Past Musings

For musings of the past, click here.

Past ICQ Infos

Yup, call me crazy, but I've actually saved some of the stuff I put in my ICQ info. They have a glimmer of flair, in my opinion, but are not organized enough to be a serious English Composition. So I'll stack them here. These are usually a transient thought that I place under a magnifying glass to create the dramaticism, so don't worry about my sanity if you see something bizarre. *Grin*

Before Dinner on Sept. 26th, 2003 (Skyscape):

Clouds are the landscape of the sky, and when they cry, the entire world weeps in unison. Not unlike a chorus of the Earth, tears and shrieks pervade our senses: the tickling drips, the deafening roars, the smothering haze, and that wet smell and taste.

When there are no clouds, the sky doesn't have much to say. A bright greeting, and the conversation ceases. No, maybe not even cease, but rather forcibly terminated by the suppression of the sun. A totalitarian rule, it is, when there are no clouds in the sky. The blue is infinite, and beautiful, yet does the blue enter our souls and hook us by the heart? Can the blue dance for us? Can the blue caress our face gently, softly, and smoothly? No, the blue waves its hand, and proceeds with its own existence. And the sky becomes silent, dull. A canvas of emptiness. A John Cage of nothing.

Yet, clouds are the landscape of the sky. Without them, the vacuum pulls our heads, our shoulders, our hearts, upward and upward until we feel light and dizzy. Disoriented. For we are fundamentally lonely existences that rely on the gravity of those around us. The gravity of the earth, the gravity of the birds, the gravity of the trees, and of course the gravity of the clouds above. And we snugly tuck ourselves between the comfort that is up and down, and around, that when the up is lost, we can no longer find the birds nor the trees nor each other.

Thus, clouds remain the landscape of the sky, and though we may lie beneath, we cannot separate ourselves from the translucent existence of the clouds, the moon, and unfortunately, the sun. When they weep, we weep. When they laugh, we laugh. And are really one entity, I suppose. Though the clouds can be happy without us, yet we cannot be happy without the clouds.

For clouds. You see. Are. The landscape of the sky. And below them we must fly. And cry. Ourselves a river until the earth is soaked and our tears are dry.

Evening of Sept. 16th, 2003 (Oil and Water):

There's something about being surrounded by people that makes one feel easily isolated. It's kind of like being the single drop of oil in a pool of water -- with no effort at all, one can float away with a detached, subjective smile. It's not a bad thing, mind you, for the million drops of water are all coagulated, mingled together and lack the defining individuality that my mind tend to gravitate towards, and while it's unfair to sweep away a wave of individuals and blatantly accuse water to be a conformed puddle, I am perhaps incapable of perceiving more than that through the resilient wall of surface tension. And, with that rather inaccurate scientific analogy which ignores the fact that surface tension is not the reason for the conflict between oil and water, I shall attempt to lift the overall mood of this particular post and continue with the thread of thought that began with "it's not a bad thing, mind you."

See, observing individuals, even if their fleeting personalities are chained to the stereotypes of my mind, is incredibly interesting, and sometimes even rewarding. Someone I knew before even coined the term "people-watching." Now, I have to admit, prolonged activity in this area can lead to irrevocable cynicism. However, on occasion, people-watching provides you with new understandings of this anomaly we call the human community. In a few instances, it even offers insights into the victim's personality that, had the interaction been more, well, interactive, the insight would never have surfaced. It's kind of like when I totally missed out on the Notre Dame's flying supporting pillars when I actually visited the place, but only later (and from a postcard no less) I am able to raise my eyebrows and bestow my "wow" upon the magnificent structure by seeing a picture of the entire cathedral. And here, I think I'll launch into a more daring hypothesis.

So many people think feel that the inner world of an individual is important -- more important than the outside, the appearance. This is evident in our denunciation of superficiality, in our frowns and insulted mindset whenever someone hints at the importance of "looks." To be able to appreciate an individual in spite of his or her appearance is praised as a noble endeavor. Returning to the afore-mentioned Notre Dame, the Hunchback is a perfectly example of someone who falls under this category. This creates a very interesting paradox that exists, I imagine, in every person -- we cannot help but still feel more attracted to appearance, to materials, to the skin of the apple instead of its rich, white, sweet meat. Lets face it: The cover of the book IS important. Would Harry Potter sell half as many books if the cover was a photograph of a fat, naked, ugly cow? Or if the book actually exuded an unpleasant odor? Now, it's certainly unfair of me to claim that nobody has ever explored this paradox, and it's further more arrogant of me to write such a self-righteous paragraph that reads like simply a reaction to idealistic beliefs. However, what I'm trying to say is that to get a full picture of Notre Dame, you can't just walk around, nor can you just turn a few corners around the outside. You need both to understand the cathedral fully, and the cover and the content of the book are BOTH important. A book with fantastic content and a terrible cover may be more tolerable than a book with terrible content and a great cover, but that by no means suggests that. . . . .

I think I've exhausted my argument in mid-sentence. This is not a very successful muse -- perhaps I'm rusty from lack of practice. However, I'm picking up a new game tomorrow, and it seems unlikely that I shall have any consistent schedule for writing on this site. A pity, really, for writing muses is much healthier than playing computer games. At least I'm exercising my mind, and producing actual words with this activity. Bah, I realize that I cannot give up gaming, and continuing with this trail of thought merely piles guilt onto an irreversible action. Kind of like Christianity. And in my opinion, a rather anti-productive mindset.

Night of Aug. 10th, 2003 (Clouds):

I distinctly remember one of the favorite pastimes of my friends and I in elementary school. During recess, we wondered near the track and stared up at the sky, and imposed our imagination onto the passing clouds. We discussed these images too, rectifying each others' mental images until at last we come to a definitive conclusion as to the truth of that piece of cloud. I bring this up because, today (and, to be honest, every time I look up at definitive clumps of cloud in the sky) I looked up at the sky and much to my horror, the clouds were only clouds. It's as if a long-time friend suddenly disappeared. Or worse: the long-time friend suddenly became a lifeless corpse, floating in the air, limbs akimbo. It's certainly not a pretty image. One that may work well for a post-modern movie discussing the morbid imaginations of a modern-day college student perhaps, but not the nostalgic pleasantry of childhood that I long for.

So I stood there for a few minutes, forcibly summoning personifications to the passing clouds. As the passerbies repeated stared dumfounded in my direction, wondering "what on earth is this idiot doing?", I felt more and more unintelligent. Now, my threshold of embarrassment for portraying myself as a fool is quite high, and therefore I was capable of simply ignoring the questioning glances thrown my way, and focus on the much more important task. Much to my relief, my 2nd-grade self emerged after a while and pointed out my stoic silliness. "That's obviously a monster, grabbing a girl, with her boyfriend chasing behind them!" he said, eyebrows raised in disapproval of his future self. "And that one, is a dumbell with a crooked handle." A dumbell with a crooked handle? "Of course! What else could it possibly be?" Um. . . y'know, you're right. It can't be anything else.

I envy and love children, with their terribly fascinating solution of open-minded stubbornness. Oh, if you are reading this, and you haven't watched Isao Takahata's Omoide Poro Poro (Only Yesterday), then you are simply deprived of one of the greatest movies in existence. Go watch it. Now.