezing their entire horizon into a pin that is the eliticism of sound art. And the music, or in a more general sense, art, that is produced, results in utterly inaccessible jargon that only the most scholarly individuals can understand. And even then, it is my hypothesis that the understanding is at an intellectual, and not an emotional level. Performers do their best (or should do their best) to provide an enjoyable, or at least meaningful, experience for the audience. Thus, performers bridge the gap between sophisticated "sound art" and accessible "music." Don't mean to brag, but we really do play an important role! *Heh. Heh. Heh.*

Now, when the concert begins, people start filing into the concert hall and take their seats. What each of them expect from the performance is entirely different! As a student in a music school, I encounter a vast amount of elite scholars who approach these performances with the most rigorous, intellectual attitudes. They expect performances that are appropriate for the composition's specific genre, produces logical phrasing, and effectively interprets the compositional techniques. And, when a performance is over, comments such as "That lenlore(sp?) sounded too much like a waltz. The strong beats were entirely placed incorrectly, and Brahms must have intended something different" flow through the concert all. Now, I must make myself clear here. . . it's not a bad thing!! I thoroughly enjoy (though am lazy about) tracing the historical "appropriateness" of classical compositions, and enforcing those aspects of historical robustness. I frown, however, when these comments come from sheer intellect and knowledge, and not from an attempt to suggest a performance that is more engaging or more enjoyable. I am theorizing on this page, and I am able to clump listeners into either the cold, cruel, stern-lipped intellects or the hearty, passionate commoners. In an actual concert hall, such separation does not exist. Yet, I must build my theory upon simpler components of reality in order to progress and attempt to build a model that can reflect reality.

Anyway, I believe that art, by its very nature, should engage the emotions. The majority of the audience is not familiar with John Cage's inflections of Zen or the tone row used in Webern's miniatures. That voids the intention of these compositions, don't you see? Unless the concept behind it is delivered into the listener! A small crowd of elitists will find such pieces intellectually or philosophically stimulating, but what of the vast majority of the listeners?

Now, I am meandering down a dangerous path. A path that seems to suggest popularity ascertains the quality of the music, be it performance or composition. That, I do not believe. While I believe in people's intrinsic understanding and intuition, I also believe in how easily distracted the mind is. That the packaging of a performance into the name of the celebrity can stimulate maximum popularity with minimum depth in the music itself. That is my stereotypical opinion on the pop culture. While I understand that it's not true all the time, I'm fairly convinced that the majority of the MTV videos package more than perform.

So, what am I saying? I don't know! *Grin* I've put down trails of thoughts. I don't think there's enough here to consolidate into one robust piece of belief, but it's a start. Perhaps I shall write more on this topic in the near future.

Night of Nov. 11th, 2002 (A good performance):

So what makes a performance good? From a performer's viewpoint. . . perhaps a good performance is one where you execute all the technical aspects perfectly. You can feel each fiber of muscle in your fingers, your lips, and your diaphragm obeying even the tiniest beckoning of your mind, and that mind possess a crystal image of what the hours and hours of practice have hammered out. And from the ground of perfection in technique, the heart, the consciousness, can start to make demands. A clean, organized hierarchy. Yet, actual performances are not like that. . . or perhaps I should say, life is not like that despite the appealing theory. Even in the heat of beautiful phrases, the consciousness still must cater to each muscle fiber in the diaphragm, the lips, and the fingers. And instead of the linear, focused, pure consciousness that we tend to associate with the peformer amid a fantastic performance, it is actually keeping track of 10 million things at the same time. A fragile net that holds together the music.

Yet it is still enjoyable. The fingertips still tingle after a performance where the net borders on being torn apart by endless housekeeping and at the same time the incredible mass of associating emotions to each individual note. During the performance. . . on top of that consciousness, the stream of thoughts behave strangely. In highschool, I frequently had a very distinct stream of thoughts occurring on top of everything -- a objective observation to my actions, to do audience's reaction, and sometimes a trigger for emotional states. Distinct words could flow through my head. Perhaps something like "Hmm. . . I'm standing on the stage right now." or "Hey, that guy in the third row is wearing a funny hat". But sometimes, there are performances where this top layer does not exist, and I devote 100% of my mind to the successful execution, and emotional incorporation, of the music. Perhaps in the former case, it's really a loss of concentration.

What am I trying to get at? I don't know, really. . . I'm trying to summon up some exact thoughts and sensations during the performance. Are there moments of relief, anxiety, nervousness that spur up spontaneous? Of course. . . but there never is enough time to tend to these moments during the performance. Paying attention to these moments could often bring the concentration out of focus, which is disastrous in most cases. So these moments accumulate and build up, note by note, measure by measure. . . until at the end of the piece, it collapses on top of you all at once. The image in my mind right now is that of a bucket of water floating on top of somebody's head, then suddenly tilting over and drenching the individual. These moments can be intensified by the specific musical passage in the context of the piece, and in the context of the concert -- perhaps even in the context of the weeks and months of preparation leading up to the performance.

So the bucket of moments tilts and drenches you in the sweet, bitter, sour, spicy tastes that has built up for the entire piece. I think. . . in the viewpoint of the performer, that bucket determines how good a performance is. A bucket of sweet, not sticky, a little bit sour, with a spicy and bitter aftertaste that tickles the roof of your mouth. Ah, that is a performance. . . And we walk home drenched in the performance afterwards, sniffing our clothes, smacking our jaws, seeking a reminder of existence. A reminder that your existence impacted and improved the lives of everyone who was there.

Then you're home. . . you wrench off your clothes, hang them up in the closet, ready to pull out at the next performance, to be drenched all over again.

Night of Nov. 8th, 2002 (No topic):

The title of this muse is, of course, a lie. Even the most discoherent assembly of words can be titled something like rhapsodic thoughts. However, I think it serves a point that now I am sitting here with my keyboard more because I think I should write something than because I have something I want to write about. Now that we have the tongue-twister out of the way. . . *Grin*

Usually, I see something as I'm walking to and from the various buildings that is this campus, and I feel that I could write about it here. And I do, usually. Either about the corpse of a bird or about the beautiful leaves on th autumn trees. But recently, I don't feel such urge. One possible explanation for this lack of near-involuntary flux of words is perhaps, that it's much colder now. And usually when I walk, I concentrate more on making sure my scarf is covering my neck as much as it can than on the squirrels that cutely dig up acorns. Speaking of squirrels. . . I really don't quite understand their living patterns. . . so they store acorns for the winter? What about hibernation? Or is hibernation merely when they sleep more than usual, and not like bears that sleep for months on end? I suppose I could search on Google for some information about squirrels, but I probably won't. It's one thing to sit as a lethargic lump spewing forth effortless thoughts onto a webpage that has no responsibility to make much sense, and it's another to actually engage those brain cells and learn something. *Heh heh*

Much is the same for my arrogance towards religion as a whole. I actually ran across some books discussing free will on an Atheist's website! (Now now, before you go ahead and decide that Rabby has chosen the path of a heretic, understand that I also wonder around on some pro-Christian concept websites just to see what they say) Apparently, there are many people out there who share similar sentiments as I do towards this concept of fate and free will. The titles I ran across are all optimistic -- positively stating and reinforcing how human beings must have free will. I was tempted to buy one such book and have a read. . . but did I? Nope!

Why not? I'm asking myself now. . . I could, of course, attribute much of that to sheer laziness and stinginess. To spend some 12 dollars on a book that I have no clue on the quality of the content is rather risky business. Twelve whole dollars. . . that could probably net me 6 or 7 bags or doritos. And also the static inertia of finger, that just cannot muster up enough muscle despite daily keyboard and clarinet training, to press the button on the mouse. I could attribute this to laziness and stinginess. But. . . I think it's more than that.

It's a fear of breaking a pattern. That sounds rather negative. . . I could of course word it differently: It's an embracing of the present. Despite biased wording, however, it boils down to the same content. Namely, I was unwilling to risk my present mindset. One example would be that. . . I'm currently attempting to decide whether or not religion aids the development of mankind. Whether it ultimately encourages more harm or help. Viewing some of these websites written by somewhat sarcastic individuals (No offense to them. Expertly written content backed up with solid evidence) I was almost convinced that religions induces nothing more than hatred and segregation, in self-righteous crusades that is merely homicide in disguise, in reducing the tolerance of human beings toward one another. I frowned a little when the US president stated that we ought to "pray" for the victims of 9-11. Such an open statement backing Christianity. . . what do the Muslims and Buddhists in the US think? More importantly, will this lead to the United States growing to become a religion-state? Where schools force-feed the concepts of Christianity to youngsters, much like I believe they do in the Middle East to foster deep-rooted faith that could compel an individual to ram an airplane against a building? And if all nations were to become such religion-states, where would I go?

These are valid fears that I have. However. . . when I see faith act in a positive way, when my friends grow confident and secure because they believe, when they possess new, powerful passion for themselves, I cannot help but smile and believe that ultimately, this entity known as religion aids humanity in a way no scientific discovery can come close to comparing. Action of the few fanatics are something we must cope with, much as how difficult it would be to establish morality in an alternate universe without religion and faith. And I will not protest against those who choose security over facts. I will merely smile and nod as they find strength in themselves.

Of course, this trail of seemingly fantastically glimmering thoughts can very well be my unwillingness to risk my current mindset that is stable and content. I could very well be deliberately ignoring cold facts that suggest me to advocate Atheism for the good of humanity. Arrogant thoughts, you say? I am an arrogant individual. *Grin* I alone cannot change humanity. . . but I can affect those around me and introduce concepts otherwise foreign in a land ruled by "God." And I may very well be choosing to see the bright aspect of blind faith so I would not risk my current environment. Perhaps that's true, perhaps that's true. . . I do not know what the future may hold for me. (It means differently when I say that now. . . it's more literal, if I come to agree that fate is linear, and sarcastic if I deny) But for now, I shall declare neutrality in my actions even if my mind believes in one side more than the other.

Evening of Oct. 31st, 2002 (died again):

Every time I see a bird dead by the street now, my heart jerks a little. Well, to be honest, it has always jerked when I've seen any dead thing lying by the street. . . but I can't help remembering that one particular little bird who shared a few moments with me and died on my desk. Well, I saw another bird dead on the street today. It seems to be the same species of bird that I attempted my feeble rescue on. The most prominent feature probably were the stiff legs -- how they protrude from the otherwise feathery, soft torso rather offensively. The talons curled slightly, in an awkward compromise between grasping on and letting go. The next most prominent feature were the eyes. It's not common, I realized, to see birds' eyelids. There's no feather on the eyelids. . . and on this species of bird, the eyelids seem somewhat rough and dry, almost like alligator skin.

Someone was smoking behind a glass window that the bird died beside. He seemed to be staring at the bird too. . . in fact, I think I followed his gaze to find the dead bird on the street. I stared at the dead bird intently, even making a detour from my path to verify if there's a streak of yellow across its head. The smoking man looked up at me, and we exchanged a glance. It was almost a moment of bonding. . . except I couldn't really tell what he was thinking. He probably couldn't tell my thoughts, for that matter. Yet. . . I'd like to think that we were two strangers who crossed path to mourn the death of yet another stranger. I sighed briefly, then walked on. . . there was nothing more I could do.

Perhaps we are most susceptible to the security offered by religion when we feel weak and helpless. Death is something we feel weak and helpless about. I chewed over the Christian concept of resurrection again these past few days. I also chewed over the Buddhist concept of reincarnation. It would be assuring and calming to embrace one of these beliefs, would it not? If I wasn't so obstinately annoyed by the mere concept of superior beings -- gods -- I just might decide to wonder into church some Sunday. Reincarnation. . . also a fascinating idea. I suppose watching that episode of X-Files where Mulder was hypnotized and talked about all of his past lives reinforces the mysticism and believability of such a concept. And you laugh. Reinforces believability because you watched a show on TV about it? A sci-fi show at that! Well. . . I can only shrug and smile quietly. We'd be surprised how much of our rockhard morals and beliefs are based on fiction. Have I become a class of human beings raised on over-romantic ideas? A fantasy-person, if you will.

Christianity. . . every time I take a serious look at it, every time I turn away with a slight sneer. Perhaps I am the reincarnation of Lucifer. *Grin* One too proud to obey this God. Lake of fire? So be it. Perhaps I will find the little bird there too with me. In the jingling music box that is its coffin. . .

I think this might be enough moribidity for a while. *Grin* Hopefully, next time I could write something lighter and more cheerful.

Night of Oct 29th, 2002 (died):

It died. I suppose death is instantaneous. . . one week, it's sleeping cozily under the roof of the building, the next it's lying on my desk motionless. One day, it's nodding off on the tiled sidewalk, the next it's collapsed in the same spot. One minute, it's still trembling, struggling, seeking its next breath, the next. . . it died. I understand that life is fragile. I can speak those words, and imagine that I knew what it meant, but I think yesterday was the first time death brushed by my shoulders.

My thoughts really are not fair. Not fair at all. There have been deaths in my family, in living people who I've held hands with when I was a toddler. Yet. . . all of their deaths have been translucent -- insignificant? I suppose, that when their faces were in the gray background of my life, its absence would not upset the collage much. So the scale tips in favor for the little bird who I have only met twice.

Am I. . . mad? Perhaps, just a little bit, at myself. It had a chance. I could have given it another chance to live. Perhaps, to spend the winter in my apartment, and be free to fly again come next spring. Perhaps, eat the bread crumbs leftover from my breakfast, and be content sleeping by my keyboard. Maybe an occasional mischief, dropping puddles of excrement in my bed? Then I'd say, "Oh man. . . " and clean it up. Not even that. . . not even that. If it desired to give the freezing Evanston sky another shot, I'd let it go. All life deserves a chance to live.

But. . . a little slow. . . a little insensitive. . . perhaps a few seconds of indecision, and it lay on my desk, eyes closed, limp, quiet, cold. When a few moments ago, I could see its tail flicker. . . the last signs of life, the last signs of it breathing. And it only took a few seconds of indecision. I didn't know how to save it. And compassion alone accomplishes nothing. Nothing.

I buried it in a music box. I thought it's somewhat romantic. . . if the littie bird couldn't sing, its coffin could. Not the most eco-friendly solution, but that was not in my mind at the time. How do I feel? Then? Now? I don't know. . . Sad, I was when I saw it struggling on the sidewalk. When I walked there an hour ago, it sat quietly. I thought it was sleeping. I said hello. Then I went to practice. When I came back, it was off balance. . . struggling a little. . . and when the wind, the harsh cold cruel Chicago wind blue, it slid across the sidewalk. Helpless. It didn't even struggle when I picked it up. I was sad. . . . . . I thought it was a good shape when I saw it sleep under the roof of the building, with its friends. Yet now it's alone. Struggling.

Struggling for life, I'd imagine. All life deserves a chance to live. I attempted to bestow another chance to it. . . but failed, I suppose. Should I have. . . given it some water? I don't know. . . I remember its tiny, tiny little feathered body resting in the cup of my hand. So small and fragile. . . It sat quietly. Was it waiting for death?

It's ironic now that I look at the picture on the white background that is my website. It seemed happy then. A blatant, ignorant personification of my mind that has read too many stories and dreamed too many fantasies. Has it been hungry since then? I don't know. *Sigh*

My cousin asked me. She asked, "Don't you wish sometimes things could come back to life, or you could go back and fix your mistakes?" I thought for a while. And said no. Because our memories, our actions, be it success or failure, happy or sad, contributes to our being. Our character. To attempt to return in time and correct our mistakes would be to void a part of ourselves. A segment of our thoughts, a piece of our memory. . . Given the choice, I would like to keep the part of myself that made me who I am now. . . even if it's a part of me that had to watch helplessly as a little bird died on my desk.

Afternoon of Oct. 27th, 2002 (persocon):

So I just finished this anime. . . got some typical stuff in it related to adolescent male's sexual desires and fantasies that I guess, is somewhat unavoidable if one wishes to survive in a competition of popularity in the anime market. . . and there was stuff that didn't make any sense, like why a society capable of constructing complicated human-like robots that is capable of rich facial expressions and agility still going around in vehicles as primitive as automobiles. Yet, those things aside, it was very enjoyable. Well. . . the part related to adolescent male's sexual desires and fantasies were *ahem* enjoyable as well, but that is a muse for another time. (Or never! This is, after all, a public website, and who knows when a presidentially important figure might waltz in and decide to have me arrested) Anyway, those things aside, there was one part of the anime that touched me. . . made my mind jerk a little.

As I've mentioned before, it was a society capable of manufacturing extremely life-like robots that possess powerful CPUs -- all at an affordable price so that almost everyone on the street owns one of these "computers." An interesting scenario, isn't it? Anyway, these computers, being made by human beings, are in the shape of beautiful human beings. Which makes perfect sense of course. Given a choice, most would prefer a robot that is pleasing to the eye.

Well, it turns out that more and more people fall in love with these robots -- these fantastic maids and butlers, who are not only good looking, but also capable of infinite patience, obedience, etc. And it caused interaction between human beings to decrease, because after spending time with wonderful beings such as these computers, people probably find having to live with non-100% obedient individuals to be somewhat frustrating. There was a woman whose husband fell in love with a computer, and eventually forgot about her. Ther was man who loved his computer so much he decided to marry her -- only later to be in despair when her harddisk malfunctioned and their memory together was lost. . .

I wonder. The story of the man who loved his computer was touching to me. . . I guess it's good execution on the animators and script writers' parts. But I wonder. . . is it okay to do something like this? The love and passion themselves are, without doubt to me, good and pure. (Heh, there I go again. Good and pure. . . maybe I should've just said that it appealed to me, and not spew forth such obscenely vague and ambiguous terminology) But it definitely is a scary thought. . . if the human race fell in love with some of its own creation. . . to prefer a pre-programmed response rather than. . . . than what? How can I claim that human beings are not pre-programmed reactions?

So I come back to fate again. Man. . . it sure's annoying to have every trail of thought end up at the same place. Well, what frustrates me the most is perhaps that logic leads me to believe in fate, and believe that there is no free will. And my intuition definitely hates it. Ah, a primal battle between the two. If I watch enough anime, maybe I'll have another me crawl out of my head and exist on his own! *Heh heh*

Near midnight of Oct. 23rd, 2002 (Solo vs. Soli):

I enjoy playing solos more than I do as one less-significant individual in an orchestra. There's a certain sense of control, of accomplishment, of responsibility, that is intrinsic when the stage is yours. For some reason, I feel that I played more solos in high school. . . though I realize that it's not the case. Maybe the stage just feels different. This year, I will have a solo recital. The stage will be Clare's. And my fingertips tickle at such a thought -- possessing a space for an hour and a half. . .

What is it about playing solos that enchants me so? Like I've said before, it's a responsibility and an accomplishment. You take credit for all of your beautiful phrases and at the same time, all of your mistakes. And, ultimately, it's an assertion of individuality, is it not? A proclamation of existence and self-worth. Of course, I feel a little icky thinking that I'm going all this way just to announce to the world that I exist and that I am worth something. However, it is an intrinsic desire of ours. . . Individuality. . . individuality. . . individuality. . . individuality. . . we need to be ourselves, and not walk in the shadows of others. Maybe I should rephrase that? There is no way for anyone to exist beyond the shadows of others. Perhaps. . . individuality is less an assertion of uniqueness, but an assertion of self-confidence. I enjoy my own company. I like myself when I'm on the stage, when Clare enchants her audience, when I am with Clare. . . and it's just the two of us. There's the accompanist. In the case of pieces like the Brahms sonata, where the piano is every bit as important as the clarinet, it would seem a selfish statement of little musicianship -- just the two of us. But. . . there can be intimacy between two people, and no intimacy between three people. Boldly spoken. Intimacy cannot exist between a group of individuals, not the intimacy I'm talking about. The intimacy I'm talking about is when you hold Clare, and you cannot tell if she is pulsating in your hands, or if you are pulsating in hers. And the entire world stares intently at each step, each gesture, and smile. . . and it's an opportunity to define yourself minute by minute, second by second. Clare deserves nothing less.

There is the beating heart, the sweating palm, the dancing butterflies that infest the stomach, of course of course of course. There's always that. But if you listen closely enough, and keep your mind quiet enough, you can hear Clare speak to you, respond to your gentle words. She promises. . . she promises happiness. And if the trust is great enough, if the self-confident, self-worth, self-proclamation is loud enough, the promise delivers. And for an hour and a half, I can hold raw happiness, pulsating in my hands.

It's different in chamber music. It's not WORSE. . . you can't compare these things. In chamber music, the responsibility is shared. The stage is not yours, but rather your ensemble's. Clare doesn't pulsate in your hands alone. . . she does so in response to the other players, the other instruments. Jealousy? That's too strong a word. . . to me, it's a little. . . just a bit. . . just a tiny little bit. . . not "me" enough. It's satisfying, oh yes, very much so indeedly, when music is perfectly executed, when flashes of perfect bonding occurs between you and the flautist, or the french horn player. . . and even if the flash is millisecond-short, it's worth the pain of trudging through the rain to rehearsals and putting up with organizing everone's schedules. But. . . it's different. . . just a tiny little bit. . . not "me" enough.

There is an orchestra. On a much grander scale than chamber music, of course. Like a big pot. . . everyone puts some of themselves inside, and observe what delicacy can emerge, coagulate as a result. Today we rehearsed Brahm's 3rd Symphony. And being in the orchestra was nothing less than amazing. . . to hear the sounds around you, to feel the pulses in the syncopation, to stretch out your hands and touch the raw concentration in the air, the air that is shared by some 60 individuals. A magical moment. . . when the conductor, with that flimsy little stick of his, can bring together some 60 individual hearts and spin them all around himself. . . There is satisfaction. And pride. "See this coagulation? See how beautiful it is? See how rich and dense and overpowering it is? It has a part of me inside." It has no "me." Nope, not at all. In the orchestra, I am but a tiny cog that operates for the whole, and Clare but a wrench in my hand to finely tune and work the great machine that is Brahms 3rd. . .

I enjoy playing solos. More than I do, as one less-significant individual in an orchestra. Control, accomplishment, responsibility. . . intrinsic when the stage is yours. Stage will be Clare's. Fingertips. Tickle ------ possessing a space for an hour and a half. . .

Evening of Oct. 19th, 2002 (Rasterize and interpolate):

Ugh.

Such amazing capacity of expression such a single syllable can express, eh? *Grin* A terse self-proclamation: I exist, I did too much comp sci homework, and even as I stare at the white background of this homepage, I can only think about how each pixel is rasterized and interpolated upon the interface window. It's not an unproductive day, at the very least. I was able to get some red triangles to appear on the screen. A small step for me, a big step in my ego for computer graphics. Of course, no amount of satisfaction can prepare me for texture mapping. I'm sure it's not a hard concept to understand. . . but when your brain is battered, held together only by thin strands of life-supporting functions such as breathing, such complicated appreciation of self is but a luxury to possess.

Appreciation of self. . . got some poetic tingle to it, eh? Now if only those cars outside my window would stop honking. Trust me, my fellow impatient drivers, there is more to life than just getting to places. There is, of course, the all-mighty algorithm that should be able to place texels in their corresponding places along the edge of the triangle that is my polygon. Each in their self-motivated, for-the-good-of-the-whole places. Little mindless nano-drones that hum away, containing but a few different states of red, green, blue. . .

Pixels and pixies. . . they're kind of similar words, eh? And I must sound like I've been sniffing paint off of my peeling walls. Lack of cohesion, we attribute that, often, to those whose minds are less than fully functional. Yet who are we to judge? Pixels and pixies, texels and texies. Now see, texies is a considerably less meaningful word. Probably because it doesn't exist. Pixies have an implication of merriment, mischief, and glowing enthusiasm to it. Very much unlike their counterparts on my screen here, huddled rectangular , each in their corresponding places. . .

Of course, our instinct after reading a passage like that is to admire the pixies, and sneer at the pixels. Who wouldn't want to prance about carefree? Besides, wings and the ability to glow are definitely appealing bonuses to being non-existence fairytale creatures that are pixies. But ultimately, we are pixels. . . only collectively can we come to any meaning at all. Of course, this is a horrible analogy, since I highly doubt one pixel on my screen can actually appreciate the other.

"Yo, buddy. . . you're supposed to be blue, not green," pixel A nudges pixel B. "Right right. . . I was confused by that nasty algorithm our owner is trying to implement."

Bad analogy or no, this is probably a senseless muse. Of course, I've always attempted to give logic's less-appreciated counter --. . . . . . we don't even have a word for it. . . -- lack of logic, the same merit as its over-rated sibling. Yet, it's hard to back it up, y'know, with something concrete, since the very act of attempting to argue for lack of logic requires the use of logic already! I suppose. . . they could be pixels and pixies by all in their own. Logic is the obedient pixel. I turn this one on, this one on, that one off, this one on, and suddenly a pixie comes to life, a lack of logic that disregards the tiny bulbs that brought it to being, and prace about merrily in front of my eyes.

Ugh. I could sniff some paint.

I wonder how it actually feels! In many computer games, they substitute the effect by altering the coloring of the background. I suspect a poor interpretation of the real effects of being "stoned." Then again, the very idea of inhaling little pixels of color is not so appealing right now. It's not like I don't have enough already. . .

Now, maybe if I rasterize the paint. . . like when I pasterize the milk. Heh heh heh. . . I'm silly. And I think after introducing this page of nonsense to the digital world, I could merrily get back to eating dinner and ultimately finishing this somewhat irritating assignment.

Afternoon of Oct. 18th, 2002 (The Jet Plane and the Cloud):

A jet plane streaked across the sky. He has spent his entire life traveling from place to place, sometimes carrying passengers, sometimes for the sake of his own amusement. He has seen the sunset atop Tibetan plateaus, and skimmed the water of the Dead Sea. One might say that the jet plane's life is spectacular, full of unpredictable events that are beautiful and awe-inspiring. His life also benefitted the lives of others, as he served those he carried, providing both convenience and entertainment.

One day, however, the jet plane was depressed as he flew across the atlantic ocean. He knew that eventually his steel torso and aluminum wings will decay, until the proud jet plane that he is will no longer be. Even his mind, which was thinking those thoughts at the very moment, shall cease to exist. "Then what is the point?" He asked himself softly, and wept a few iron tears that fell to the great expanse of water below. "What would it matter if I had existed at all?"

In front of him, he saw a puff of white cloud, drifting with ease through the same pale blue sky. The cloud looked relaxed and carefree, and though it knew not its destination, not a trace of anxiety could be found on its smiling white cheeks. The jet plane roared his engines loudly, and bawled at the cloud. "How can you be so happy? Do you not realize that it does not matter if we had existed at all?"

The cloud was shocked for a moment -- usually jet planes whiz on by, and ignore their innocuous presence. A same serene smile spread on its lips of water vapor before long however, and it extended a finger behind the jet plane. Puzzled, the jet plane turned around, and was surprised to find that in his journey, he left behind a trail of whiteness that now extends far into the horizon.

"Your existence is not meaningless, my friend," the cloud spoke softly. "Though your being may perish, your path shall remain in the sky and affect the world. So there is no need to cry. It does matter that you have existed." And the jet plane was comforted, and wept tears of consolation instead of remorse, and continued his journey in the world.

Evening of Oct. 16th, 2002 (Little Birds):

When I was going to practice yesterday morning, I saw a little bird sitting on the street. A most odd little bird. . . it simply sat there, and showed no fear as I approached. It's covered in fine hair, like a chick, so I had to guess that it's a fledgling. Yet, it was all alone. . . I looked up -- no bird nests visible, not even a tree nearby, but rather silent concrete buildings that stared down at me with stoic eyebrows. And I looked down again at the little bird. It seemed to be calmly surveying its surroundings. It didn't even attempt to flee, as most birds would do, as I walked closer and closer, so I can only guess that it is wounded in some way. And birds' intrinsic lack of facial muscles might provide an illusion of calm and serenity whenever they're not flapping their wings in panic.

There's a certain naive charm in youth that is universal to all animals, it seems. In either the softness, suppleness characteristic of mammals, or the fine hair that baby birds have. And we are drawn to these children, to these un-aged, un-tainted versions of ourselves -- versions of the piece of our heart that beats true despite that black, rotten swamp we are in. If babies are not cute, would parents simply throw them away? Like. . . the Hunchback of Notre Dame? Of course, using a fictitious character as an example doesn't offer much validity to the argument. *Grin* What can I hope to accomplish by deducing the actions of adult human beings, if babies are not cute? I could come to the conclusion that, the babies would then be thrown away and detested, and human life would end. Not very happy. Or I could come to the conclusion that maternal instincts are present even without external "help" like the cuteness of babies. Not very informative. So even if I do come to a conclusion along that thought, it really doesn't do much. Does ANYTHING do much? ANY conclusions I draw in my head, ultimately, are in my head, and don't do much. Perhaps, to go along with the famous quote of "I think, therefore I am," the only reason for my thinking is to validate my existence. I digress. . . this random musing started to be about birds.

So I wasn't sure what to do. My instinct told me it was hurt, it was hungry, it was cold. And I wanted to pick it up and bring it home with me, to warmth and comfort. Folklores of farmers rescuing foxes and cranes, and the animals later returning to the farmer with pots of gold or as beautiful fairies flowed through my mind in abundance. This little bird transforming into a beautiful woman was of particular appeal. *Grin* But in the end, I didn't. I simply walked away. Why? I don't know. . . what could it hurt to bring a bird in my home? Was it the fear that the bird, though small, wounded, and helpless, probably knows much more than I, a college student, and am doing what's best for itself anyway? Was it the fear for such a responsibility, taking care of another living being? Or is it because it's simply "not done"? That I have conformed to the patterns of my daily life, and that breaking such a pattern meant risking a part of myself for nothing but a dying bird? The last question challenges my sense of morals directly, and I will leave it at that. I do know that I left the bird and went to practice. When I was on the way home again, it was gone.

Guilt gnawed at me since yesterday. I couldn't get the image of the bird off of my mind -- that, perhaps if I had extended a hand and offered it shelter, it would have survived. Though in the grand scale of things, the life and death of one tiny bird makes little difference, I would have prospered from the knowledge that I saved its life. (And its possible return with a pot of gold or as a beautiful woman *Grin*) Am I not selfish in this? Even if the pot of gold and the beautiful woman were not considered, why did I REALLY save the bird? It was to satiate my sense of morals, of upholding a certain "goodness." And in the end, am I not seeking to satisfy my own needs? Yet, if I think this way, who would REALLY be doing good? Everyone is but an executing program, fulfilling his or her needs. How come I come to negative thoughts at the end of my musings these past couple of days? Surely this can't be healthy for the optimistic, positive mind that ought to have. Yet. . . negative thoughts, though corrosive, seems to be crucial in developing ourselves. . . it is in critical review of our being, of our behaviors, that we change.

Well, I haven't gotten to the punchline of the story yet. See, I was going to practice today when I saw ANOTHER little bird sitting in a spot not so far from the bird yesterday. And it behaved in a similar manner. Is this fate simply dropping another opportunity in my hand? To atone for my selfish behavior yesterday? To ease my guilt??

There is a word in mandarin called "yuan," and it can loosely be translated to fate. You can have "yuan" with someone. And that means your paths have crossed due to fate. You can have no "yuan" with someone, meaning that fate seems to have deliberately kept you apart. Anyway, I thought this is "yuan" by the truckload. And I walked closer to the bird. It definitely didn't behave like a normal bird would. . . it simply sat there and looked about itself. And when the harsh Chicago wind blew across the street, the little bird actually slid on the ground. . . Sympathy overwhelmed me, and I leaned over to pick it up.

Much to my surprise, and bashing my dreams of pots of gold and beautiful women, the little bird showed no sign of gratitude for my compassion, and struggled angrily. I took a hint and let it go, my ego having taken a severe blow. The practice session afterwards naturally didn't go as cheerfully as it usually would have. And it wasn't until I was on my way home again that I found a pleasant surprise.

The haughty little bird that rejected me today was still sitting on the floor, now in a crevice of a building where it can be shielded from the wind. And beside it, sat three other little birds! One of them was the bird I encountered yesterday!! In turns out that they really weren't hurt, but rather were sleeping! And my fountain of compassion was misdirected rather blatantly. In my excitement, I took quite a few pictures of these sleeping birds. And if the battery hasn't run out on my digital camera, I would've posted them on the site already. Not only as proof to this seemingly far-fetched story, but also to impress all visitors with how immensely cute they are!

Note (Added one day later): I've kept my promise and put up pictures of these infinitely cute little birds!

Evening of Oct 12th, 2002 (Fate?):

I'm fairly comfortable with assuming that we can predict physical events. If I toss a ball in the air, gravity will make it come down. We can predict the future following a similar model -- if somehow we are capable of understanding all the information at an instant, we can predict what will happen in the next instant if we are equipped with the proper theories and computing power. As far as I understand, there are limitations in observing "everything." Namely, it's impossible to make an observation without changing the state of what's being observed. I suppose a brief explanation is that, we cannot observe something without sending some sort of particle against it and observe how it "bounces off." And in the process of the particle "bouncing off," we would have altered the state already. However, I still believe in the theory that, if we are capable of making observations without altering the state, we can deduce what will happen in the future.

Now onto my question. Can human behavior be predicted in such a manner? It seems quite possible, since our minds probably just boil down to electronic signals and chemical reactions leaping all over the place. . . Similarly, we can predict how these electric signals and chemical reactions will happen, and from there, predict how someone will behave, and from there, coupled with our predictions of this individual's physical surroundings, make unerring prophecies of what will happen to them in the future. And in the end, we walk but a narrow path that unfolds only linearly until our deaths.

It's quite a morbid concept, isn't it? The logic seems impeccable. . . of course, we haven't the technology to actually accomplish a task like predicting the future, but as long as the theory holds, it means that each of us has a "fate" that we cannot avoid. As I've mentioned before, the linearity of time secures the idea of fate on some giant pedestal that cannot be toppled. What does this mean? Perhaps nothing. . . after all, how can this thoroughly gaseous concept have any actual impact on our day-to-day behavior, and the ending results? We shall still content ourselves with the belief that we have chosen to taken the step with our right foot, or we have chosen to eat the chicken sandwich, or we have chosen to go to bed when it's only 9:15. Or perhaps, I am merely focusing intensely on the negative aspect of this entire idea. Even if such a fate exists, there is no reason to think that we are puppets on a string, and the more self-affirming method of thinking would be that each of our actions mold and create our "fate." But. . . I'm tired right now, and mental exhaustion is frequently followed by succumbing to the darker forces of our thoughts. And I look upon this fate as a sneering, conniving beast who snickers at the futility of. . . everything.

Perhaps I can exercise my existential power, and simply ignore that fact. The phrase "ignorance is bliss" sure rings pleasantly at a time like this. And I can simply tell my mind to deny this series of logic sequence that denounces the very nature of free will. What are human beings without free will? How are we different than cold, unfeeling pieces of steel and silicon circuits, if our actions can be predicted like so? I would choose not to believe that fact. Not because of overwhelming evidence, but rather the instinct to survive -- for if I am without free will, then why should I live?

Evening of Oct. 7th, 2002 (Birthday):

So it's my birthday today. . . to be honest, I don't have much meaningful to say. I just kind of felt obliged to make a note of it here on my homepage because. . . because. . . well, why ARE birthdays special to us? It's really not that much different than any other day in the 365-day year. . . Much like turning twenty isn't really any more significant than turning 19 and turning 21 (besides the legal implications, of course), but that as I mentioned before, humanity's adoption of the decimal system makes it seem so unique. And today, like any other, is simply another day of breathing and eating, with less important stuff tucked in between. *Grin*

Maybe we revere the concept of birthdays as a special day because we seek individuality. And possessing a birthday sets us apart from most other people -- a precious piece of the self, even if shared with 1/365 of the people in the world. (Which is probably in the range of 20 million!) Or maybe we relish all occasions that could potentially be celebrated.

Birthday or not, however, my daily routines remain the same, that of waking up, eating, and eventually sleeping. And now has come to time to sleep and get that healthy dose of 8 (or in my recent case, 8 1/2) hours every day. Goodnight, world. And may I wake up tomorrow to enjoy the anniversary of me being 1-day old. *Wink*

Morning, again, of Oct. 4th, 2002 (Attention):

I'm thinking that, maybe, my homepage is feeling a threatening lack of attention these last couple of days. The lack of attention that could very signify a long period, or perhaps even eternity, of being neglected! And since it is through my words on this page, which even started half-jokingly, that personified this webpage, to neglect it for an eternity would be to end its life -- to kill my webpage. Here's a new idea: we are responsible for what we personify in our minds. The moon, Clare, the stuffed bear that I've named, I am responsible to each of these beings because I have given them life. Quite an egotistical thought there, is it not? That I have the ability to breath life into previously inanimate objects! However, what else is life, if not recognition? Sure, deep in my mind, I still understand that the moon is a huge rock floating next to Earth, that Clare is but a well-crafted piece of grenadilla wood, that my stuffed bear is ultimately a stuffed bear, and this webpage is nothing more than a string of HTML text floating in the digital world. But, I'd like to think that, by recognizing these objects as alive, I am actually bestowing the gift of life upon them, that by my merely acknowledging a life in these objects, they will grow aware of their surroundings, and feel the emotions of other living beings. None too logical a piece of thought, I realize, but what good would logic serve if not infused with some passion?

So, I'm thinking that, maybe, my homepage is feeling a threatening lack of attention these last couple of days. But what is this phenomenon called "attention," anyway? Perhaps it stems from the primal, instinctive insecurity is intrinsic in all creatures who roam about in the wilderness, constantly fretting over hungry sabertooth tigers or mastadons(sp?) that don't really look at where they're stepping. Attention received from another individual means that you are being recognized.. . . . . hey, perhaps not the security after all. Something grander, rooted more deeply, and far more philosophical. . . perhaps we need to be recognized as living beings. And in the same way that my attention creates life in inanimate objects, it also creates life in other people and animals. To deny someone of attention would be to deprive them of a basic sustenance to life. The insecurity, perhaps, stems from that. I wouldn't doubt that, if our very existence is to be denied, we would feel very secure. So, the affirmation of life, eh? It sounds very beautiful. . . and positive too! I like it.

Therefore, children, who jump on the bed and run into walls and demand attention, are the ones who most recognize this fact. Of course, they sure seem like gluttons to chomp up so much focus and care of their loved ones, but it is because they need to realize that they're alive. And the annoying guy in class who can't stop raising his hand and asking question after question, perhaps is similarly seeking affirmation to his existence? I don't really mind if someone breaths a lot, or eats a lot. . . but how come when this individual attempts to monopolize the attention in class, I feel annoyed, and even slightly disgusted? Part of this attributes to, perhaps, a personality flaw on my part. . . that of. . . envy? Yet, even if given the choice, I might avoid such a dominant spotlight. Or, at the very least, attempt questions that serve the real purpose of questioning -- obtaining answers, and not attention. I think here I hit upon the answer to my question. I frown at this because demanding attention is disguised behind questioning. If one seeked attention, one ought seek it from love and the voluntary will. Such disguise is hypocritical and inconsiderate.

I think. . . I think that could be another reason personifying inanimate objects interests me so. The attention that I do pay to the moon, Clare, a stuffed bear, this webpage, comes from voluntary will. Clare, as beautiful as she is, cannot actively demand my care, and whenever I hold her, it is because I want to. This makes her pure, at least in the aspect of seeking attention.

What makes me, and I believe most people, desire purity and not hypocrisy? That probably is a question best left for another day. I seem to pile all these questions into a huge stack. . . I wonder if I will ever be able to answer them all. Probably not, even if I am young, and my fingers are not tired, I can still foresee each of these questions spawning children of their own and never receiving a satisfactory answer. Ah, but such is life. While frustrating, it is the very reason that living can be so passionate.

Morning of Sept. 28th, 2002 (Religious Slaves):

I'll write a short story now. . .

There lived a group of slaves, and they weren't happy. . . their master makes them work very hard, and they were hungry and cold all the time. One day, a man came and said to them, "Be my slaves! I'll make you happy!" The people were skeptical at first, but when the mysterious man handed out bread and fish to everyone, they were no longer hungry and cold, and they were happy. So they became the mysterious man's slaves. Every day, they sang and danced to praise the mysterious man, and in return they received happiness. The mysterious man also made them detest their former master, and told them that if they had been with their former master, they would have drowned in a hot river! On the other hand, if the people would stay with the mysterious man, they will grow wings and play harp and dance among the clouds. The people gasped in surprise, and they praised the mysterious man even more because they didn't want to drown in a river, and they wanted eternal happiness. The people and the mysterious man lived happily ever after.

And there ends the story. The people were happy, but ultimately they are still slaves. I would rather walk a path of suffering and be free, for I believe that ultimately, it is freedom that grants happiness. Happiness is not real unless you chose to accept it -- unless you were free to choose the path. I suppose the bias against religion and, namely, Christianity is rather evident in this little story I wrote. Didn't mean to be offensive. *Grin* Just my thoughts.

Sept. 22nd, 2002 (Japanese Latin Art Why Enjoyable):

Japanese and Latin seem to be such similar languages! Well, before you start rolling on the floor laughing at this obviously un-enlightened statement, allow me to point out how both languages are composed of individual syllables that generally end with a vowel. Therefore, when written out with English alphabets, they actually seem quite similar! When we look at Latin, we see roots of words we recognize, and that's how we differentiate Latin from Japanese spelled out in English! English contains so many consonances at the end of syllables, and Mandarin some fairly complicated pronunciations, not to mention individual tones to go with words. I believe this makes both Japanese and Latin fantastic singing languages. Well, while I'm at it, why don't I add Italian into the mix as well -- it's also a similar sort of thing.

Of course, I don't know much about the language, and I may be making some utterly ignorant statements here that will only make me the laughing stock of the WWW. But I believe that from a vocal music standpoint, they are indeed very much alike! These languages probably are used in rather different genres, of course. Where Latin is frequently used in ominous church chants, and the Japanese songs I've heard are mainly theme music to anime, I wonder how fascinating it would be to interchange these languages. While at first glance, this probably means I gotta dig in and actually gain some profound understanding of these two languages, perhaps interchanging these languages are not possible except only by some amateur who can't really understand either one!

And here, perhaps, I'll get into the heart of today's muse. Professionals dedicate their entire lives to a particular trade. My clarinet professor has played clarinet for his entire life! He could very well be one of the most knowledgeable and adept players in the entire field! And it's so easy to get drilled inside that extreme subtleties of the art, mingling with other professionals every day. So conversations deteriorate to what key to use for which note, how accurate is the pitch and the rhythm, which edition of the music provides the most sensible articulation, etc.

And when you perform for some random pedestrian on the street, they can't tell the difference anyway.

What's my point? Ah, what a good question. Today I don't have much of a point, just churning out words 'cuz in the mood to pound away at the keyboard. Maybe ultimately, I'm asking what art is. Of course, that's a question that can't possibly be answered in this un-impressive white background, by these un-impressive words written by an un-impressive college undergraduate. I believe that part of the essence of art is communication, and if my definition only pertains to me, how would it communicate to others? If my definition is a collaboration of general concensus, where would I find my individuality?

It might be easier if I broke this down all logical and rational-like. . . Okay, so I know that art has to do with communication. Also self-expression. And. . . . . . now I'm stuck. *Grin* What makes a piece of music played by some particular performer enjoyable? Is it because we're impressed by how fast the notes can fly by with seemingly no effort at all from the performer's part? Is it because the melody somehow "hooks" our emotions and directly summons them forth to our heart? Is it because the performer is famous? (Don't laugh! As part of my definition about art having to do with communication, the ideas we've gotten about others will definitely influence our opinions. Even the most cynical of cynics will be affected by what others say. It's hypocritical and impossible to exist as an individual whose thoughts are self-contained. Thus, when a performer is famous and we hear stuff like, "Ooh, this guy is good!" Or "Man, this guy just relies on his good lucks," our feelings are undoubtedly swayed by these comments) What makes art enjoyable?

Okay, enough with my senseless and unproductive babbling. I'm fairly tired despite the relatively early time, and thoughts are cohesive enough to form any sort of arguments. But from time to time, I can't help wondering how I can ever proceed to play with Clare without first answering this question. If I don't know what makes my playing enjoyable, how would I tap into other people's hearts? And after tapping into their hearts, how would I then make the world a better place? *Grin*

Sept. 20th, 2002 (The Fool):

I came across a rather interesting little story the other day that I'll share with any readers here. :)

There once lived a fool who traveled the world. He is extremely kindhearted, and in combination with how gullible he is, makes him an exceptionally ease target for cheats and crooks.

He arrived at a village one day in his travels. And by the gate, he encountered an old man, begging for food. Without any hesitation, he gave the old man all of the food he carried. Other villagers, witnessing the fool's actions, decided to take advantage of him.

"Dear sir, my child is sick! Would you please spare something to help us!" exclaimed one woman, carrying her baby. Again, without any hesitation, the fool gave the woman his money to help the child. Of course, the woman was a fraud, only after the fool's money.

"Dear sir, I'm starving! Would you help me please!" cried a man on the street. Without food or money left, the fool decided to give the starving man his shoes, and told him to sell it for food. Of course, the man was also a fraud.

When the fool left the village, he has been stripped naked, every single item he owned in the world cheated away by the greedy villagers. Cold and hungry, he embarked on his journey once again. As he passed through the woods behind the village, voices cried out from the trees. You see, the forest was inhabited by a monster who loved human flesh. The keen monster immediately recognized how gullible this traveler is, and began begging.

"Dear sir, dear sir. . . I'm extremely hungry. Please help me!" cried the beast. The fool was so kindhearted that he volunteered his own arm for the monster to eat. Of course, the monster welcomed this meal. However, it was not satisfied after eating the fool's arm.

"I'm still hungry, sir. Surely you would not leave me to starve like this?" the beast begged again, and the fool gave away his other arm. Slowly, the monster has cheated the fool's entire body, and all that's left of the poor traveler is his head.

"Dear sir, I'm still starving! Might I have your eyes please?" said the monster. The fool did not refuse. And as the monster watched this traveler, now merely an eyeless head laying on the grass, he said sarcasticly. "Oh, sir, you have been so kind. Please, take a gift from me." And it lay a sheet of paper in front of the fool's eye that said "You're a fool!" on it. Of course, without his eyes, the fool could not read it.

"Thank you so much," the fool said with his last breath, as tears streamed forth from his empty eye sockets. "I've never received a gift from someone before. Thank you, oh thank you so much!" And he died.

So, what's the moral of the story? Obviously, it's that tear glands are not part of eyeballs, and human beings would still be able to cry even with empty eye sockets! *Grin* On a slightly more serious note, let me ask you this. . . would you like to be the fool? Or would you like to be the villagers and monster who cheated him of everything? I suppose ending up as an eyeless head in a forest doesn't sound very appealing, but I think in this story, the fool was the only one who has found happiness. And regardless of intellect, happiness can be found by an intrinsic kind heart. It is not what we own that determines if we can be happy and content, but rather our attitude toward the rest of the world. This, of course, completely defies the value of success that our society suggests. Where capitalism tells us to be aggressive and compete and fight our way to the top of the money-chain, and indulge ourselves in luxurious food, clothing, and other properties, and suggests that happiness is exactly the luxurious food, the yacht, the big house with 25 servants, and that gorgeous blonde chick in the skimpy swimsuit, I think I might disagree. Perhaps that's why I like this story.

Of course, interpretations are interpretations. The narrative of the story is fairly objective, and does not favor the villagers, the monster, or the fool, so each reader will make his own comments.

Sept. 17th, 2002 (Morals):

I decided to get Burger King for dinner today. While my heart and cholesterol level might object, there no doubt in my mind that Burger King's chicken sandwich is still the best burger ever. And between the chicken sandwiches in the world, the chain in Taiwan is, of course, simply the most delicious. Ah, the sweet scent of the original-recipe sauce, the tender flesh of the chicken, all wrapped inside puffy, warm bread.

Of course, I didn't plan to muse about simply this delicacy known as Burger King's Chicken Sandwich in Taiwan, but rather, something interesting occurred when I was buying my burgers. Today seemeed like a busy day -- the store was rather full of students and other loyal fans of the chicken sandwich like myself. So after placing my order of 2 chicken sandwiches, I had to wait rather patiently while the busy clerks handled the wave after wave of customers. When my yummy burgers finally arrived, I realized that instead of the 2 chicken sandwiches I had ordered, they had given me 3 instead. . .

An epic 3 seconds of moral struggle occurred after this, complete with multiple possibilities and consequences for each of my potential actions. Considerations included: "Can I finish 3 chicken sandwiches?", "Did I make a mistake ordering 3 instead?", "Did I pay for 3 sandwiches?", and "That's a whole lot of chicken sandwiches in my hands!" I suppose that ultimately it comes down to two paths that I can choose to walk. One, walk away with 3 chicken sandwiches, or two, walk away with 2 chicken sandwiches. (What a confusing sentence, all these numbers floating around!) On the material, realistic, practical side of things, choosing option one would mean I'd be very full and content tonight, or perhaps a friend of mine could enjoy the sheer generosity of Burger King. See, losing this extra burger definitely means nothing to a chain like Burger King, when they probably overstock themselves and have to throw away a lot of stuff at the end of the day anyway. Making a burger probably takes a whole 10 seconds, so I wouldn't really be infringing upon the convenience of other customers. Also, I've been a loyal patron of Burger King for a long time, and there's no reason why they shouldn't reimburse the oodles of dough I've deposited right into their cash registers.

So why did I return that third burger after all? (Now now, don't be stingy with that admiring gaze which will send fuzzy shivers down my spine. Rabby is, of course, an upright fellow who wouldn't simply take burgers without paying) It comes down to morals, I believe, and a principle of what's right and what's not. I really had no reason not to take that burger, and taking that burger would not have harmed anyone else. But, an individual's principles are so ingrained into our impressionable minds that I simply could not leave with three burgers. I think that's amazing indeed. If I was not an individual with the 20 years of experience that I've accumulated, but rather a. . . . erm. . . . crocodile who was equally hungry, I probably wouldn't have hesitated before throwing all three chicken sandwiches into my jaws. And morals, ethics, princples, are something unique to human beings alone.

I wonder how this works, this moral system. . . Perhaps it's based on the belief that our behaviors ought to be consistent -- once again people are seeking individuality, and a consistent self-image is definitely an important aspect to self-esteem. Therefore, I might have been projecting myself into much more dire circumstances: If I took that burger, does that mean that I'll take advantage of somebody else's mistakes whenever it benefits me? In other words, will I behave the same under a different set of conditions? Perhaps. . . I would take somebody's money that they've dropped on the floor, or I would take merit for somebody else's work? And, if the image I perceive of myself as I project my actions onto these dire circumstances embarrasses me, I probably would avoid such an action even if no severe consequences might be involved. On the otherhand, when I returned the burger, I might have projected myself in a glorious, chivalrous manner with Hallelujah ringing in the background. While it disgusts you, it probably pleases me. So I chose to return the burgers instead.

This uniquely human behavior and education is truly fascinating. . . I wonder when it came about? Perhaps it stems from very ancient territorial instincts. See, these territorial instincts develop into ideas of "property" and "ownership," and that in turn translates into beliefs that we ought not take things we don't own. From there, morals evolve. Perhaps, one of these days, I should do a big musing on that idea alone -- the primal instincts that fuel our sophisticated etiquette today.

Sept. 11th, 2002 (Sept. 11th):

I believe that humans beings are, by nature, good. I believe that human beings are, by nature, driven by love and the search of a harmonious co-existence. I believe that human beings are, by nature, kind and gentle to each other, that sympathy and compassion ultimately wins over greed and hatred, that when the end of time arrives, we merely cherish the memories we've created, that we do not desire chaos and destruction, and we do not desire death and anguish. It is a day like this that my faith is tested. A day like this, when anger splashes red across the ocean, and vengeance licks its lips in anticipation. And that, masked in the concept of justice, humans go to war.

Why is it so easy to declare hatred, and label evil? Why is it easier to be self-righteous than to be forgiving? Is it because that we really are greedy, conniving, angry beasts? We are human beings, for crying out loud. . . yet why does it seem that we are merely barking dogs, foaming at the mouth, and armed with nothing more than a larger cranium capacity?

A deep understanding of the intricacies of political struggle, of national decisions, I do not have. Nor have I experienced the pain of losing a deeply loved one to an "act of evil." Heck, I don't even support myself in the world, but rather live dependently on those who love me. How can I possibly speak with any slightest understanding of what's at stake? How can I speak with the slightest understanding of international situations? I'd like to think that I speak with the mind of a child, of someone whose natural desires are not yet clouded by gunshots. That the desire for peace is one intrinsic in all of us, even if we are brought up to hate and to destroy. . . is that too optimistic?

I don't think teaching children to hate America is the right thing to do. I don't think waging a jihad upon half of the world is the right thing to do. At that same token, I don't think pre-emptive war is the right thing to do. Nor do I think retaliation is the right thing to do. I believe understanding, and education of children, is what will lead to peace. Firing missiles, sending off troops, smashing planes into buildings, detonating bombs in crowded subways. . . it seems so incredibly familiar. I saw all that in elementary school. When little kid A hits little kid B in the arm. Little kid B then unleashes his vengenace, and kicks little kid A in the knee. And little kid A, red with anger since he never intended to hit little kid B in the first place, tackles little kid B onto the ground. . . yes, it's a similar scene, isn't it? Only when little kid A and little kid B are grown-ups, wielding the might of a nation, they will do more than make a mess in the playground. Who suffers, when grown-up A and grown-up B grit their teeth, eyes bloodshot, and fling missiles at each other?

Misunderstanding. . . a bizarrely powerful force that can give me a double cheese burger when I asked for a chicken sandwich, or kill people. And when it's rooted so deeply, how on earth can we ever come to terms with each other again? And is it the fate of the world to be shrouded in fire and screams of anguish? And that for the next million years, we will only swing our fists at each other until the sun expands and engulfs us in her flames? Writing this depresses me. I shall stop now.

Sept. 10th, 2002 (Highschool):

There's a lot of anime highschool romance comedy scenes squeezed inside my head right now. I guess that's only natural from watching hours and hours of anime every day. I suppose this is a demented form of relaxation that can only occur during summer vacation. Today I realized that school will start in 2 weeks. Whenever the end to these long vacation loom ahead, there's that little bug crawling around in my stomach. What will happen this year? There is much to look forward to. And much to be intimidated by as well -- yesterday I passed by a trombone player, and I forgot his name for a whole 5 minutes. It would sure be embarrassing if I forget my professor's name like that.

And it has been 2 years since I've graduated from highschool, hasn't it? So much has happened in highschool, and I can say with confidence that it has molded my personality more than college has. I suppose there's some intrinsic intensity in the setting of highschool -- in our age, in the way we go to school and return home every day, in the way how each period stack up nicely on top of each other. I guess I miss those years, those years of bizarre compromise between freedom and restraint. It's strange, I seem to want to say a lot, but nothing oozes out of my fingertips. It's all mingled and churned in my mind with these anime highschool romance comedy scenes, and feels a little bittersweet.

Romance played a big part in my life during those teenage years. Observe how I calmly proclaim "those teenage years" as a thing in the past when there's a whole month before I'm actually 20. Twenty years old. . . how bizarre is that? I guess, in reality, nothing really has changed. It's just the fact that our decimal system introduces these seemingly immense gaps between every ten years. Had humanity adopted the hexadecimal system, I'd probably be writing this paragraph when I'm 24 instead. But still. . . twenty seems such a responsible, mature, adult age. Quite befitting of my current anime-watching lifestyle to say the least. *Grin*

Ah, as I was saying, romance played a big part in my life during those teenage years. I cannot pinpoint exactly why -- perhaps in highschool, we are just much more susceptible to such issues. And as I look back, I've behaved like a child much of the time. . . and it is through acting like a moron that we grow, I think. Fortunately for me, I've met special people who inspired me to be who I am today. And fortunately for me, being who I am today has helped me find the content love that I've been searching for my entire life. And even moments that were painful and tormenting in highschool now just dissipate to be sweet, sweet moments that's worth eternal cherishing. Highschool years can never return, of course, no matter how heavily I flunk courses in college. I'm glad to have done what I've done though, and met the people I've met. . .

Why the sentiment today? Is it because of the approach of my 20th birthday, or the hours and hours of romance comedy anime tucked in my brain? Who knows. . . it's quite funny too, because right now I'm having flashbacks of highschool scenes handled much in the same way of the anime intro I watched a few hours ago. Worry not of my well-being, my friends who might be concerned that I start addressing people with Japanese suffixes or complain about how small everybody's eyes seem to be, these anime highschool scene flashbacks are just to entertain myself, and plots of romance comedies are ultimately only references to our actions in reality.

Highschool. . . a magical time, it seems. Why is it that I cannot recall memories of middle school with such distinct vividness?

Sept. 9th, 2002 (Humans and Trees):

Human beings must possess an innate, subconscious envy for trees. While people crawl about the surface of the earth, searching for an answer to the purpose of life, searching for a home, searching for their own identities, searching for their roots, trees already own a spot in the world that can be held as constant -- a patch of soil to feel every day, every hour, every minute until a part of the earth becomes a part of the tree. Ultimately, trees are a part of the world, and humans are not. Should gravity dissipate, human beings will float away, screaming and kicking, and trees will remain with the warmth of their homes. And with this sense of eternity, the trees hold out their arms, and smile down upon these busy critters, scampering about in senseless frustration, and reflect on the wisdom that a lifespan of 200 years can bring.

Trees must possess an innate, subconscious envy for human beings. While helplessly tied to the ground, year after year in the same patch of soil, year after year feeling the same drops of rain, year after year staring at the same rays of sun, human beings have already explored the freedom that is theirs -- an inch of the world to discover every day, every hour, every minute until the landscape of the earth becomes the landscape of the mind. Ultimately, humans are not a part of the dirt, and trees are. Should gravity dissipate, human beings will float away, in search of their heavens, and trees will remain with the stale stench of their homes. And with this sense of adventurous freedom, human beings travel the world, and smile up toward these stagnant trees, drooping in a purposeless angst, and reflect on the emptiness that a lifespan of 200 years can bring.

Sept. 6th, 2002 (Happiness?):

I think it'll be a good idea to name my musings from now on. That way, when archaeologists hundreds of years from now stumble upon this piece of homepage, they wouldn't have to read through the entire muse just to know what it's about. I could save future humanity a whole lot of time in deciphering the lifestyle and philosophies of present humanity. Ah, and the name Rabby shall go down in the history of the future (the history of the future, I like that) as one whose great insights established a foothold to understanding 20th and 21st century human thinking. Books will be written about this elusive Rabby character, and great monuments shall be constructed in my name. Before you might realize, entire cults and religions shall be founded on the very words I write tonight! Mwahahahaha!!

Hey, can't blame me for having a little fun. :) Imagination is the greatest form of entertainment after all.

Anyway, I have some leftover thoughts from yesterday to complete in today's muse. Human desires. Ah, such a deep and profound topic that not only troubles great philosophers past and present, but also every single individual in the world. Whether we realize it or not, we go through every day life seeking happiness. Often it is in the form of "I'm starving. Lets get a bite to eat." Occasionally, it's a "I seek a career that is meaningful to me." There's even the legendary "I cannot be happy unless you are!"

I wonder. . . is there one state of being where each individual might achieve the greatest happiness? A state where we do not want to be anywhere else, ever? The answer seemed obvious when I lay in bed this morning trying to get up, but now it's not so clear. Do we go through life seeking our own happiness? And when we do find it, remain content forever? Or perhaps life is analogous to a wave, where our sole existence is based upon movement, and it's the sequence of crests that brings us the greatest satisfaction. Much like how a single chord, or for that matter, any single collection of sustained sound, can't be satisfying, and it's the arrangement of notes that form melodies, and from there, arc after arc of arrivals and departures that induces joy. We are often so concentrated on the moment of arrival, the moment of release and ecstasy, that we fail to appreciate the series of experiences that led us there. And, by forgetting that it's having experienced torment that allows us to feel joy, we fear the next rebellion of sadness.

I think I prefer the latter. After all, we're not pieces of chalk that physics professors use to demonstrate gravity, nor electrons dashing about in an atom. The concept of a "final resting state" simply feels wrong. Besides, the analogy of life as a wave is rather beautiful -- an initial force hurls us in some direction, and we traverse the ups and downs of life. Then, when that push dies out, we become water once again, the momentary flurry of energy and zest calming to be stationary once again, awaiting the next thrust. I'll have to admit, this analogy has Zen and the concept of fate crawling all over it. While I frown at the concept of fate, it's rather difficult to argue against it, is it not? Since time is linear, we ultimately only make one decision at a time, and can never witness how the world could become had we chosen differently. And, based on the linearity (is this a word?) of events, there is no way to disprove the existence of fate, of a path that we are drawn to, and inevitably walk through. Yet, at the same time it saddens me to imagine that human beings, such magnificent beings capable of love and hate and good and evil all at once, are mere puppets to this abstract belief of fate. Well, that's probably the wrong way to think about this. There is another, more optimistic outlook. There always is.

Back to happiness. A little voice in my head calls out with an image (just noticed how silly that phrase really is. A voice calling out with an image. Har har!), an image of a beautiful countryside with a little hut, and me in it, sitting idly day after day, perhaps growing some vegetables, playing some clarinet, taking some walks. That image is stagnant, and that happiness is calm. There isn't the urge to overcome, nor a sense of direction. But rather just a Debussy-ish series of parallel chords, endless and warm. Is that a single state of happiness?

I don't think I can answer that. And even if I squeezed some sort of answer out, it would be different at different times in my life. Our minds and thoughts seem to be hostages of our body, bending and twisting as age catches up. What once is fiery pride calms. What once is anguished torment stills. What once is shrill ecstasy silences. We mellow out, it seems. . .

A conclusion for today's muse? None that I can offer, I'm afraid. Such is the nature of musings -- just a moment of my thoughts plastered digitally onto the wall that is this homepage.

Sept. 5th, 2002:

How were thoughts formed before languages were introduced?

I'm so used to mumbling to myself, and listening to the echoes inside my head, that it struck me recently how impossible it would be to think without using language. Do thoughts deteriorated to become a set of instincts? Say. . . the instant before eating, I'd think about the food; the instant before sleeping, I'd think about the bed. Or perhaps thoughts become images and sounds? Is language really so crucial in developing thoughts and philosophies? Though I frequently doubt the efficiency of spoken and written language, it seems so impossible to create an arc of thought without the corresponding words to go with it.

Can everything expressed in words be substituted for a set of image and sound? I'm trying to do that in my head right now. . . perhaps I could summon up an image of a beautiful girl and with that, conjure the desire of. . . *ahem* *grin* Well, how about something a little more abstract? Um. . . how about existentialism? Ah, there's a challenge now, isn't it? So, if I cannot create such a thought without using words, what does that mean?

It may just seem like a blank line of space to you, but I had my hand against my chin for quite a while there. No answer. . . it seems that some great revelation was threatening to surface, but I guess I scared it away with the image of the beautiful girl.

Speaking of beautiful girls, I've been quite addicted to anime lately. Some of the eyes that are pictured really grasp my attention. . . They're merely lines on a screen -- how can they capture us so? I guess this can lead us to the next step in giant philosophical questions of the day. . . What makes us, us? When does a character in a novel, movie, or computer game become more than texts and pictures and sounds, but rather a real live individual inside our minds? And onto a more abstract thought. . . does that mean such a character really exists? Of course, we're educated to differentiate reality from imagination. But. . . Well, lets take a look at this in a Matrix sort of way. If our brain receives the correct electric impulses, there is no difference between what's real and what's "in our head." One could claim that the entire world exists within our minds alone. And that the possibility of us being plugged into giant batteries and computers to simulate such a reality is possible, and irrelevent if we never find out.

So, if what's inside our minds is what's real, then what we put inside our minds becomes real. And forgetting becomes murder.

Ah, so I've wandered off to the violent edge of things once again. This certainly disturbs the peaceful white background of my homepage. I suppose what I've written in the previous paragraph is one of those phrases that sound sophisticated, but ultimately has no impact on the real world.

I see I've missed a previous thought. What makes us, us? Perhaps a logical break down is in order:

We are composed of several individual parts that together, produce our individuality.

1. Physical profile -- How we look, how strong our muscles are. . . Now now, don't give me that "a person isn't just looks" stare. :) It is undeniable that the way we look influences our individuality. How else would we recognize each other so quickly, if not by the way we look?

2. Personality -- In a CS major's terms, a "program" from which we react to outer influences. If I pour water over Bobby's head, he'll react quite differently than if I pour water over Tommy's head. And that is determined by the personality.

3. Memory -- It seems I'm straying further and further into the CS realm. Our memory, and from it, much of our experience, also determines us. In some ways, this could be the single most identifying aspect! Without memory, how can we exist? We would forget each second as it passes. . . . . . . . ah, I feel rather sad as I type those words. Forgetting each second as it passes. . .

I think that is all. I was going to put down "relationships" as one, but that should be able to be deduced by the memory from two individuals. These three attributes would influence each other, of course. For example, our memory will affect our personality: I would react different if Bobby poured water over my head, and if Tommy poured water over my head. Another example might be intelligence, which could fall under both the physical profile (number of brain cells, etc) and the personality (how quickly we react). What surprises me is how easily this seems to be replicated. . . have I forgotten something? Maybe the only thing I've forgotten is how complicated each of these aspects of an individual really is. Perhaps, in a few centuries, we could create human beings, complete with a custom set of physical profile, personality, and memory.

I wonder if what I've written here is true. And. . . even if it is, how it could affect the world. There are more thoughts I wish to put down, but I want to go to bed now. I want to write about the desired state of human beings -- how we probably ultimately just seek happiness, and our actions are but a set of priorities to be executed. Who knows, perhaps I don't even believe what I write. But putting these thoughts down eases the swelling of my head. *Grin* I guess watching all this anime has put a lot of thoughts in my mind. . .

An afternoon of Sept. 2nd, 2002:

So what would you do if you had 1 day left to live? I'll probably thank and express love for those who've been important in my life. After that? Perhaps. . . lie in bed and think about what my life has been?

So what would you do if you had a week left to live? I'll probably try to revise some compositions in a vain young boy's hope to leave a mark in history.

So what would you do if you had a month left to live? I'll probably try to create something. . . be it musical or in writing, that I hope can last. A large-scaled work, hopefully. . .

So what would you do if you had a year left to live? I'll probably practice, maybe give a recital, to say farewell. And travel if I can, to see the places I want to see, to immerse myself in atmospheres not yet known to me.

So what would you do if you had 10 years left to live?

So what would you do if you had 50 years left to live?

Life is not that long, is it?

What if you can live for 200 years? 1000 years? 10,000 years?? Life would be lonely then, wouldn't it?

Aug. 31st, 2002 (It turns out to be a musing on God, scary enough):

I was gonna immerse myself in Beethoven's Moonlight, Pathetique, and Apassionata. . . but believe it or not, I couldn't find the CD! Is that not too much a crime?? To think that I might have lost those CDs? Especially the Wilhelm Kempf one. . . maybe it's at home all this time, and I merely didn't realize? Odd odd odd. . .

So here I am listening to the 4th Symphony instead. Though it's not as famous as its 3rd, 5th, and 9th counterparts, it's still incredibly enjoyable to listen too. I guess I shouldn't complain about such minor details such as misplacing CDs, given the careless, disorganized behavior I seem to embody.

So, what to think about today. I don't intend to go on a pointless ramble today, since while it may be relieving to do once on occasion, developing a habit of pointless rambling tends to be unhealthy for the mind. It seems that a sharp, focused mind is much more easily appreciated by those around us. And is that not how relationships are formed between people? Relationships tend to be based upon a mutually understandable language of sort. Logic is one such language. While I may have doubts to its ultimate practicality, and its proclaimed superiority over more irrational methods of communication, it is a tool that nonetheless has benefitted many of us.

I've read a book recently -- Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. A splendid book; mostly so because no math is really involved in reading it. I really do admire Mr. Hawking (Hawkings? Am I spelling his name wrong?). . . he has such a relaxed, confident, and above all optimistic attitude toward the world, how it came to be, and where it might end up. It's a good read, explaining many concepts with sprinkles of humor and interesting anecdotes. Well, since I've stumbled upon this subject, why don't I make that the topic of today's muse? :)

Inevitably, the beginning of us, and the beginning of time, seems to be tied to some cosmic power incomprehensible to us. It is my opinion that human beings either detest or revere what they can't understand, and hence was born the concept of a God, some omniscient being with a big white beard and sits on clouds, looking over us. In some religions, there might be several white-bearded individual entities; in some religions, they seem to be stern and tend to set off big explosions when anything goes different than they intend. However, since I probably have most familiarity with the Christian concepts of Godly behavior and being, perhaps that's what I'll focus on.

Hmm. . . putting this on a website my cause a great hatred directed toward myself. Or maybe not, since my humble website probably isn't frequented by many people anyway. :) So I'll go out and say this, and give a dramatic pause for the stunned silence. I really don't believe there exists a being known as God. And even if I'm convinced that such a being exists, I cannot bring myself to worship Him. (Her? *Grin*) *Dramatic pause for the stunned silence* Well now. . . where should I begin? It's probably awfully tough to argue the existence of God, just like it's hard to argue the existence of aliens. A friend once said to me (and I paraphrase), "Look at all the beautiful things around you! Do you think they could be a coincidence? There must surely be a God who created this from his will!" And that is something I cannot argue against. While I might believe that our surroundings, and ourselves, came to be on their own, I definitely cannot denounce the passion in his statement. It's a pleasant concept, I know, to think that the beautiful trees, mountains, our ability to think, came as simply a chemical/biological/physical "accident," and not planned by a motherly/fatherly, warm, loving being with a white beard and sits on the clouds would be devastating to most. It would take away the security of knowing someone would protect us.

Here is where I will argue. The security that someone would protect us? I tend to think that such religious concepts seek the security that there is a constant in the universe where we could rely on. So what if it turns out that this God being doesn't have a pleasant white beard after all, but rather had fiersome red eyes and eats raw human flesh for fun? "No no no, we must obey God because he's God!" Really? It seems a little like dictatorship to me. It's a worship-me-or-else-burn-in-eternal-flame deal, which really doesn't give you much choice, does it? I definitely CANNOT accept the concept that we must worship, and obey, some arbitrary being for no reason other than that S/He has created the universe. Okay okay, now you say I'm an arrogant moron who will most likely be struck down by lightning next time I peek outside the door. Perhaps. :) I think arrogance and pride is part of who I am, and it's not something I can give up and trade for security.

I think I'll go ahead and say this now. . . I'm tempted to think that those who embrace religion does so for the ultimate "reward" that they will receive. You worship me, I give you heaven. Is that a little materialistic? A little selfish? Is it not much better to follow a path of goodness (and that word, as abstract as it may be, is what I will use to summarize the desired behaviors that perhaps I won't be able to actually fully elaborate on) because of our intrinsic desire to better our surroundings? I'm tempted to think that religion exists for those too weak-minded to walk such a path on their own, but needs the consolation that there exists some omniscient being with a fluffy white beard who will reward us in the end. And ultimately, it is the reward they are after, not the satisfaction in having done "good." And I cannot agree with such a. . . hypocritical? (Is that the word I'm looking for?) deal.

Ah. . . I've really blabbed on quite a bit. This new screen resolution can't be good for the reading enjoyment of those who desire short and sweet musings. :) I tend to stop when I've filled one screen. And while that could be 200 words in 800x600, it might be 700 words in 1124x968. Yup, I know I probably got those resolution numbers wrong. It's all right. You get the point. Well, I'll stop now. I would really like to be friends with as many people as I can, so don't throw grenades inside my window or take away my doritos please. ;) These musings are my thoughts that I think I might share. I do not intend to spoon them to anyone in particular. . . just thought that you might want to know what goes on in my head. :D

Aug. 29th, 2002:

I saw a story today, about a doll who waited for 100 years for her owner to fix her broken legs. . . It was rather touching to me. Perhaps the very concept of inanimate objects possessing life just fascinates me.

Anyway, I was reminded of the story of Petrouchka. It was a Stravinsky ballet, but I don't know if the story is his own as well. . .

It takes place at a festival in Russia. There are many wonders at the festival that captivates children and adults a like. Among which is a magician who brought to life three puppets. One is burly, muscular Moor (I believe that means it's a Muslim) who brandishes a sword and impresses the audience with swordplaying techniques. The second is a beautiful ballerina, who moves gracefully about the stage and captivates her audience. And the third is Petrouchka, a clown who entertains the crowd, bringing laughter.

That night, Petrouchka is in his room. He holds a secret love for the beautiful Ballerina, and when she enters, he confesses the love to her. However, she is unimpressed by his juggling and clown acts, and leaves stiffly. Petrouchka is left pounding the paper walls. He soon discovers that the ballerina has gone to the Moor's room, and the two appear to have become lovers. Stricken with jealousy, Petrouchka storms into the Moor's room. . . only to be chased out by his much stronger opponent.

The next day, when Petrouchka was performing for the audience, the Moor chases out onto stage, and hacks him to pieces. There ends the short, pitiful life of Petrouchka the doll clown. The audience is in uproars, having witnessed a murder right on stage. However, the magician appears, and says that these are merely puppets.

A rather violent story, perhaps. . . Sometimes I feel I've developed a taste for such stories. One where great angst and frustration are told quite blandly. Just as blood-soaked snow is at the same time terrifying and beautiful to behold.

Aug. 28th, 2002:

I haven't written in a long time. . . lots of gaming, lots of coding, lots of surfing the net, but now the keyboard feels strange when the arc of thought flows through it. There have been preoccupations, I guess. Writing does calm one's mind, and I think I'll just write a little today, without the intention of cohesion, and let the wisps of thoughts gather themselves together.

I'm convinced that romantic thought and romantic creations, be it musical art or visual art, in some way is driven by loneliness, and a quest to resolve it. It is when the world is quiet, and you sit by yourself, the urge to mold and create something presses itself through the thick, moldy aspects of everyday life. I cannot deny it -- creation, in and of itself, is a joy. Ah, and my thoughts branch away into many paths from here. . . how can I record it on but a linear progression that is the English language?

Lets start with this: Perhaps destruction also provides a thrill? Such violent thoughts could be taboo in today's world, but I don't think it's possible to argue against it either. The thrill of exerting oneself in an uncontrolled fashion. . . squeaking on Clare deliberately, smashing a castle of cards that took much care to build, inducing great explosions. . . Worry not about my sanity, fellow readers, for it is intact. Merely letting the consciousness wonder a little and see what tracks they leave on the white background of this homepage. So creation and destruction both provide thrills to human beings. How odd. . .

Back to loneliness, shall we? My life has been anything but lonely lately, and I am lucky to feel so full and content. I suppose that individuals are like clothing -- we hang loose, shrunken, sulking, when not filled with something. . . anything, really. And loneliness is but one of many forces that could cause the droopings characteristic in unworn clothing. But once a t-shirt, some shorts, a jacket, is filled with a person, it's infinitely more alive, more full, more content, as if the inanimate object itself has absorbed and become the person it covers. And the person is represented by, and becomes the piece of clothing. . . Hmm. . . I feel to have lost this track of thought. Thoughts really do progress in lines, much like musical phrases. Sometimes it just doesn't work, and you must stop to restart once again.

Lets think of this in terms of potential energy. All objects tend to seek a state of lower potential energy -- gravity compels matter to fall closer to the ground. In fact, as close as it can until an equal force pushes it away. We are like that too. . . we seek a state of lower energy very naturally. And is it a "bad" thing to do so? No, it is merely human nature. Perhaps one day, we would stop basing judgements upon accomplishments and drive, but rather upon a content slowness that is characteristic of harmless cows and pigs. . .

But, the creations we revel ourselves in seem to frequently be products of extreme potential energy -- extreme sadness, loneliness, angst. I think that is fascinating. Tour groups stop by ancient battle fields and stop just to feel the old, chaotic anger spewing forth from the grass. Apassionata is, like its name suggests, a piece of rich, powerful intensity. Infinite movies depict insane serial killers, seeking the thrill of brutalizing their victims. . . Why, I ask, if it is human nature to seek the lower, more content state of being, that so many exert themselves and produce such works? And why do we revere it? I shall attempt to remain neutral on this matter. There is no right or wrong, no preferred way that people should act. Though I fear the concept of a red, burning, chaotic stove that engulfs the world and infects its people in a murdering frenzy, I shudder also at the thought of a perfectly harmonious collaboration. So you ask me, why do I shudder at the thought of perfectly harmonious collaboration? Why not embrace and attempt to move humankind in a direction where, all are happy, all are content? I think. . . because I don't believe it is human nature to BE content. Now you ask, what an idiot you are -- you just SAID that it's human nature to be content! And I'll reply. . . why can't we accept both as truths? I say this, without much to back it up, of course. We're brought up under the notion that one plus one equals 2. My window is square, my computer is driven by zeros and ones, my clothes are sewn together by a machine, my watch has twelve little numbers, lined up in a perfect dodecagon (or whatever that shape is). . . So as a result, I don't think I can perceive a world where one plus one is not equal to two. But, perhaps we can imagine? To ATTEMPT to find, in our minds, a spot where. . . . . where. . . . . . . two opposite truths can exist side by side, happily tucked against each other, and not complain at all.

I think I've kept my promise of musing without the intention of cohesion. :) And now the chicken is probably overcooked. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.

On Jan. 23rd, 2001:

Related musing, so I'll put it right here.

I went to look for the bird again, but I couldn't find it in the snow. Perhaps, chances are, possibly, that it has died. Maybe buried in the snow somewhere. And come spring, the garbage collector will come around, find the frozen corpse of a black bird, and toss it into his truck with disgust. Truly sad when you think about it. A bird who can no longer fly. Kind of like a musician who can no longer hear. And for this one bird, (unless it's actually sunbathing in Florida somewhere, having hitched a ride with a driver-by or something) he is not as powerful as Beethoven to overcome such a critical obstacle. . .

Musings on Jan. 16th, 2001:

I saw a large crow today. It had beautiful feathers -- black, sleek, glistening from the snow, and its eyes gazed proudly forward in complete concentration, as if it was the only being in the entire world. Its legs were long, and the talons gripped firmly into the ground with every mighty step it took. I had to stop when I saw the bird. After a while, it noticed my gaze, so it nonchalantly climbed onto a mound so it stood eye-level to the insolent college student who dared stare at Its Majesty.

So I stood in the path and looked at it, both in awe and sympathy. You see, its left wing was hurt, and hung uselessly by its side. But that didn't detract even remotely its air of royalty and superiority. Like a king, it marched about in a procession only fit for eagles, and inspected its realm inch by inch, step by step.

The flock has left the area, I think, several days ago. It's snowing again, and that must not be very comfortable for airborne creatures. So this single crow is perhaps the only one of its kind left on campus. I wonder how long it can last. A couple of days, a couple of weeks? Maybe not past tonight, when the cold comes. Or will it starve to death?

I was very tempted, oh so very tempted to pick it up and send it to a vet. But I didn't. The wound in his pride would be more devastating than the wound in his wing.

Musings near noon on Jan. 10th, 2001:

I love Apassionata. Yes, I think that's probably my favorite piano sonata of all times. . . It's extremely tough to pinpoint what exactly about this sonata I like. To say that its passion overwhelms me is true but lame and uninformative. There has got to be a more efficient use of the English language to describe the emotions conjured by music. Or is that simply not possible? Hence how music is glorified as an artform? Just as painting and sculpture is. And is that what art is? A 'something' that is capable of summoning undescribable emotions?

I feel I must disagree. Perhaps I could say that ANYTHING which summons ANY emotions at all is art. This would explain the cliches 'everything is art' and 'everything is beautiful.' However, some things move me more than others, and I don't feel I'm giving them enough justice if I put such impact on the same level as staring at a lump of snow. (Which, of course, can be quite moving at times, but only if the mind and the patience allows it to be so) So do I mean to say that art is something which summons forth emotions from a person without the conscious guidance of that person's mind?

Still vague. I may have to define emotions. Techno music, for example, directly influence the physicality of a person and creates an illusion of emotion, when in reality it is merely physical reaction to a strong, steady beat just as one might adapt to a winter or learn to walk on the swaying ship. Perhaps I'm being too cynical with techno music. It has its uses perhaps, just as Hitler's marches served their purposes. To be honest. . . I don't see the intelligence nor the passion in techno music. There isn't even effort! See, it's truly not very hard to write a piece of techno music. *Sigh* Yet it's so popular. Perhaps the modern youth finds it too much of a bother to listen with the heart, or even the mind? And only resort to a completely effortless listening of synthesized beats and barely melodies? Yet the real beauty in appreciation of music lies IN listening with the heart, and with the mind. But that is just my personal opinion, trapped on the virtual paper that is this random musing page.

So, where does listening with the heart start, and listening with the body stop? I honest do not know. And occasionally I fear that I've fallen into a self-imposed, self-superior trap that says "Only classical legitimate music is quality music." Usually that fear dissipates though, because my heart says it's listening. Yet I cannot pinpoint when the heart starts listening.

It is so very tempting to rationalize art and put down concrete rules to music. Yet we do not realize that perhaps the very fundamental beauty to beauty lies in its fluidity, and one doesn't need a single iron truth, but can comfortably co-exist with multiple truths even if they might, at first glance, seem to contradict one another. And there, I have contradicted science, when I myself is also a computer science major where one cannot equal to zero. But I feel it's important to gain a grasp on both the concrete and the arbitrary, and be capable of embracing both ends of the spectrum.

The thoughts on the nature of art will continue some other day.

Ah, a bright new year, full of anticipating opportunities and intimidating obstacles all bundled up into one gargantuan snowland. I woke up quite disgustingly early today due to jetlag, and since I read from somewhere that one ought to go see at least one sunrise per year, I packed myself full of clothing and marched on out to the edge of the lake.

Well? Are you waiting for my revelation of the millenium? Here you go: "The sun rises much later in northern regions such as this one." I tried to convince myself that a sunrise much waited for will be more valuable than a calculated arrival. So I stood in the freezing snow, with the 10-degree windchill turning my excited smile into a popsicle of tears and snot. After forty minutes, I gave up and went back to my dorm for Clare. How unfortunate that this infrequent act of romanticism and search for utmost beauty must encounter such an unintelligent demise.

I passed by a building. The building full of practice rooms and rehearsal halls, usually so filled with lively musicians diligently practicing away and filling the world with not only music, but also their dreams. But when I walked by at five thirty in the morning, there was no one there. And the halls felt particularly empty. "All is relative," are the words of Einstein and a dear friend. And how true, that juxtaposed with the crowd, the mob, the flooding halls, this silence bellows and echoes through the lake.

Ah, but I am wrong. There was another person there. One who, as I pushed through the frost-bitten doors and breathed into my white, opaque glasses, stared blankly at me and mumbled a word of greeting. The cleaning cart nearby suggested a janitor of sort, but he didn't clean. I turned back and saw him quietly, blankly staring out the door. At five thirty in the morning.

I couldn't help wondering if he was there every morning, before the influx of students, of professors, of heated competition and of warm alluring tunes. But I quickened my step and hurried past, scared as articles of serial-killing janitors suddenly fill my mind. It's embarrassing to admit now, as Moonlight pervades the air (Friedrich Gulda? Where the heck is my Wilhelm Kempf CD??).

There isn't much that I'm willing to pull from the morning's events. Nothing much at all. Perhaps I'll just leave it at that, in a impressionistic style of mistiness.

Random musings in the evening of Dec. 8th (morning of Dec. 9th?):

Snow is beautiful, like little faeries dancing their way down from the sky and landing gracefully on the earth, blanketing the world with white, and putting a smile on baby Earth's face and it falls to slumber. And when you step on snow, it feels like a big, thick-furred carpet. . . a freezing carpet, but a carpet nonetheless. If you wear thick gloves that can insulate the heat from your hands completely, you can pick up the snow and toss it around like gold dust. Fresh snow is pristine and clean, smooth as silk. Then, after people and squirrels and dogs and cats walk over them, they gain age, and become rugged and wise, each trail of footsteps a line of memories, a destination, a departure, a story. If you look at these footsteps hard enough, and long enough, they speak to you, and tell the story of their owner.

The snow on the trees are warm and compassionate. Worried that the trees might be cold in the winter and fall sick, the faeries descend and wrap themselves about the branches, coating the tree in white. And the pointed, twisted, edgy branches that was a winter tree becomes soft and gentle once again.

What I like the most about snow is probably the fact that each flake is different. Despite my original perception of snows being this inch-wide flake of hexagonal crystal pattern, (probably from cartoons and children's book illustrations) they are quite small. So small that their individualistic patterns are almost imperceptible. But each is different. If you look closely, push your nose against the window as one of the faeries land on the glass to peek curiously into the car or the building, you'll find that her wings are like no other faery. Then she melts and, still giggling, drips slides down the window pane to meet the rest of her friends.

Snow smiles at me, and I smile back.

But there is ugly snow. Faeries that have fallen to the wrong place, splattered with muddy wretchedness, and coagulate with one another, pushed together, a brown, dark, moaning slush, writhing by the sidewalk for attention, nipping at your boots. But most pedestrians avoid the dirty, slimy creatures, either leaping over them in disgust or walking past as fast as they can, trying to pick up as little of the brown as possible. And the brown snow's outstretched hands fall limp to the gravel, and she lies, apathetic to the razor wheels that tear her apart, sending limbs flying in the air. She cries, but the tears freeze against her eyes, and, chipped with ice, she only becomes more abominable. Should we sympathize with the brown snow? Or avoid it like everyone else?

Are you the white snow or the brown snow? Or are you the pedestrian, who looks down at this petty matter, snicker in boredom, and saunters away? But how many of us are capable of elevating from the gravel, from the window pane, from our fusing peers and look down at all, and snicker? You gain no respect, your name doesn't echo on the sidewalk, and there's an emptiness of the fact that it doesn't matter. After that thought, will you wallow in the mud or prance about the branches? In mindless gaiety, in shallow pleasure, and enjoy the cold, cold, quiet winter with faeries that are hexagonal water crystals?

I am tired. It's late (early) and I think I will go to sleep now. Have I made sense? Or is even that trail of thought but a flake of snow, mattering not after it is molten to the ground? Let sense make sense of itself.

Very random musings in the evening of Nov. 10th:

College offers us an opportunity where, free from the nags of our parents, we grow independent and responsible of our own lives. I have grown too. The implementation of my responsible lifestyle is this: My hat is on the ground, I haven't had a haircut in two months, and there's mold in the only cup I have.

But I threw the cup away, so I don't have to worry about that anymore. The down side is that I can only drink from water fountains now, but I would never have to worry about molding cups again. But in a slightly more seriousness, I am actually one of the cleaner of the college students on campus. Scary thought?

Flinging myself onto a random tangent -- I've been reading about Nieztche (sp?) yesterday night. Read a little bit about his life, looked at some philosophy lecture notes, and read the first six sections of The AntiChrist. He's a disturbed man. Very German, very intelligent, but not very happy. There're interesting stuff inside his writing, some of his arguments against Christianity I even agree with. But if being hardcore rationally philosophical makes a person so. . . hostile, I might stay away from his branch of thoughts.

I've written a little bit. What can I extract from it?

1. Do we develop to become better or worse by ourselves? Are the constraints of society a good thing? A guidance, perhaps, that steers us onto the 'right track.' Or maybe we learn nothing if it is told to us, if it is merely custom, and our only true knowledge are acquired by ourselves, in an active bubbling of the brain instead of passive intake.

2. Mold grows in plastic cups.

3. I threw the cup away. . . but now I have no cup. Don't we do that sometimes? Throwing away our only cup just because there's some mold in it, and later finding that we can only drink from water fountains. We ought not abandon any of our principles, but rather adjust and mold them. Deviating from the mold/cup analogy, the influence of others should be selective and slight. In other words, we lose the definition of ourselves if we constantly find others' thoughts more valuable than our own, and throw away our cups just because we see other cups. Moldless cups, or so it seems. It is only when we pick up those moldless cups do we discover that it's cracked or made out of corrosive metals.

4. Is there truth? Is there really a certain way we SHOULD act? Philosophers propose mindsets and lifestyles and government structures, but perhaps there is no absolute truth, no absolute 'goodness.' And the values we value so highly are merely molded by our ancestors for a certain purpose. This brings me to a thought -- what are the instrinsic values? What thoughts and preference do we have our mind right when we are born? Before we are born? Or am I going in the wrong direction, seeking the primal instincts that might lead me in the direction of mere physical desires? Perhaps I should modify my question to this:

5. Should we pursue the development and expansion of our primal desires, or should we cultivate and tame the heart and the medulla ablagonta (sp!) in such a way that rational brings about the most 'harmony'? If the latter is the case, is humanity progressing in the right direction of its cultivation? This question brings me back to #4 -- is there a right direction? If the former is the case, how are we different than wild pigs and earthworms? Where are human beings different in primal desires than beasts and insects?

Here ends my random musing for the day. Kind of tired. It's late. Think about it, my friends, and e-mail me if you wish to let me know your thoughts. No promise that I'll reply though. . .