"You're not a simpleton Jack, you're just sharp enough to see the beauty in simplicity."

Thank you. You came in and gently smiled as you softly offered support. You asked no questions, you just hugged me.

You'll never know what it meant to me.

I finally wrote an intro to my blog. It only took me a year and two months, I'm right on schedule.

I listen. Panic drops, sweeps over me. Nervous. Very nervous, looking frantically, almost fanatically. Side to side. Forcing myself to close my eyes. Breathe. Breathe. How, when so many options are finally open to me, what am I trying to. Stop. Breathe. Be calm, think, try to breathe. But what, surely, there's simply no way one person can be so lucky. Nobody's that stupid. Breathe. I walk side to side, unable to keep still. Panic grasps me still. What exactly is going to. Stop. I need to think, I need to be efficient, I need to stop being so incredibly. What is going to happen? What am I doing? And for what? What do I expect? What on earth am. Stop. Breathe. Close your eyes, bring your hands to your head and cover your face. Every clever dimension I've ever tried to build, every logical, sane bone in my body screams in disappointment, every expectation has been twisted and ripped. My mind scurries about, frantically trying to collect the shards of an answer that doesn't exist as my breath quickens and stops again. My eyes tear open and stare at the blank sky to see what a mess my ideal has become and yet, for once, when I'm in the reality I've risked everything for, I am sincere.

Stop. There are voices around the corner, there are things to do. Pull your hands from your face. Put your hands by your side, one resting on your hip. Stop. Your hands, by your side. Smile, and think, think quickly. What am I doing? Surely there's something believable, there always is. Think. What are you going to say? What are you going to say when the questions come? They always do. There are always questions, and there will always be your intricate web of vagary to answer them.

I throw my head back as I turn around, an aloof grin on my face and my hands swinging at my hips. I stretch, look up at the sky debonairly, and open my mouth to speak.

Elisse has been raging lately about the book French Women Don't get Fat. The book rages that French women never use fat substitutes and don't become corpulent because they dwell on the miraculous experience that food is and therefore indulge on full fatty foods daily.

Well, that's great. But can I tell you why, when I am in desperate need of some hard core comfort food, I can indulge in turkey, mashed potatoes, rice, and a creme sunday in the middle of the night?

Smart Choice microwaveable meals and weight watchers deserts. 8 grams, I tell you, that is all. And it's a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful thing.

Anyways, I fly to Salt Lake May 10th and don't depart until the 24th. I do this because I miss family/friends/doggie. I then leave on June 8th for Norway and I don't return until July 28th.

What a busy bee I am.

I've totally hit a roadblock in my latest entry. It has been in the work for quite some time, but I simply can't seem to bring it together. How frustrating.

Today I saw a woman wearing a pair of transparent lucite pumps that lit up as she walked. They lit up. And she was wearing them in public. As in forcing me to look at them. I informed Ben the bartender that she needed to be drowned in a barrel of Macadamia nuts as soon as humanly possible.

Tomorrow I go to the dentist.

That is all.

Wow.

I ran across these quotes today, and I adore them all:


"Style is not a function of how rich you are, or even who you are. Style is a habit of mind that puts quality before quantity, noble struggle before mere achievement, honor before opulence. It's what you are. It's your essential self."

-John Vernou Bouvier III


"A dress should be tight enough to show you're a woman, but loose enough to prove you're a lady".

-Edith Head

I adore the following:

- The Shizzolator. Brilliance, I tell you. Brilliance.
- Today a man came into Dewey's, a real soul brotha' all gansta'd out. He removed his huge down coat complete with fur hood to reveal a Burberry 'doo rag. This completely made my day.
- I went to go see Over the Rhine in concert last Thursday, and I've fallen in love with them. If Allison Krauss and Norah Jones were to get really drunk and find a way to produce an illegitimate yet talented love child, Over the Rhine would be it. But in a good way.
- When one criticizes everything everyone is wearing all the time, it's nice to see someone who's perfected the art.

III

So I return to the question yet again: why did the disputation of the belief structure initially presented to me require so much time to occur? Why, in all my development, all my growth, and through the many experiences I encountered did I cling to this array of ideas that I had never cared to ponder? Upon recollection, however, I recall that I have challenged these ideas, if timidly. What I found was reassurance in all that I had been taught, comfort in the reality I had been given, and reason to continue living the life I was told to live. Was this laziness, was this fear? Neither, I say. Though it seems weak for me to accept the thoughts of others as my own, it wasn't bad for me to do; simply expected. The conclusions I came to after my feeble search coincide with my state of development and my preparation for foreign and neoteric thought at the time.

I immediately viewed this negatively, and my negative thought is somewhat valid. There are too many who seize the opportunity to label themselves so as to save the trouble of thinking, who blindly follow and hollowly believe. And whereas an infant mind that blindly follows a familiar way of thought is expected, a mature mind blindly following a familiar way of thought is inadmissible. The preset beliefs that were once suitable for an individual grow antiquated as the individual ages and matures, becoming stale and serving no purpose other than to mask self inflicted ignorance. The capacities of a mentally mature individual have grown, but yet their convictions have not. They have the opportunity to cipher through what they have been taught, to dismiss the falseties and embrace the truths, yet they have not. They have abdicated the privilege of potential for quest and growth that walks hand in hand with age, and this unwillingness to utilize the vast resources at their disposal is one of the most tragic tragedies of our time.

I don't mean to say that I think following the ways of one's parents is bad, but rather I am protesting the charade of feigned convictions and misunderstood faith. Whether or not one finds factuality in the doctrine with which they were raised, belief is not belief until it has been questioned, challenged, examined, and denied all in the hope of eradicating biases and distinguishing truth.

Thus an unremitting inquisition is born, one in which one struggles to come to conclusions only to defy them moments later. It is a state of being, not a phase or merely one chapter of a person's life. I've always looked skeptically at those who set out to discover their faith, pour over books and pamphlets, summon up labeled results in their desperate need for closure and live their lives in one pattern or another from that time on. I do find the perseverance required to live by predetermined standards admirable, but disagree with this trial period of inquiry. How can one exist years and years on this planet without a single view or opinion changing? How, then, can one find a religion or a labeled way of thinking and die in that same classification decades later? As an individual progresses shouldn't one's conscience advance to higher thought as well? It is calamitous to think that one's core convictions should remain stagnant when he or she is living, breathing, learning, and transfiguring in all the ways that humans do.

II

It all seems very rushed, I know. You must understand, dearest reader, my reasoning that fuels an introduction such as this. There is no subtlety. I am not showing anything, as English teachers are ever so fond of reciting, but I am merely telling. My writing has always been one of show, and the problem is that after I've finished crafting the lyrics and ornament I step back to realize that the needless description stands in the way of my saying anything at all. The literature you currently read is my attempt to rob my underdeveloped ideas of the adornment they hide behind, to force them out of the ugly shadows of frills and riddles and to make them stand naked in the comfortless light. One doesn't fold away a budding flower in the darkness because it has yet to blossom, but rather exposes the bud in hopes that the light will sternly draw the petals out of the scaly enclosure to effloresce and face the day. Professing intellect is something I have always done, and I have always read just enough to impress another in casual conversation. Though I flaunt a feigned acumen my potential remains locked in the obscurity of incomprehension, pushed far into the depths of idle darkness, waiting, praying, pining to be released. There it remains, enslaved by my laziness and piteous fear of the unknown. Honesty is the only hope this small blossom holds. My pretension is one of the many vices that strap my desired capacity deep within my being, and if there truly is any possibility for my progression it lies in the eradication of the facades and delusions I hold. I therefore see no need for subtlety. Enhancement is too tempting an idea, and if I try to show my dearest reader anything I will end up painting a portrait so fair that it bears no resemblance to reality. So I will tell you. I will tell you what I know and what I think. That is all I endeavor to do.

Difficulty is an inevitable entity, and the first difficulty I find in trying to question what surrounds me is a predictable but puzzling conundrum: an answer or conclusion is only as true as the mind used to manufacture the answer. I seek truths devoid of what I have been taught, and uninfluenced of what I have been allowed to see during my sheltered time on this earth. The mind that has been given me, however, cannot be separated from the conditioning it has been subjected to, and thus neither can any answer my mind might come to be separated from the afore mentioned conditioning. I seek to grow past the knowledge of my parents and of my society, but my mind has been crafted by both. Therefore any information ascertained from such, though it might extend past the conventional beliefs of my parents and my society, it cannot be without the influence of both blood and brethren. I go to my conditioning to escape my conditioning, and am left with tainted answers. If each fact and reality is manufactured by the facets of one individual's mind, then it is specific to that individual, and no answer can be universal. No answer can be eternal. Every moment must be spent in inquiry and analyzation of the moment that came before. This is the only state of awareness worth perusing and the only reality worth dwelling in.

I

I hold the book in my hand. Throughout my life this book has been cherished as truth, as a collection of answers scripted by the creator I worship. Before now I have never questioned the words that stream across the thin pages in verses and chapters and books, condemning and edifying and strengthening my existence. I now choose to challenge this book, and all knowledge I hold dear to me, as a new mind is awakened within me.

I remember when this quest entered my mind, I recall it fervently; it was only two nights ago. The damp air of my father's basement was eerily comfortable as I sat in the computer chair, slowly spinning back and forth, my eyes completely unfocused, needlessly gazing ahead at the blur before me. Sweat lingered on my warm skin and slid down towards the ground. I had been exercising, see, and after I had finished I decided to sit in this chair. At that moment I was completely consumed in the salty musk of my beading sweat and my intense concentration on the thought that rushed throughout and around my young mind. The first question was born: How can one rely on one's own capacity when he or she has accepted mortality, which is his or her immutable condition, as a flawed state of existence? I have been taught, by a pious mother and surrounding community, and by the doctrine that I have been presented and come to enshrine, that man's natural state is one of primal urges that fight against the pure desires of the cultivated mind . The natural man is an enemy of joy. The pain that stems from permanently human characteristics such as hate, greed, and arrogance is inescapable . It stands as an emblem that shines through the dank complexity of mortality and warns one to never trust the human mind. Humans are fickle; our thoughts change as we morph and mature into the people we're busy becoming. How can one build a belief structure around our own findings? There is no security in the self when it sits atop something as defective as mankind.

Thus, people's belief in a higher power or powers are quite conceivable. Either this power is presented from birth or found through inquiry and honest search. The former scenario describes my situation quite well; I have been raised in a church and rigid set of beliefs, and urged all throughout my youth to inquire within the realms of the religion. Because I have yet to step across these realms there has been no honest search. But why would I be so arrogant to depend on the arm of flesh, my own mind, to discover the desired truth? And there, while sitting in that black computer chair and my slowly evaporating sweat, it dawned on me: there is nothing else. The human mind is fickle, and prone to mistake, but we are born with a body and a mind. Answers and Gods and truths of all kind are thrown at us by parents and friends and sidewalk preachers, but we enter this world with a body and a mind. Those who do not utilize what is given to find truth are those who will never breathe the sharp air of the morning or hear the stinging sound of the crying violin. Whether we accept the belief of the parent or the preacher or manufacture our own, a desperate, sincere pursuit is quintessential.

That is all I know. My belief before this crucial moment has been merely been borrowed from my mother, labeled as my own and blindly followed. What bound me to this foolish facade of an actualized individual? Was it laziness, indifference, or fear? Why is this the moment in which I choose to battle this? Is the hunt for truth a realistic one? To these questions I know no answers. I swivel in my chair and I know and believe one thing: regardless the terms or conditions or object of concern, one must always question.

Disclaimer:

This is what I have been writing, or what I have begun to write. I decided not to post it, because of it's serious and personal nature, but I've realized that posting this on my main blog will not only encourage me to complete it, but also open the doors to interpretation from others. The formatting for my blog, then, might change a wee bit, but I hope you enjoy this sincere inquiry. That's what it is: An inquiry, if you will.

Ben the bartender is a delightful character. A 32 year old philosophy major, he is definitely my favorite coworker, full of witty, knowledgeable remarks and inquiries about nothing in particular. In remembrance of a conversation him and I had a couple weeks back about the correlation between a nation's progressing language and the nation's power among other nation's of the world, he gave me a 15 page article by the brilliant George Orwell named Politics and the English Language.

Brilliance, I tell you. Sheer brilliance.

In this discourse, Orwell discusses the simple travesty that modern (modern= 1935) language has become. He condemns meaningless words, cliche metaphors, and pretentious diction (of which I am thoroughly guilty, I know). He proceeds to explain how ineffective language and speech, though manufactured to flaunt an inexistent intelligence, builds a society benumbed to what it is being told, and therefore in a state ready to be manipulated. I read on, touched by the sincerity in his disgust for bad writing, and intrigued by the intelligent relation to the political sphere. His rant is one not about the typical deterioration, per say, of our language, but rather of the superfluous pretenses we endeavor to stuff into our writing and everyday language. Reading the scrumptious morsel of biting satire was delightful, and I was inspired to write. I never did, because I'm a lazy mongrel too busy with nothing to expand my horizons and whatnot, but I was inspired all the same. I don't know why I'm rambling on here when you can read the discourse for yourself here. I encourage you to indulge yourself in this marvelous critique of the widespread philosophe. Following is a collection of my favorite bits:

• "In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible."
• "When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating [familiar] phrases one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them."
• "The great enemy of clear language is insincerity"
• "In our age there is no such thing as "keeping out of politics." All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia. "

A couple days later, I received an email from a certain Benny K, asking if he could post a link to my blog and inviting me to check out his. He noted that I sucked at updating (in a tactful, polite manner). I glanced over his blog, which is also nothing short of a scrumptious morsel of biting satire, and I was once again inspired to write. I can only ignore inspiration so long.

As I struggle to articulate I see what my lack of discipline and willingness to write has done to my ability, and it's sad. I will try, quite honestly, to resume posting regularly. You have this newly-motivated twit's promise.