How good a shot is he? You see this dude confidently pointing a gun at someone in almost every movie he's in.
It's 06:06 and I refuse to google this question out of pure spite, just so it will boggle your heads and you will have to do it yourselves.
On Monday, that is in 18 hours now, I have school for 12 hours. Feel my blaring pain; class starts 8 and finishes 8.
And there's homework, on top of that. Joy is moi. G'night!
söndag 7 september 2008
fredag 5 september 2008
Nick Carraway and I
So, in the spare hour of lunch I dug through my backpack looking for The Happy Prince, and instead found The Great Gatsby (I had accidentally packed that book instead - again). Reading the introduction to that book, I came to realise what it is I love so much about this piece of work.
This is, simply, that I can identify with both of the main characters - with Jay Gatsby, and above all, with Nick Carraway - because, much like Nick, I gravitate towards people far more splendid than myself. Nick is a man who finds that great men tend to trust him, in his own words, and he's got a strange fascination for Jay Gatsby, this larger-than-life fellow whose ambition and despair the book is about. Thinking this, I realised that I am much like Nick Carraway in that I associate with great people, for whom I hold great adoration.
I don't talk about Gatsby's kind of ambition, because I know nobody with that particular type of splendour. I am saying, though, that the people I associate with - that is to say, my friends - seem to me passionate people, with a dedication to living life to its fullest. They all do this in different ways, to be sure, but there's little negotiation - little holding back. Some of you seek to change the world, others, to change yourselves, still others, to be free of the worlds' expectations - but all of you are, in some ways, my superiour. I do not say this lightly.
There is a saying that "everyone I meet is in some way my superiour", which would make the above point moot. I don't think so, however; there are people more skilled than me in many areas, to be sure, but their skill is a tool, a means, a crude device. This is not superiourity - whether this skill is social, physical or mental, it's no more sophisticated than Tom Buchanan's polo playing (sorry for all the references, to people who have not read the novel, by the way). The splendour I see in my friends is their devotion to the idea in itself, to the concept that a higher purpose is hidden inside a skill. The difference between skill and superiourity, then, is analogous to the difference between brawling and martial arts; a man swinging wild punches can surely defeat a martial artist if he's lucky, but to him the fighting is only a means - never an art, never a purpose in itself, never a soul's treasure like the art is to the artist. Jay Gatsby is more than a wealthy socialite - he's a man with the American Dream burning at the very core of his soul.
What I mean to say - and I might be wrong, but what I feel - is that everyone I know and love possesses such a soul's treasure, a flame which makes them my superiour. Many, many people in this world could beat me up, but Love is truly my superiour in the martial fields. Many could talk faster and crack better jokes than me, but Eva has a burning passion for people. Many could draw better than me, or analyse comics better than me for that matter, but Björn has a flame of creativity which suffuses all his essence, and so on, and so forth. The list goes ever on; everyone I love possesses such a flame, and it would be pointless for me to recollect everyone's talents and ambitions - you know them yourselves, and each of you possesses more than one of them. It is as if you've seen a glimmer of some Platonic ideal, and seek to pursue it.
And, like I said at the beginning, I see some of Gatsby in myself as well. Though I waiver in what I want, I too can at times feel like I am superiour in what I do - not because I do it well, but because it is so important, so great, that it becomes larger than life. It is at times like these that I can truly believe in the green light across the bay. Nevermind what it means.
This is, simply, that I can identify with both of the main characters - with Jay Gatsby, and above all, with Nick Carraway - because, much like Nick, I gravitate towards people far more splendid than myself. Nick is a man who finds that great men tend to trust him, in his own words, and he's got a strange fascination for Jay Gatsby, this larger-than-life fellow whose ambition and despair the book is about. Thinking this, I realised that I am much like Nick Carraway in that I associate with great people, for whom I hold great adoration.
I don't talk about Gatsby's kind of ambition, because I know nobody with that particular type of splendour. I am saying, though, that the people I associate with - that is to say, my friends - seem to me passionate people, with a dedication to living life to its fullest. They all do this in different ways, to be sure, but there's little negotiation - little holding back. Some of you seek to change the world, others, to change yourselves, still others, to be free of the worlds' expectations - but all of you are, in some ways, my superiour. I do not say this lightly.
There is a saying that "everyone I meet is in some way my superiour", which would make the above point moot. I don't think so, however; there are people more skilled than me in many areas, to be sure, but their skill is a tool, a means, a crude device. This is not superiourity - whether this skill is social, physical or mental, it's no more sophisticated than Tom Buchanan's polo playing (sorry for all the references, to people who have not read the novel, by the way). The splendour I see in my friends is their devotion to the idea in itself, to the concept that a higher purpose is hidden inside a skill. The difference between skill and superiourity, then, is analogous to the difference between brawling and martial arts; a man swinging wild punches can surely defeat a martial artist if he's lucky, but to him the fighting is only a means - never an art, never a purpose in itself, never a soul's treasure like the art is to the artist. Jay Gatsby is more than a wealthy socialite - he's a man with the American Dream burning at the very core of his soul.
What I mean to say - and I might be wrong, but what I feel - is that everyone I know and love possesses such a soul's treasure, a flame which makes them my superiour. Many, many people in this world could beat me up, but Love is truly my superiour in the martial fields. Many could talk faster and crack better jokes than me, but Eva has a burning passion for people. Many could draw better than me, or analyse comics better than me for that matter, but Björn has a flame of creativity which suffuses all his essence, and so on, and so forth. The list goes ever on; everyone I love possesses such a flame, and it would be pointless for me to recollect everyone's talents and ambitions - you know them yourselves, and each of you possesses more than one of them. It is as if you've seen a glimmer of some Platonic ideal, and seek to pursue it.
And, like I said at the beginning, I see some of Gatsby in myself as well. Though I waiver in what I want, I too can at times feel like I am superiour in what I do - not because I do it well, but because it is so important, so great, that it becomes larger than life. It is at times like these that I can truly believe in the green light across the bay. Nevermind what it means.
fredag 22 augusti 2008
Some Words
I don't really have anything to say. My life is pretty boring at the time, not to me perhaps, but to an onlooker, an observer who is not me. This phenomenon is similar, but not identical, to how a particle behaves differently when observed than when not observed. It is similar, but not identical, to how a puzzle is unsolvable when one does not have all the pieces. It is nearly, but not quite, the opposite of love at first sight, where you love someone you don't understand.
Hence, I have nothing to say. Yet I write.
I write because I am bored, because I feel like it, because it makes sense. To me. This is what one normally uses a diary for, but I own no diary, so I will use my blog, and I will write things in it. Not saying things does not mean one has nothing to write. This is true.
The opposite of loving someone for who they are is despising someone for who they are not. The opposite of feeling comfort because your friends understand you is not being understood because you are uncomfortable. The opposite of light is light, at a different wavelength. The opposite of human is human, at a different wavelength. The opposite of love is desire, which is similar, but not identical, to how altruism is the opposite of egoism, but also similar to how up is the opposite of down, as one would be meaningless without the other.
The opposite of me is nobody. The opposite of you is loneliness. The opposite of lucid dreaming is muddled wakefulness. The opposite of enlightenment is ignorance. The opposite of opposite is the same thing as a synonym. The heart is an organ. Truth is relative. Beauty is absolute.
Trolls are ugly.
Planets are big.
Metal is hard.
Angels exist.
When one thing changes, another thing must also change. When a thing is stable, another thing must also be stable. Both these statements are infinitely recursive. Therefore, all things are either stable, or all things change. Therefore, Achilles slipped and hit his head, and forgot who he was. He has not remembered his name since, and he does not remember why he's running, but he's running and running but never catching up with the turtle, because all things are either stable, or all things change. The name of the game is forgotten. The game of the name is the search for God, because it is a game where we seek to name something "God". The night is not on fire. The fire is not a knight. The knight is not a maiden, and the maiden is not a whore. The whore is not a horse, and the horse is not a cow, which in turn, is not a mouse. The mouse is nowhere to be found.
I am running out of words now.
Goodnight.
Hence, I have nothing to say. Yet I write.
I write because I am bored, because I feel like it, because it makes sense. To me. This is what one normally uses a diary for, but I own no diary, so I will use my blog, and I will write things in it. Not saying things does not mean one has nothing to write. This is true.
The opposite of loving someone for who they are is despising someone for who they are not. The opposite of feeling comfort because your friends understand you is not being understood because you are uncomfortable. The opposite of light is light, at a different wavelength. The opposite of human is human, at a different wavelength. The opposite of love is desire, which is similar, but not identical, to how altruism is the opposite of egoism, but also similar to how up is the opposite of down, as one would be meaningless without the other.
The opposite of me is nobody. The opposite of you is loneliness. The opposite of lucid dreaming is muddled wakefulness. The opposite of enlightenment is ignorance. The opposite of opposite is the same thing as a synonym. The heart is an organ. Truth is relative. Beauty is absolute.
Trolls are ugly.
Planets are big.
Metal is hard.
Angels exist.
When one thing changes, another thing must also change. When a thing is stable, another thing must also be stable. Both these statements are infinitely recursive. Therefore, all things are either stable, or all things change. Therefore, Achilles slipped and hit his head, and forgot who he was. He has not remembered his name since, and he does not remember why he's running, but he's running and running but never catching up with the turtle, because all things are either stable, or all things change. The name of the game is forgotten. The game of the name is the search for God, because it is a game where we seek to name something "God". The night is not on fire. The fire is not a knight. The knight is not a maiden, and the maiden is not a whore. The whore is not a horse, and the horse is not a cow, which in turn, is not a mouse. The mouse is nowhere to be found.
I am running out of words now.
Goodnight.
måndag 18 augusti 2008
It's Night
It is night, and I'm making a second blog entry. I'm sitting on a pointless chat room and talking to some guy I just met across half the world about how he has trouble getting dates.
Why am I doing this instead of packing my stuff? I should really get moving to Uppsala tomorrow.
I work in mysterious ways.
Sorry if I'm one day late to Uppsala, everyone. I was busy talking to some dude across half the world. He studies history. That's cool, I guess.
Why am I doing this instead of packing my stuff? I should really get moving to Uppsala tomorrow.
I work in mysterious ways.
Sorry if I'm one day late to Uppsala, everyone. I was busy talking to some dude across half the world. He studies history. That's cool, I guess.
The Rise and Fall of Creativity
So, within the past few days, I have spoken quite a bit with Sara, David, Love, Da-Ryun, and Björn - some encounters one-on-one, some in great groups.
The time between these encounters, I have been writing. And I have discovered how much interaction fuels the fire of my creativity. It's peculiar, really, since the things discussed are quite unrelated - it just seems like being with people in ways that I like makes my brain want to do completely unrelated, very creative, and a bit useless, things. Which, to me, is a great thing.
It's not like I write a whole lot, really - my text is rather sparse - but I'm satisfied with what I've got so far, and I have a few more ideas that can be squeezed out of my head. This is all good, because it distracts me from the turbulent times up ahead - school starting, moving, cleaning apartments, et cetera, et cetera. The one problem I see is that once those turbulent times actually start, they might drown out my creative phase. Which would suck, in my opinion.
Not that I think people care a lot, but I will summarize what I've written and planned in this week below, for me to read and look proud at.
The first chapter for a Dragon-Blooded game, called The Fifth Virtue. In the first chapter, we discover just how cruel Lady Mnemon can be, and meet with Prince Saigoru, a major hottie. We also meet a ready-made character for Madde; Madra Sil Kalyna, a wild and free duchess.
The continuation of the Denandsor adventures of Cherubael & Kali, involving a bucketload of danger with a sprinkle of essential puzzle. In this episode, the heroes must face their fears, but if they succeed their rewards will be great - and perhaps, a bit surprising... Yet, the consequences of failure are far worse than the heroes would imagine.
Very haphazard and random notes (not yet finished) planning the future of New York, as shepherded by Jack Hudson and Karen Lennox. This time, a serial killer is on the loose and Robin is in deep trouble - despite her powerful magics. Jack meets an old friend, and Karen finds herself in unfamiliar territory.
The fourth (I think) chapter of the Chronicles of the Bronze Falcon, in which we meet the Drug Khans of the East, including an unexpected guest, and perhaps have time to discover a hidden ninja clan, this one aspected towards Water. Also, we get to follow the education of Er, as he finds himself a new sifu...
Extremely sketchy notes for the Final Showdown in Berlin, where Gabriel reveals a secret, Killian is forced to negotiate, and Lucien... well, we'll see what he does, won't we?
I think that's pretty creative for what's been done in the mere span of a week. And, as mentioned above, the week has been filled with pleasant discussion and, to some extent, cuddling as well - so I've been time-effective here, if I may say so myself.
Now only to handle the packing, and soon I'll have to be efficient for real-life reason. Maaan, why can't that be as fun?
The time between these encounters, I have been writing. And I have discovered how much interaction fuels the fire of my creativity. It's peculiar, really, since the things discussed are quite unrelated - it just seems like being with people in ways that I like makes my brain want to do completely unrelated, very creative, and a bit useless, things. Which, to me, is a great thing.
It's not like I write a whole lot, really - my text is rather sparse - but I'm satisfied with what I've got so far, and I have a few more ideas that can be squeezed out of my head. This is all good, because it distracts me from the turbulent times up ahead - school starting, moving, cleaning apartments, et cetera, et cetera. The one problem I see is that once those turbulent times actually start, they might drown out my creative phase. Which would suck, in my opinion.
Not that I think people care a lot, but I will summarize what I've written and planned in this week below, for me to read and look proud at.
The first chapter for a Dragon-Blooded game, called The Fifth Virtue. In the first chapter, we discover just how cruel Lady Mnemon can be, and meet with Prince Saigoru, a major hottie. We also meet a ready-made character for Madde; Madra Sil Kalyna, a wild and free duchess.
The continuation of the Denandsor adventures of Cherubael & Kali, involving a bucketload of danger with a sprinkle of essential puzzle. In this episode, the heroes must face their fears, but if they succeed their rewards will be great - and perhaps, a bit surprising... Yet, the consequences of failure are far worse than the heroes would imagine.
Very haphazard and random notes (not yet finished) planning the future of New York, as shepherded by Jack Hudson and Karen Lennox. This time, a serial killer is on the loose and Robin is in deep trouble - despite her powerful magics. Jack meets an old friend, and Karen finds herself in unfamiliar territory.
The fourth (I think) chapter of the Chronicles of the Bronze Falcon, in which we meet the Drug Khans of the East, including an unexpected guest, and perhaps have time to discover a hidden ninja clan, this one aspected towards Water. Also, we get to follow the education of Er, as he finds himself a new sifu...
Extremely sketchy notes for the Final Showdown in Berlin, where Gabriel reveals a secret, Killian is forced to negotiate, and Lucien... well, we'll see what he does, won't we?
I think that's pretty creative for what's been done in the mere span of a week. And, as mentioned above, the week has been filled with pleasant discussion and, to some extent, cuddling as well - so I've been time-effective here, if I may say so myself.
Now only to handle the packing, and soon I'll have to be efficient for real-life reason. Maaan, why can't that be as fun?
tisdag 5 augusti 2008
The End of Summer Draws Nigh
I find that the end of summer draws nigh. It's funny.
It seems like it's been forever since the term ended, and now there's not much familiar to return to - the Uppsala I'll be going to is a completely different place than the one I lived in last year. I'll be living in a different place with different people, I'll be doing different things - Sydow and Sebbe will be in Kramfors - I have far less demands on me, in one way, and far more, in another.
It's funny how unpredictable life can be.
It seems like it's been forever since the term ended, and now there's not much familiar to return to - the Uppsala I'll be going to is a completely different place than the one I lived in last year. I'll be living in a different place with different people, I'll be doing different things - Sydow and Sebbe will be in Kramfors - I have far less demands on me, in one way, and far more, in another.
It's funny how unpredictable life can be.
torsdag 10 juli 2008
Diminishing Returns
The Law of Diminishing Returns
holds true
sadly
even in love
Every time I look into your eyes
there's a higher investment
I will never again
love as I once did
Count the times
Count the times you've been hurt
and you'll find
(with a simple calculation)
that economics
are more painful
than what feelings can explain.
holds true
sadly
even in love
Every time I look into your eyes
there's a higher investment
I will never again
love as I once did
Count the times
Count the times you've been hurt
and you'll find
(with a simple calculation)
that economics
are more painful
than what feelings can explain.
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