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(Perform a Critical) Surprise me, Logico-Philosophicus. [08 Dec 2009|01:15am] [ music | Suikoden II Name Entry ] When 30 students did a long division problem and came up with the same answer, I did not seem all too surprised. However, when the professor writes a logical proof on the board and waits for his students to finish it, I am amazed that 30 people can not only reach the conclusion from the premises, but also have the exact 20 steps of subproof necessary in order to get there. Logic is so mathematical, in other words, yet to me, it seems like I'm creating some kind of seminal path. So much for such a seminal path-- when others pave it like robots, then I am merely reduced into a steam rolling robot as well. I guess we appear more distinguishable outside of the realm of mathematics and science where answers are rather exact. Some answers may be ambiguous, but they are rather clear.

(Perform a Critical) The World Revised. [18 Oct 2009|10:05pm] It has been a while since I have posted here and I think to myself, "How many dreams did I let slip into the void when I could have jotted them down here to remember forever?" This journal serves the purpose of reminding me of my dreams and even allows me to relive them to a certain extent. I wish not to lose such intangible treasures-- those treasures which remind me of flying high in the air or witnessing thousand-foot-high waves crashing into me from the sky. My last post was in 19 Jun 2009. I wish to summarize the months that have passed from then until now. Late August was my first graduate study classes in Philosophy at SJSU. I was late to both classes, thinking they started later in the evening. I soon realized that my knowledge in philosophy was necessary, but tiny in relativity to the remainder of the discipline. There lay a plethora of specializations that are accessible to me and the next 2.5 years will be my opportunity to find what I like. I'm armed with the means to understand and digest the information presented to me, but my knowledge is nowhere near as broad as a philosophy graduate student ought to be. In other words, I have some catching up to do. The good news is that I have the resources to do so. I have met some people and they all take philosophy for the enjoyment of it. Some are extremely serious and intend to pursue it in further academia. Whenever students present, they have spend 8-10 hours on 20 pages of reading and can answer critical questions with expertise. I respect my peers in this sense and intend to uphold this level of competitiveness. My work remains the same-- Property Management and general services of Real Estate. I recently joined my mom's real estate office and I intend to try and assist people with their purchase/selling of their house. I have already found several clients and hope to work with them in the coming weeks. If the latter job becomes more lucrative, I will make the switch and dedicate more time. For the time being, the former job provides me with a steady income that gives me definite financial security, however it is not the highest and best use of my time. 120 hours of part time work severely detract me from doing other activities. The latter route is one which may involve the same or more hours, but they will be hours on my terms, which can make 120 hours very efficient and productive. My tennis lessons continue as planned-- my student has now graduated from a beginner to an intermediate and I intend to create some kind of certificate which explains his passage into a more advanced level. Doing so will not only reward his current efforts but will also acknowledge his capabilities and weaknesses. His passage into further levels will require his satisfying any stated weaknesses. My writing has taken a complete stop-- I reread my story and edit it regularly, however I must press on to finish the second book. I lack the time to write it and the realization is palpable. It is another reason why I consider leaving my first job. I recently developed a co-venture with a friend to perform Xbox360 repair and other services. Like any startup, we are both deep in debt, but the debt is lessening as time passes. I am making an effort to do good accounting and made sure I calculated the break-even point of our business. We shall break even in a week or so. It appears the night has caught up with me. I expect to perform more regular entries as time passes.

(Perform a Critical) Sometimes I lay eyes on the personification of hell. [19 Jun 2009|10:27pm] What hellish things are brought to me inadvertently, as if dots form in the corner of my periphery. It beckons to be noticed but is no more paid attention to than the clouds in the sky or the fruit hanging from the tree. What I say is this: that I saw a contraption so basic yet so wretched that I wondered, "why use this, of all things?" It was a bright day-- becoming hot rather quickly. 10:15am was the time to pick up one of my crew members-- priming and painting, you see. I knocked on the locked door and no one answered, paced around, then decided to leave a note on a plastic lawn chair outside. "Camina a la oficina," or "walk to the office," it read. I knocked once more and I saw a bee on the concrete, buzzing around as if it had stung some poor soul. The poor soul, however, didn't know that the bee had also become a victim. Predator converts to victim, or rather the attacker becomes the injured. A double-edged sword would be the most succinct way to say it. I turned around and saw a fruit tree, but attached to it was some kind of trap. It trapped flies with some something sweet, I imagine, but it didn't seem ordinary. I would equate the bag to be as large as a gallon-size ziplock. Half of it was pitch black; half it was full of dead flies. The thought of being cramped and simultaneously filthy and rotting did not place my mind in a place of contemplating mortality. My thoughts on the matter, or rather my knee-jerk reaction, was that of the afterlife. "Hell!" I thought, and not as an interjection but rather as a noun; a place. Would hell be so cramped and filthy as this? I, a fly, among other flies, packed into a small space, never to be identified, never to be individualized? I would be captured then discarded. And perhaps the moment before I was caught, all I would experience would be the struggle of those around me. Some amazing invisible force, the gates of hell known as plastic, would be the only thing stopping me from my 2 weeks of freedom/life. But instead, I find myself on the wrong side of the plastic bag and it seems so arbitrary that I'm on this side instead of the other. What foolishness crowned itself and named it fate? As I looked at the bag, I wonder how it would be glutted by so many flies. I thought of hell and morality and immediately, guilt filled my thoughts instead of acknowledging my mortality. My finitude wasn't an issue-- it was the kind of justice that would be served in the event that that finitude was spent "improperly." And perhaps what is improper is what is not good. So it follows that I was wondering if my finitude was good or not. All from a bag of flies.

(Perform a Critical) Dream [Phantom of the Opera Brain] [10 Jun 2009|01:59pm] Dream [Phantom of the Opera Brain] We were performing rehearsals for the Phantom of the Opera. There were several hundred of us in an auditorium, each equipped with the entire screenplay. In the middle of the stage, there was an enormous brain that was the Phantom. He blinked his eye and I looked away. But when he blinked, everyone else transmogrified into bouncing numbers. I stood in awe to look at one-hundred or so people jumping around, transformed into something different. ::

(1 HP Reduction | Perform a Critical) I catch a fly, then it dies. [07 Jun 2009|09:32pm] [ music | Rachmaninoff Prelude op. 23 No 5 (C. 1920) ] What was it that Shakespeare said? "out out, candle, life's but a walking shadow." I catch a moving fly with fist closed upon the snatching motion. I open my hand and see that it no longer moves. What? Was that supposed to happen? I ceased it's existence? But did it know it existed? Or was is just reacting? It's quality of life wasn't exactly sophisticated, but it did have some moral status. I shouldn't have ended its life if I didn't have good reason. My reason was that it moved, it was in my bedroom, and that's my story. I am always amazed at how brief events can be. Flying-- ensnarement-- death. So quickly? No climax? I see. For insects, maybe, but for us? Oh wait, no, no. I am mistaken. For we are moral agents, and we have the power to exercise our freedom in responsible ways-- ways which constitute dignity and good aforethought. But we are just as vulnerable as the fly, are we not? Instead of the hand coming from all directions, grabbing the little 'bicho', we have similar things. Disease, car accidents, the usual suspects. For the latter, we drive home in a merry pace, reflecting upon what we have done for the day. We tune into the radio and nod our head in sync with the tempo of the music playing. But, what's this? Someone clips the front of my car and I go barreling down the ocean with the hood of my car pointing at the blue asphalt? And what's this? I'm dead? Already? Wait, what? Out out, candle. Out, out. God damn! Allow me to oversimplify if you will- the oversimplification of it all is that we are simultaneously powerful and vulnerable. To be powerful and invulnerable would be cheating. To be weak and vulnerable is probably the worst combination of them all. What about weak and invulnerable? Oh hell, well you might just be stuck in the penumbra of the devil's batting eyelash. Neither cold not hot, hungry nor sated, sad nor happy-- certainly you are not a body persisting in a material and temporal space-- you're invulnerable, in other words. Then it would follow that you are not weak because you cannot either be strong. But perhaps I can contend that the entire situation is rather compromised in terms of quality of life, thus making it weak. But can we even call it life? Maybe we should just call it 'is'ing. Being. Dasein. Yadda.

(Perform a Critical) [Basketball] and [Engulfing of the Ghost] [06 Jun 2009|12:16am] Sleeping Time: 9:00pm Waking Time: 6:00am Sleep Efficiency: 100% Sleep Debt: 500 Dream [Basketball] I had a dream I was playing a high level basketball game. Dream [Engulfing of the Ghost] There were three women. One woman was showering. Another was putting on clothes. The last was a pregnant woman, who was struggling to climb stairs. I entered the person of each in a non-chalant, non-erotic way. As I entered the body of the woman putting on clothes, I noticed that a large dark shadow came out from nowhere. At that moment, the shadow took a large bite of her and took nearly half her body. With the remainder of her body, and in a most reflexive, adrenline-pumped manner, the woman used her arm to reach into the mouth of the dark entity. She pulled out something that disintegrated as quickly as she freed it and the dark puff puffed away. She remained, only half of herself, bleeding. The pregnant woman was struggling to go up the stairs, and I felt myself helping her, step, by step, by step. She sweat. :: I then hear a weedeater outside, which I initially think is the song of my damnation. I awake to comprehend the sound as the gardening noise pollution that it is and fail at recovering whatever dream/mentation that came before.

(1 HP Reduction | Perform a Critical) Adventure. [28 May 2009|11:36pm] When I crawl above an abandoned Mercedes-Benz, I know that I seek answers which may never be found; that I could have my boots press against an old hood, dusty glass, and popping trunk, and to no avail find what I intended to find. So this is how it sounds like when my body weight topples over the sunroof.

(Perform a Critical) [Snail Pie] [17 May 2009|09:52am] Dream [Snail Pie] My mom was singing this melody with lyrics: As she sang it, the lyrics popped up in front of her. Behind her was the void. ::

(2 HP Reductions | Perform a Critical) Reanimate the snake! [09 May 2009|06:38pm] [ music | Iranian Classical ] Who would have thought that a garden snake would be reanimated with cooking oil? My great companion, so trustworthy and agile, found a snake in the bushes. He bit it until death and I praised him. A pat on the head, though, didn't feel like enough praise. A hunting and burrowing dog, stuck in the garden of suburbia, had to be rewarded with a piece of the hunt. I put the dead garden snake in a pan and used some EVOO. Immediately it began to writhe while cooking, as if the cooking oil had reanimated it. The snake's innards was probably cooking at different speeds and caused it to move. After a few minutes, I salted and peppered it and began to chop it up. The belly had some meat, but the majority of it was entrails. The spine ran all the way down to the tail and it had tiny ribs. It seemed so tough. I took a bite and it tasted like slimy chicken. I went outside with the spoils of the hunt and gave some to my little doggie. He knew what it was and waited for me to remove the meat from the spine. He ate it in a certain way. He ate it with alertness, but not with his usual uncontrollable alacrity. Instead, he waited patiently for me to rip the meat from the bone. When I tossed it down to the floor, he ate it carefully as a wild dog would when hunting for food. He seemed proud, in a way, the way he ate it. Now our garden will populate with bugs.

(Perform a Critical) On the punch. [27 Apr 2009|12:09am] [ music | Iranian Classical ] When I do the shotokan punch while stationary, I feel the energy travel from my leg and into my arm and into my fist. I stop to inhale and remain still as I feel my heart ticking faster as if a stopwatch were wound up hastily, without any regard to the winding mechanism. I envision a second hand traveling clockwise in my chest, but I remind myself that four chambers are real while the turning gears are imaginary. I would like to hope that misconceptions can make one stronger just as hypochondriacs conjure up the imaginary illnesses and symptoms that end up becoming real. Let psychosomatic be a trait and not a nuisance. Let it be attribute and not detriment.

(3 HP Reductions | Perform a Critical) Optical Blade and Self-Extraction. [19 Apr 2009|05:46pm] [ music | Iranian Classical ] Before my day even started, I pulled a shard of glass out of my foot. I had dropped some lemon soda on way out to a BBQ and the thing shattered while I was wearing sandals. The entire predicament immediately reminded me of Dan who always advised me to wear closed toe shoes at any occasion and especially while traveling. A sharp pain continued on the big toe of my foot, but drove and walked to the Marina, ignoring it. I slept and awoke to the continued pain. The wound closed but the pain was just as sharp. I did a quick google search of "how to remove glass shard from foot" and there were already automatic suggestions for it. Swell. Most sites advised me to go to a doctor, which I thought would be too excessive. After those sites, I looked on to less severe remedies that included sugar and salt water, something that would take some time. I also found a strange one talking about putty left to dry on your foot for several hours, which also seemed bogus. Eventually I got to the forums that suggested self-extraction and pin-pricking. I read the techniques and sterilized my own tweezers and needle. After opening the wound further, something reflected back at me with some of my blood. I moved it around with the needle and put it on my tissue paper. Success! I stood and felt only the pain of the open wound. I couldn't believe how much pain could be caused by a tiny foreign object like that. And the damn thing wouldn't have gone away by itself. At least I took it out myself and it only took a few minutes. The funny thing about this is that I wrote a story wherein the main character had shards of glass stuck in his skin and it had to be extracted by his friend. I wrote that portion of the story only from the experience I had from wood splinters, which I suppose, should be fine. But now that I've experienced a glass shard inside my body, the pain that it creates is definitely a lot more acute since the shard is definitely more solid and less pliable than a wood splinter. I can only imagine what a bullet would feel like and how much it would hurt to the touch.

(Perform a Critical) Speculation: The household irritant. [16 Apr 2009|11:29pm] There is something about speculation that bothers me so. A predication is usually made. When the prediction is put to the test, it may succeed or it may fail as a function of time. After the test has completed, there are some who will amend their prediction to better fit what happened previously. Either people will throw away their pride and furnish others with the appropriate concessions or people will ask to be tested again. I suppose if the latter occurs, the prediction, which already failed once, can fail again or success the second time around. I feel that there is merit to making predictions at the right time, but really, the truth and falsity of the matter has now been clouded. If one were to say, "It will rain tomorrow in Oakland CA," it would neither be true nor false until 'tomorrow' actually comes. If it rained, the person would be entitled to feel good about the prediction (or good that he/she was able to read a weather report and agree with it). If it did not rain, the prediction may be either rejected or postponed for the day after tomorrow, where it will be put to the test again. Once something is put to the test under different circumstances, I firmly believe that the entire proposition has changed so that we cannot simply carry our prediction over to another part of time. Because when I say "It will rain tomorrow in Oakland CA," I really mean, "It will rain tomorrow in Oakland CA at some point between that 24 hour period and nowhere else and at no other time." In other words, my prediction has constraints, which is fine. This constraints are implied for conversational pragmatism. If we had to spell everything out, then there would be no language game. It'd just be Life: The Fattest Grammar Book Ever.

(Perform a Critical) Evaluation of My Day. [11 Apr 2009|11:49pm] [ music | Suikoden II OST - Reconnaissance Mission ] 24 hours exist in the day, the last time I checked. 8 is used for sleeping, which leaves 16. 2 is used for pooping/peeing/bathroom hijinks, another 2 used for cooking/eating, which leaves 12, 2 is used for driving, and 1 is used for doing all internet-friendly activities, leaving 9, 1 hour is used for calling the beloveds, and another hour is used to clean things, which leaves 7, To finish, I play a humble 1/2hr of Playstation 2, or playing until reaching two save points, whichever of the two is shorter, leaving 6.5 hours. 6.5 usable hours in the day, assuming a non-work day. Good to know for those who perform.

(Perform a Critical) Insufficient Weapon. [11 Apr 2009|10:57pm] [ music | Suikoden II OST - We Will Always Be (Part 2 of 2) ] I once did not participate in the snobbery of being knowledgeable with tennis rackets. They were merely a tool in the remainder of skills and movements that had to be learned on the court. Any form of swing or footwork was to be mapped in two places: my "brain" and my "muscle memory", wherever those two places exist. I pulled out two dusty and spider-ridden rackets from my garage, re-gripped them and used them. They were heavier, but my body worked less to produce the same shots I desired. You see, I am a grand fan of minimalism and a strong supporter of limiting one's expenditure during gameplay. If I can beat someone without them obtaining a single point, then I will walk away with the least amount of injuries; meaning I will have more time to practice. Returning to the idea that my heavier rackets allow me to minimize my overall expenditure of energy, I have come to the conclusion that I now require heavier rackets. It was not just this event that compelled me towards building some kind of intelligence, and thereafter, an opinion about rackets and their varying shapes, sizes, and weights. I strung my first two rackets and it was the grandest pain that I ever experienced. It took me nearly 4 hours to do the first one and it required an enormous amount of concentration, pulling, twisting, turning, and tighting until the racket was complete. The second racket I strung took another grueling 3 hours. By the time I knew it, I was at my friend's house at 3 in the morning, gobbling up cookie dough with a spoon and watching some action packed movie with 6 dogs sleeping in front of me, along with the neighbor dozing off next to me on a couch. 7 hours to string two rackets and they were done poorly and improperly. All of a sudden, I felt like Zaraki Kenpachi and his Zanpakto from Bleach -- I was a calloused swordsman with no regard for his weapon. A racket; a took for war, didn't matter in the least to me. It was always an extension of myself and I was not one to abuse it (i.e.- throw it to the ground in anger, scrape it, hoping I would get better), but now I realize that I must not stand in the darkness of ignorance any longer. It has a relevant place in my overall goal to be a minimalist. I've outgrown several rackets. I've outgrown the lightweight rackets, which make it easy to retrieve difficult shots but do not allow aggressive gameplay. They are means to defend, which is fine. But once I use them as offense, I strain myself to a degree that does not encourage me to conserve energy. My mantra of minimalism is also an eye that sees far into the future. Injury is one that will persist through time, even though it may be healed by time. If the latter is no applicable, then I will have to wait for some kind of improved, reconstructive surgery that would bestow upon me the kind of reflexes, speed, and skill I have now. Of course, what I just said may resemble rubbing the genie's lamp and asking for the fountain of youth, but that is not the case. Death will come and I will welcome it, but it will only claim me justly. And what just is a just death? One where the mind is prepared, and that is all. So I need a heavier weapon.

(Perform a Critical) [Squidocalypse] [07 Apr 2009|07:31am] Sleeping time: 10:30pm Waking Time: 6:55am Sleep Efficiency: 95% Dream [Squidocalypse] The world was showing signs of its end. The two suns began to pulsate in the sky and light began dancing around each sphere. I looked outside and watched as it worsened. Finally, black rain began to shower down. An old woman pulled me inside our house as we watched ink blots skewer our windows. :: No relevant dream data can be recalled.

(1 HP Reduction | Perform a Critical) Staycation [30 Mar 2009|08:52pm] [ music | UK Classical ] So my bosses leave; so my father leaves, So authority shall be curve-balled out of the window, glass-break-prison-break-spidercrack-shatterweb, so too, shall responsibility be thrown into the wavy rapids of my bloodstream, for you know-- responsibility is sometimes a tiny ship without a rudder; it will go on wherever wind and wave will guide, but we may be so inclined to be the cordial platelets who adhere to the sides of the ship, and, help us O Wise One, that such red barnacles may guide a ship so weak from crashing waves. Look! How the bedsheets waver against the post that sticks from its center, and yet, torn bedsheets like to wrap around the stick as if it still has a chance to catch a breeze, O how I pity the void of utility in this waving piece of fabric, how it wants to be relieved of its duty and yet, it becomes frighteningly injected with the Categorical Imperative, So, if I may speak "Bedsheet" briefly, having flown to take classes at the planet "Linen", may I ask this: What makes you think you can go on catching wind when there are holes all over? Did we ever use swiss cheese to swat flies? Or did we ever expect heavy-duty Kevlar with holes allow us to parry knives? No, the bedsheet says, no. I wrap around my post, tattered and useless, trying to participate in an effort without end, but my uselessness would be exacerbated further if I were to be adrift in the crimson sea, Why be useless away from my vessel; why be adrift on my own rather than adrift with my ship? These are the reasons behind my actions-- or you may call it my stubborn inclination of duty. Either way, you may find my option piss poor and undesirable, but note closely that even worse options exist to qualify our own detriments and appraise them as things that do not become classified in the lowest part of the spectrum. In other words, I will stay wrapped around my post, tattered and broken, but safe from the potentialities that are only several wave-crashes away.

(Perform a Critical) [Internet Woes] [26 Mar 2009|08:54am] Sleeping Time: 10:10pm Waking Time: 7:30am Sleep Efficiency: 80% Sleep Debt: 345 hours "Am I going to lose the internet when you disconnect this?" Deena said to me in a pleading voice. "You will, but that only means that you'll be getting internet of your own. And you won't be moving out," I said. We met in the white hallways of the old Arcadia Hotel, where many hallways were still cluttered by paintings leaning against the walls. I reassured her that nothing significant would change and that she would be ultimately retaining her home.

(Perform a Critical) Her bright eyes pierce me like earrings to cartilage. [05 Mar 2009|11:50pm] [ music | Suikoden II ] At times, I dream of the coffee lady pouring me green tea, at times, the ladies run into the cafe, clattering and chattering as they waltz into the room, one of them leans against the couch and we welcome her with arms wide open, because honestly, I had thought she had died and had lost her way, or vice versa, but she stood there like yesterday's dream; with her oversized purple joker coat and friendly beanie, she stood before us and spoke of her poetry and metaphysical acronyms that would cross illegal radio waves, and into the minds of children and adults those ideas would go, rumbling like longitudinal waves under undiscriminating land; both heavy marsh and dense forestry would shake with influence. She lives in a world where nothing is owned, but all is possessed. She possesses her pen and her mind, and money can purchase the former but never the contents of the latter. She walks among us, as if drunk, as if lucid, as if alert, as if struck by the arrow of cupid, and because she dances by with featherless gait, we remain to gulp, with our mouths, the tiny red hearts that float away from the piercing from her ass.

(6 HP Reductions | Perform a Critical) An Ode to Ancient Teleportation. [16 Feb 2009|10:25pm] You know? Sometimes I wish that the ground would just open up and engulf Milpitas and Fremont so that Union City and San Jose would be closer to each other. Then we would spend more time together.

(Perform a Critical) [Adria's Meatballs] [12 Feb 2009|09:57pm] Sleeping Time: 11:00pm Waking Time: 7:30am Sleep Efficiency: 100% Sleep Debt: 200 I snuck into Adria's house and all I could see was the television's lights bright up the living room. I looked as a little girl found me, lurking around the front door. She didn't seem scared, but went away quickly. Adria returned and I embraced her for a long time, wondering where she had been. We went into the kitchen and we began preparing different spaghetti sauces. We wanted to test the squishiness of the meatballs as they passed through the sauce. One after another, we threw meatballs against the pots full of tomato sauce and took careful note of how they sloshed. :: Dream Data: Arose from my desire to make pizza with tomato sauce; Facebook picture elicited the characters in my dream

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