Missing You

It's been ten years and a thousand beers...no it's just been several months and I miss you already, cult of the absurd. As much as I enjoy running around the tumblr realm, you are my very first blog and you'll always be special, cult. Don't ever forget that. Someday, I'll have time for you, but until then, I'll just have to post random nonsense to remind you of how much you mean to me.

Dear Reader

I would like to apologize to the one or three people who drunkenly peruse this blog occasionally, and those who looking for hemorrhoid relief or S & M who stumble across it, because I will be very light with my posting for a while. I just started school again, full time (emphasis on full time) and won't be able to commit nearly as much time as I desire to the fine art of blogging.

Be this as it may, Cult of the Absurd will continue on a limited basis, as will my more regular and poorly edited posts on life in code. Bear with me. Once I'm out of school in a couple of years, I'll likely be bound to an uninspiring "real" job and have plenty of time to bitch and moan through rants and so forth.

Thank you patient reader, you make life worth the unknown miles ahead. See you, out there in the blogosphere (*haghkk* I just threw up in my mouth for using that word).

Waiting Game

Why are humans so very impatient these days? For that matter, why am I so impatient? I started wondering about this when I noticed myself tapping my fingers and toes anytime I had to wait for anything. When did I decide that life was taking too long? I wonder if it has something to do with being over thirty (or was I always this impatient?). Everywhere I go, I notice the same tell-tale signs: people rolling through stoplights, constantly checking their phones for time, texts or voice mails, rolling their eyes whenever somebody breaks out a checkbook. I mean, does it really take an interminable amount of time to scribble shit onto a tiny piece of paper?

Perhaps our everything-at-our-fingertips world taints our ability to persevere. Perhaps being able to flip through channels when commercials come on, or flip between windows when our movies are buffering, led us down this path. Is it really so bad to wait? Are we so insufferable when we're waiting because we smell the end at hand (and I don't mean all this 2012 nonsense)? And I'm certainly not suggesting I'm immune to this behavior. It's not that difficult to wait in line, or sit at traffic lights, but somehow it seems as though anything usurping our precious time ought to wind up before a tribunal on crimes against humanity. The rapid pacing of our lives seems to have eaten away at our ability to slow down, to take our time. To savor the universe around us, rather than spin ever faster down our paths. This is tragic. Perhaps we all need to sit back for a few seconds every day and watch the clouds marching across the sky (unless you live in Texas right now, then imagine them, like I do), enjoy the birds chatting up each other in the trees, or the accidental sculpture of hills and valleys. Because our internal clocks are right. We are running out of time. And the truly saddest people will be those who lived without enjoying themselves, because there are no guarantees as to what awaits us when life's over.

So I beg you (maybe not you in particular): savor the small things, slow down for just a second or two. You'll get where your going eventually, but will you be ready for what you don't find?

The War on Symbolism

I admit, I usually prefer to keep this a place of creativity before politics (mostly because its probably painfully obvious where I stand), but on occasion I feel the need to rant about current events, and this is one of those times. Bear with me please.

The recent "announcement" of Osama (Usama) Bin Laden's death comes as a continual reminder of the problem of scale within our modern society. Of course, the US populace's first reaction is one of flag-waving celebration. This I can understand, although it seems rather jingoistic and somewhat empty to me. Of course much of the country is relieved to find him dead - he did take credit for the most heinous attack on US soil in decades. But what perturbs me to no end are the implications surround the entire course of events.

In destroying Bin Laden, we've succeeded in what exactly? Killing the figurehead of terrorism across the world? In a biblical "eye for an eye" sense, I can certainly understand the adulation, but what has this accomplished in reality? The war on terror has, in essence, been a war on iconography - on symbolism. A war against ideology has a limited means of success from its very inception. This war may have been one of the Bush Regime's biggest successes. How can you win a war which can never be won? How can you kill an idea? I honestly wonder that if Bin Laden hadn't been ill - possibly dying already, as some sources report - if his reign of terror wouldn't have continued indefinitely.

Now, I'm not trying to drum up ire against the US government here. They can do that excessively well on their own. What I am concerned about are the underlying misconceptions, as well as what the magic mirror of self-examination mentions about our ideological battles. Sure, Bin Laden's dead, the head of Al Qaeda is no more. But what does that mean to us? An icon is dead. Unfortunately, icons have an annoying little habit of becoming martyrs to their causes. When the man dies, though, he doesn't take his ideas with him. Fanaticism is like a hydra - when you cut off its head, typically, it just smirks and sticks another head in your face.

But the underlying theme isn't "terrorism will live forever," because that's a given. As long as their are ideas, there will be counter-ideas, in lesser and greater extremes. The real issue is how did our world become so polarized? How did the United States alienate the fringes of one of the largest religious groups in the world? We're missing the larger image here.

The US has made a habit of stepping on, making shady backroom deals with, and installing politically friendly, if unpopular, leaders in countries where we see opportunities for resources. This is the nasty side of world diplomacy. It makes sense from a Machiavellian point of view. But while we were turning a lauded "freedom fighter" against Soviet forces into "Public Enemy Number One"; while we were supporting regimes who oppressed their peoples' democratic rights, but bowed before the almighty United States (or at least its money); while global corporations were exploiting the underdeveloped resources of impoverished nations - with a blinded US eye; the kindling of frustration erupted into an inferno of resistance. Our iron-fisted "diplomacy" poked the serpents nest and rather than diffusing the situation, we ignored it, or worse:

I try not this cynical, but sometimes I wonder if we didn't welcome it. I wonder, because this burgeoning terrorist network prompted several wars, helped keep US citizens distracted from their problems and focused bigotry into a sharply tuned Islamic point. And once again, much of the US populace missed that fact. We wanted the quick fix. We wanted to punish a previously US supported dictator for non-existent weapons of mass destruction. We wanted to trounce a regime which we once fed with arms and support against the Russians. Suddenly, taking out our former ally, Bin Laden, would solve all our problems - the little anti-terrorist anti-depressant which would make everything better.

We once again missed the forest for a few scraggly trees.

We continually fail to recognize the simple similarities to a childhood idiom - do unto others as you'd have done to you. Now, I'm not a bald-faced idealist like I once was. I recognize that there probably have always, and likely will always be conflict in our world. But if, for once, we acted to support developing nations, rather than taking advantage of their neediness and instability, perhaps we could bolster trust, rather than animosity. If rather than bullying people for resources, we helped them develop them in a non-invasive and ecologically viable fashion, maybe they'd be more likely to see us as thugs and more apt to call us allies. Perhaps if we didn't let our own one dimensional caricatures of other cultures and ideologies shadow our common sense, we could start to really view the world less as potential threats and more as potential cohorts.

Yeah, I know, I really do sound idealistic. But maybe for once we should let a different kind of mindset out in public. It's the 21st motherfucking century for fucks sake! Our planet's running out of space and resources. Our atmosphere may well be artificially warming. Its time we shook off the blinders and understood that killing a terrorist figurehead won't end our problems; that drilling for more oil won't make us economically more viable for much longer; that we're heading for important, potentially world-rending decisions in our lifetime. Its time to stop dicking around with quick fixes and trying to understand - much less solve - the real issues of our times.

Thanks for indulging me. I needed to get that off my chest.

Where are they going?

Have you ever just sat somewhere (preferably a porch or bar. Also preferably with beer in hand.) and watched people walking by? I have. I always wonder where they're going, why they're in such a hurry (is it the modern phenomenon of "bigger, faster, more" which drives us ever faster or is it simply that we're late to work). Sometimes I like to make up stories or destinations. That tall man on the bus is going to a conference on astrophysics with a brilliant paper tucked away in his tattered saddle-bag. That couple in the Subaru is trying to get to a hospital to see her sister's new baby, but their car is about to break down. They'll make it there eventually, but not without an aura of frustration and subtle hints of grease. That woman is a Brazilian tourist, on her way back to the Motel 6 - only to discover a couple fucking in her room by accident (the accident not being the fucking, but that they're in the wrong room). Will she join in or run screaming to the manager? That cop is about to arrest a flasher in Zilker Park, who'll turn out to be - insert tense fanfare - nothing but a pervy, old flasher.

I can't help being fascinated by people. As easy as it is to get thoroughly sick of humans (ask me about my anti-social binges), its also impossible not to find a sense of wonder, even in the most mundane of human activities (such as heading from point a to point b). I just hope that sense of wonder never fades. I think then, I truly will be a stodgy old man.

A Moment to Ponder

I enjoy writing and I enjoy taking pictures, but I've always had a subtle problem with the phrase "A picture is worth a thousand words." While it is true that a picture is able to sum up a vast amount of information in a small space, the converse always struck me as more intensive. One word, can hold ten, a hundred, a thousand or more pictures within it.

Take a word such as plant. To most, it likely conjures various images - a tree, a rutabaga, a blade of grass, a flower, etc. ad nauseum. But it doesn't necessarily bring to mind the exact same image to the every person. Considering there is a bounteous array of flora in the world's numerous regions, and that the word "plant" is likely found in most, if not all languages - the number of images "plant" refers to make it a staggering amount of permutations per person per region per planet.

In that sense, a word has a nearly infinite number of pictures.

And this is what I think about when I can't sleep. Crikey.

Happy Roo Year!

Some years flip digits on the cosmic alarm clock without anything more than a requisite hang-over. Others begin with subtle delights which key you into the smells of a good year frying in the skillet. Others, such as this, begin with ominous overtones. By ominous overtones, I mean being roofied at a New Years Party and catching Malware on your computer.

But at least I got rid of the Malware.

I hope your new decade smells better than mine does.

On that cheery note: Happy 2011!

What is Absurd anyway?

The question may arise in the course of this blog - what exactly do I mean when I refer to the Absurd? Well, allow me to elucidate.

The Absurd is, by its very nature, a personal condition. In classical philosophy, the Absurd often refers to the thin, filmy division between the logical/rational world, the emotional world and the search for meaning in a world without any intrinsic purpose. In the works of Camus, amongst others, our world is a place containing no coherent reason for existence; one which hinges upon our observations and the constructed realities of those around us (as witnessed by Camus' Stranger, who acts according to his own desires, mostly due to his disconnect from other people; or the heroic characters of the Plague who choose to live and thrive in the face of overwhelming odds).

Philosophic absurdity stems from Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard - also recognized as the father of atheistic and theistic existentialism - and represents his attempt to understand the nature of this seemingly meaningless universe. It was his positing that, in the face of such bewildering situations human beings could turn to several different outlooks, the primary ones being: either accept that meaningless and seek to create meaning for ourselves, or we could choose to make a "leap of faith" (Kierkegaard is recognized as the first to coin this concept).

But the polemics of philosophy aside, what does the absurd mean to us? To me? Well, it represents a conscious understanding that our world is boundless and shapeless beyond our own understanding of it. It suggest that we construct our comprehensive view of our world and our life from our observations, as well as from the constructs others have built - the infrastructure of culture so to speak.

This notion of a self-made world, can help us to understand why one person grows up to become a dentist, and the other a serial arsonist. Now of course Absurdist ideas don't account for the influence of heredity, and this may be a modern chip in its armor, but that's a topic for an entirely different essay. That aside, Absurdism remains an intriguing worldview, one which sets aside the notion of a contrived, circumscribed universe and allows our observations to mold the shape of the universe. Our universe is not necessarily static and rigid, like the one prescribed by culture or religion.

But most of all, it reminds me to seek out other people and other cultures; to broaden my ideological and emotional contact with my world. For if we never explore beyond ourselves, we risk becoming one-dimensional entities in our self-defined universes.

Not-so-triumphant return to Cult.

It has been nearly two years since I deigned to call myself a blogger. I can't believe this site hasn't been utterly shut down. I owe it primarily to Google for itself pushing Plex (user-wise). So, since I'm still here - why not still be here.

So here I am in Austin, Tx (would you believe it!). This from someone who ten years prior promised himself he'd never live in Tejas. Man how the years change a person. Worst of all, I pretty much like it a lot. Of course Austin is a far cry from Texas Proper, i.e. shoot-outs, lynchings, Alamo defending, and gun-rack couture, which is itself a far cry from anything but loophole extremism. And that's just fine by me.

So, here I remit to old habits, to persuading myself that I have the courage to blog again. I rise, not so much like the Phoenix, but more so like the dung beetle from the compost heap, once more into the world wide web of self-promotion and irrelevant data overload. For what is one, if they are not a self-deprecating fool?

Confidant, I suppose.

Why being sick is much worse than being hung over...

Well, it's simple really. When your hung over, at worst the residual effects last two days (and by that point, merely an occasional reality lag). When your sick, who the fuck knows - could be a day, could be a week. If you live in a shitty cold place like here, it could take a month to recuperate, much less to prepare for the next round. Come on superhuman immune system!

13 reasons I need to see the Friday remake

(in somewhat of a particular order)
13) I have to find out whether Marcus Nispel fucked it up like he did when he directed the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake.
12) It sounds as though the the first 3 movies are rolled into one - and I want to see if Shelly's character returns as well.
11) I bet they won't be cool enough to bring back the 'you're doomed' guy (even though he's probably a hundred fifteen by now)
10) It may be refreshing to see a fast Jason, not just a teleportational one.
9) To make sure its not all just some Krueger-induced fever dream (FvJ had a rather ambiguous ending).
8) In order to encourage Hollywood, and distributors to keep backing horror films. The last few years have been good to horror, but they've been dropping the ball on distro and marketing on some really interesting concepts (Repo, Inside, Midnight Meat Train, etc.)
7) You just can't beat a tried and true formula - stalk, kill, repeat. It's like evil shampooing.
6) Mrs. Voorhees, Jason's Burlap Sack, Jason's Hockey mask all together in one movie.
5) I was somewhat disappointed with the resurgence of Michael Myers (arguably my favorite slasher ever). Hopefully F13 makes up for it.
4) Blood, Guts, Tits, Ass, Jason. Duh!
3) I'm a friggin' horror dork.
2) In the vain hope that steadycam isn't used in every single motherfucking scene.
1) see #4.

A Change in Seasons

What is 30? Its a number. Its a feeling that you've progressed beyond the rambunctious 20s; leapt further into the quagmire of "mature adulthood." Its a kick to the emotional testicles (or feminine comparable) that leaves you crumpled to the ground. Yet it really isn't that bad at all. It merely is.

Why is it a big deal? I don't know. When I careened into double digits, I honestly can't recall it presenting me with any internal consternation. 16 was a worthless number to me, seeing as I didn't get my drivers license until I hit 17. 18 meant porn and cigarettes - not too shabby at all. 21 was the coup de grace for me. The lack of paranoia - the hefty satchel strewn over your shoulder at the bar removed - now that was inherent beauty. And of course there were full nude strip clubs and being able to drive cab for some companies (ok, that one wasn't so neat).

I remember being a little freaked about hitting 20, due to my assumption that I'd never survive to see it. Obviously, that proved fictitious. I may dwell on birthdays a bit too much, but whatever. We've only a finite grouping of them.

A far as I know, there is no set precedent for celebrating birthdays after you hit your twenties. Some people enjoy the recurring family gathering. Others indulge in bar-hopping with friends (or family). Still others prefer to be alone. Personally, I enjoy the gloved hand of terror on my back (for a moment), a dollop of introspection and then capping it off with a room-spinning evening of some sort - good friends, decent alcohol and a hangover to introvert me on the next day serves me well. But I've rambled tangentially - as I'm wont to do - away from the original subject. 30.

Does 30 mean its time to settle down, work on a career and prepare for the proverbial picket fences and the shit machines? Not per se - at least in my inhabited flesh bag. Of course those thoughts permeate my brain as would gunshots no matter what I do, but I won't allow social tradition and atavism to drag me down completely. I'm building my iconoclasm one snafu at a time. Still, that temptation to club me a wife and pump her full of gism until she blurts out my demon seed dwells within the catacombs of my biology. If I had to, I'd rather pull my shit together first though. I'll worry about the procreation and other such nonsense later - preferably when I'm dead.

'They' say 30 is the new twenty (which would bump every other decade up I suppose). I have to admit, I know numerous post 30-types still attached to the rapscallion life. I'm not sure I want to leave that wacky club either. But responsibility looms like a jagged edifice. My parents are getting older and are by no means wealthy. Plus, supposing I decide to spawn - for some elusive reason - having something more solvent than a shit job would be useful. Still, I seem to be caught in a Peter Pan bear trap of my own volition. Indecision during this phase of life seems a more potent energy siphon than ever before. All this excess effort could be willingly funneled into personal productivity and progression. Dwelling on this planet is far from a study in absolutes, though (unless you're a zealot). How does one go about reaching balance? In a strictly figurative sense, no fat kids allowed on my teeter totter.

Turning 30 means - aside from utter shock at my continued existence - that middle age is pulsing ever closer. Admittedly, there is no guarantee that the species will survive long enough for me to see this fabled realm, but if it does I've got a lot of inner-demons to polka with first. Can I maintain the body breaking pace I'm at for much longer? The resilience of my early 20s is like an old pair of boxers - I just don't hold up as well. My liver is waiting for the divorce papers to arrive and my kidneys are attempting to donate themselves. All these hideous biological klaxons resound throughout me (and let me tell you, they sound worse through the droning throb of a hangover). My internal derision is at a new high-water mark. It's like puberty part 2 (ok, that's a step too far). It certainly gives life bonus confusion layers.

Th only real conclusions I've drawn about turning 30 are sparse. I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for it - but time's jackboots march on into Poland. I guess I am ready for it. Contradictory? Yes. Human? I suppose so. Its a touch freaky-deaky, but it's no Rick James. If my personal history has taught me anything, its that I'm not dead yet, and have no such agenda towards those ends. Sometimes life slaps you around. All you can do take it and return in kind whenever appropriate. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing on this planet, and I've certainly got much less time than I originally did to figure it out (unless that reincarnation thing is correct - and call me skeptical), but at least I'm not alone. I'm far from the first or last individual to run across such philosophical trees felled onto the one way street of life. So, I'm 30 - fuckin' bring it on!

Scared

I'm scared that who I am, the society I live in is crumbling, a sandcastle in the surf. I'm scared that who I am isn't consistent and I'm not sure if I ever knew who I was (standard that). I'm scared that I did at one point but it fluttered away. I'm scared that I won't be capable of acting when necessary. I'm terrified that I will. I'm scared of indecision. I'm scared that repercussions will be oceanic, sending ripples in every conceivable concentric direction (but more so that there will be none whatsoever). I'm scared that my life, my culture, my world is skidding ass-over-tea kettle into a sparkling rimmed void, and that the last thing I hear will be a satisfied belch from said void.

I'm scared that my life is a waste. I'm terrified of my emotions but even more so that I'm a budding sociopath watching my emotions wither in the callous human sun. I'm concerned that I'll be wholeheartedly embraced for that. I'm scared that I'm just a dream and someday someone will crave bacon and eggs or have to take a piss and I'll drift off into a vapor and dissipate completely. The likelihood is higher that I'm a nightmare and the worst is forthcoming. Surprisingly, that really doesn't freak me out that much.

I'm worried about later and all the echoes it sends back. I'm scared of infinite possibilities inherent within existence - more so the horrifying ones rather than the wonderful ones, but they're kinda freaky too. (Will we ever evolve?) I don't want to be forgotten, but I'm not sure I want to be remembered either. I'm afraid of failure and mortified of success. I don't want to know what happens to me either way. But if it does, will it alter me physically, mentally and emotionally. Will my metamorphosis be a butterfly or a dung beetle (sorry roaches). I'm not afraid of dying, or getting cancer or terrorists. Should I be? That probably should scare me.

I'm wary of chaos and live in terror at the idea of order. I'm scared to leap when I've looked and even more so that I can predict the outcomes accurately. I perturbed by the idea of certainty circumventing uncertainty and kicking me right in the happy sacks. I'm utterly horrified at the prospect of anything beyond random patterns to the universe. I'm down for Kurt Vonnegut's Church of God the Indifferent if no other choice but to be religious.

What if I never sleep again, that freaks me out. But when Dream has me in her embrace, I still want to wake up and roll out of bed. I'm scared that the world never will give two shits about the nasty case of crabs it has, and when said crabs run out of food and oil and poison their own surroundings or incinerate themselves - unless the black hole beats us to it - that we won't even register as a sub-footnote in the end notes of the universe. I'm also entirely certain this will happen. I'm also certain I'm living the exact opposite lie than I desire to - now that's freaky.

The list of fears is ominously long: scared to love, scared to hate, scared to care...Confrontation gives me hives. Reality and its repercussions are fucking my brain up. Dating and relationships - now there's a manufacturing plant of fear and repression. I'm spooked out that I'll wake up one day and really get it through my thick skull that I'm an image package designed by a sarcastic, nihilistic art culture that offered me up as a living joke (not a god, this is a human package). That's a punchline I don't relish.

I'm frightened of my own potential and of finding out that I have none. My friends scare me more than strangers. But i love them for it - now that's fuckin' tweaked out. I'm scared that some day I'll look in the mirror and a dullard's face will gawk back at me. I'm afraid it's already the case, though. And ism's, ism's make me wet my pants: narcissism, nihilism, fascism, patriotism, solipsism, onanism, organism...shit I could go on and on (spose I already have) , but let's face it I'm just SCARED!

Wait a minute. After sloshing all these words onto paper - well pixellated paper anyway - it's like being 5 and pulling the old rusty chain in the basement. 60 faded watts of incandescant illuminates everything. I'm not really scared of these things. It's all in my head.

Now that's scary.