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Lurking in . . .
"From the darkness, sleeping light." Formerly luminus dormiens. Lux pacis, light of peace.
Quote: "Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us." --Bill Watterson, cartoonist, Calvin and Hobbes
I have watched, with some delight, a program presented on PBS and Nova, the Elegant Universe. The idea of the String Theory gives me something to think about, but for me, though I am fascinated by philosophy and theories, I have no great ambition to think or wonder at the deep secrets that our universe holds.
For example, though I watch the String Theory, I am not at once held to be consumed days and nights by whether the string theory works. It is a theory for theoretical physicists, their plaything, in other words. I have my own playthings, for which I have no theories, only observations.
I am panicking right now.
I went to Fry's, a privately owned electronics company, to buy a pack of floppy disks with my mother. While she was away to look at some videos, I had the galling chance--while carrying the pack of disk in my arm--to run into some tall black and mexican, disgusting black and disgusting mexican, it is against them that I feel such sympathy for the whites. Though it is against these digusting, vile, hateful, white supremacists that I feel sympathy for no one but the people of good nature.
Why do I feel such hate? Let me explain, and you shall note how little this thing should matter, but you must understand, that in my perception, it matters my life.
I was just walking by checking the aisle, when I heard something of a remark that was said to me. I could not hear what they said, and they kept pointing at my feet or something. I looked down and looked back curious at what they find so attractive about me.
Then they looked away and I knew at the point that they were just "picking on me," an apt phrase of the aptest mind.
I felt so powerless because I didn't hear what they said. I felt so powerless because I fell for their tricks. I felt so powerless because I could not simply attack, or verbal assert myself, or do anything against them. I felt so powerless because I had no support. I felt so powerless, as any minority would, against the dark beings that would abuse this power. I felt so powerless that I felt within me a rage that only those of victims and of masculine energy could feel.
But I suppressed this rage. I held it down, and now this rage is fomenting. I must sleep on this rage, or otherwise I will find myself unable to sleep. I must push it aside so that tomorrow I will think about it and consider it almost childish, as I always had every single time that an anger has happened to me. Like Homer Simpson, I was simply feeling priggish.
But then, I am not sleeping now, and I am still wondering what that black man had said. The childish, fiendish, Christian, bandana wearing, racist little-on-the-inside thug, who actively seek support from his troupe of also-thugs, from Mexico, from Guatemala, from Panama, from those mulattoes of Spanish and Native/Aztec/Mayan origins. They don't deserve to live, and they don't deserve to go to heaven.
Whether or not I believe in heaven obviously situates a belief in whether I should dole out God's justice upon man...
After all, if reincarnation is possible, or if that when we die, our consciousnesses join the larger consciousnesses, where do these thugs of testicles-deprived, for whom I would not care a thistle if they had not taken this split in the space-time continuum in that particular space, in that particular time, in that particular meeting of the consciousness, go? Where indeed? For if I am to join with these thugs in the larger consciousness, I would sooner annihilate the world.
I am young, and I am male. I am short-tempered, easy to provoke to purplish rage. I have not reached, nor do I intend to, the state of enlightenment that allow me to forgive, accept, and transcend suffering and evil. Indeed, that is where the hearts of humans lie. The callous nature with which he simply picked me out as a target, where he couldn't care less about me, and decide to treat me with the same treatment as a playful boy would putting a solution of NaCl upon an earthworm.
Salt on an earthworm. Who let these men breed? Why does God put me upon this fragile earth to find them so attractive, so bringing up such hormonal charge, that I cannot be but victim to the senses of eyes, noses, skins, tongues, and ears? I should not dare to exclude women for fear of being sexist, or perhaps even, feminist. It is an unfortunate thing that women are weaker to men no matter how much they try to deny this fact. Otherwise, why hear we so little of them? Why do they tolerate such evils?
For there is an evil, whether they can by psychology be explained, by science be eradicated, that exists always, that cannot be forgiven. For there is an evil that must suffer, for there is an evil that must be isolated, put into jail, destroyed, killed, tortured, knived, stabbed, suffocated, jagged, electrocuted, paper-slit, exposed to all the virulent infections of the history of humankind.
Therein lie the rub. For if I should so think such violent thought upon which I could place a simple-minded man, what is to differentiate me from them? What is there to separate me from Hitler? For Hitler did so hate the Jews, or his perception of them as business-owners, money-grubbers, greedy thieves, that with his charms, he won over the country of Germany, and his party of Nazis, and invaded many European countries through which he could impose his hatred of the Jews and the "final solution" that would so become the polarizing point of the world, in other words, Israel.
Having watched the development of my argument from discussing the nature of a girlfriend-less thug to the nature of man to my violent desire against them to finally Hitler and Israel, I must remark that my mind is my mind is my mind.
In other words, the point was that we must tolerate to the best extent other people. The world is far too complex a place to ever be able to ascertain who was right or wrong.
Carefully Discarded Words: To look for the quote above, go to the letter T.
Autumn comes, but the leaves stay on the tree.
Tell me why . . . you make it so hard for me to die?
Now my woe and my depression are raging,
Led to the tip of the iceberg,
Up to the weeping sky.
You ignored me, with such violent silence
That without repose,
I find in my chest such heavy weight
As that would kill a light-hearted one.
Why did you treat me to such happy,
Then, nothing but silence,
Nothing, no response at all?
I had a hope, and that hope was dashed today.
Kids Play: an article on kids of age 11 playing games from the 80's and the 9... link borrowed from Little. Yellow. Different.
Open source encyclopedia for all your research need.
Broadcom BCM4301 Drivers for Linux Petition
Petition for Broadcom to either 1) release information for the Broadcom chipset or 2) create a driver for the Broadcom chipset to be used by all alternative-operating system aficionado.
Perhaps because of the communication class I'm taking, I've now apparently developed a kind of arrogance too well familiar to me, that apparently I find myself knowledgeable about how conflicts should be solved.
Whether I am qualified about lecturing on the nature of conflict is something I should never consider thinkable. I am not majoring in communication studies, nor am I thinking of doing so. I am not even majoring in political science, though I am interested in politics.
Yet, I have found it amazing to discover within myself the self-confidence that any conflict between nations can be solved if people would enter an argument not with the concept of a win-lose argument, but a win-win argument or a compromise.
It does nothing to recognize that there are some people who take such immense pleasure in winning at all costs, that all is lost when trying to win. And any attempts made at compromise is often perceived as a weakness.
Even now, even as I say that I recognize my own arrogance, I still have it within me to rationalize out of this rationalization.
I sometimes marvel how liberal my mother could seem to be. She was telling me this story about her manager being very impatience, about her former manager who was demoted and yet continued to act pompous and all-knowing when he is just an ignoramous, akin to Dilbert's manager, full of sound and fury, and you know the rest.
That was not the point of the story, I just like to tell you that. But I'm getting closer to explaining why I am mentioning my mother's liberal streak. What was going on, was that I asked her about my dad's boss. (They work for the same Wells Fargo Company, Mom as programmer, Dad as technical consultant.)
In the times that Mom met Dad's manager (f.), in party and social gatherings she said that the manager was very nice and soft-spoken. Here is the dialogue, dramatized for the time allotted:
"I've had many managers, so I'm used to it. But your dad's manager was a nice person," she said and chuckled. "Some people said she was a lesbian."
I raised my eyebrows in interest in what my good dear mother had to say. She continued, "But you know, I don't care about her personal life, but the way she works with people is very important."
Sometimes I marvel at how liberal my mom seems to be. Yet I do wonder, but do you care about my personal life? What about me? Do you care if I were to just find a boy with whom to live? Do you care to such extent that you refuse to accept that I am that I am, not that I am what I was? That I, my body, require a different ingredient, a different recipe, a different something, for my happiness?
For those who care about what was already known for thousands of years and yet cannot be explained.
My cousin, his mother and father, three of whom live quite close to us, moved away last week, to Hercules. It's a town in northeast of the San Francisco Bay Area. It's an hour drive, so I visiting him or he to me is very much in doubt, or very much less frequent than what little that I see of him.
Let this be known as true: I did not really like his hyperactive personality, nor did I enjoy having difficulty communicating with him. I did enjoy having that special attachment that he felt for me and I for him, which are the consequences of the lack of brotherhood. We both share the same pod, which is that we live in one-child households.
He is eight years old. He is young, enthusiastic, disappointed to move away, and excited to move into a house where he has a room of his own. In the previous two-bedroom house, the mother and the father had each a separate and equal room, to do with what they would. Neither was willing to give up their own room. The father's room was messy, unsanitary, uncleanable. There was a fish tank, there was a desk, I think, under all the mess of paperwork, computer parts, and an old medical skull. He is a nurse, not of the attractive kind, and on reserve by the United States Navy.
The mother's room, in contrast, was her workplace. What was there, was simply a computer, a drawer of clothes, and a bookshelf full of, well, books. When my cousin was born to that household, the mother's room overflowed with books on babies, and with baby toys. She works as a business owner, a steady, small accounting firm.
The house in general is messy. What tables there are, of coffees, of dinner, of kitchen cabinets, are teeming not with life but toys, forgotten, used-once, or broken. The garage is no less messy, no less teeming with "stuff," gadgets, trains, lovely things that Uncle bought for himself. The attic is ever no better, no worse. Model trains, run along the attic floor, games of childhood strewn across.
Even in the television set, with the stereo system, received no less than harsh treatment from the ravages of laziness. CD-Roms, DVDs (he bought every single hits), some lay disorganized, others organized are with haste put in CD cases and put in bookshelf. What was there in the bookshelf before was obviously displaced to make room. Cables line the back of the television, the stereo, the video. The computer, through which the TV would be the monitor, sits there idly waiting to be used as a DVD player, and yet itself is just as messy. Programs are thrown across the desktop of Windows 98. Start-up folder is littered with programs that just gobble up system resource.
My God, that house was the character of messiness. Its occupants the epitomes.
Now they move away. And I this post write, without an interesting story to tell.
I heard it said Aunt would have preferred a daughter. I say that no matter what, nothing could have been done to save that house.
MSN Local Cityguides
"Now, what my love is, proof has made you know;
And as my love is sized, my fear is so:
Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;
Where little fear grow great, great love grows there."
Because I believe in giving credit where credit's due, the link to the previous post was "borrowed" from the link above.
I could possibly become Republican if they supported but one thing, protect the environment. However that is done, through regulation or through emission-credit-trading, I could potentially vote Republican.
It's possible, after I've been reading the ideas of the Republicans, having grown up with Democratic values with such vehement loathing of Republicans, viewing them as bigoted group of individuals, that I actually have within myself Republican ideals.
But that doesn't mean I will vote Republican, it depends on what I've learned to transcend in thoughts and feelings and souls of the moment.
BART, which I walked toward with a heavy look, I rode nonchalantly. During my nap, I ignored the shuffle of people that came and left on the train. Were I of a better health, I would have been much fascinated, as any gay boy would, watching the to-and-fro over which we have no control nor any interest.
There was a boy with a bicycle and a headphone, I think. He got on from Balboa, or somewhere, and got off somewhere. I paid him no mind, though I sneaked a look on his body once in a while.
There was this woman, there was this man, there was this couple, there was this troupe of friends, this Chinese, that Hindu. All the while, I dozed, trapped between this state of sickness that I know my body tries with all its might to survive and this state of reasoning that tried to observe (as in out of body experience) and yet incessantly drifting off into dreamy sleep.
What strange time we live in, that we are so nonchalant that we cannot say as one famous man said, "Life has no better things than this," when he rode on a horse before the horse-less carriage came along.
"Oft expectations fail, and most oft there,
Where most it promises and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest and despair most fits."
I might as well have been warned longer time ago. But apparently, I can't get online because I'm using a Broadcom chipset, of which its company refuses to release information on to allow Linux programmers to develop a driver for it.
And on IRC, I was told it was practically not worth reverse engineering.
Ahh, so I can either buy a new card, or wait until a driver for it in Linux is finally released.
Until then, my purpose for getting online through Linux has been stalled indefinitely.
In the bookstore of London, I saw an old man, who after wandering back and forth, looking at puzzles and other miscellanies, finally went to the Gay and Lesbian Section to look at some books before leaving, rather half-heartedly, by walking up the stairs slowly.
I developed a full essay of explaining my feeling, but I've decided not to do that. Precisely because the silence is in and of itself evoking a full spectrum of bathos that reflects an insight into one color prism of my life.
I didn't realize I put in Prop 54 as the title in my previous post. I was supposed to say that this California Prop 54, I don't support it at all.
It's supposed to ban putting in records people's races, and supposedly exempt the medical community from the ban.
I don't know whether I support Proposition 54. It sounds good on principles, but I'm tired to getting laws being pushed by an overly conservative Republican party, which Proposition 54 is, basically. While I don't support discrimination on the basis of skin color, I'm so-so on racial profiling, leaning against, and dislike of Proposition 54.
Unbelievably, I am not sure with which party I stand, because I am beginning to find myself growing ever more conservative, ever more faithful in the belief that solutions can be solved not by violent means, but by stern leadership of a benevolent tyrant.
Does it not make sense that the only reason Americans had succeeded in governing themselves was because, most of them, if not all, wanted to be law-abiding citizens of their respective home states? Where but that they had to work together could they not have succeeded except in America? Together, because the pilgrims which we honor in Thanksgiving came to America hopelessly unprepared, and suffered to succeed only because they must work together and develop tolerance for other religions to forge the country to which we belong?
On the 19th of September, 2003, when I woke up early in the morning and decided to take a refreshing walk. I was approached by a disgusting whore. Even worse, the fact that she was black has created within me a stereotype which must live.
If I had to have my illusion of London broken, why must it be in this way. Recently, I just looked up that London was famous for being the lands of the harlots, and I am just the tourist for that.
I must say that I am incurious of whether I should be flattered or not that I was approached as an easily gullible and easily tempted man to whom a request for sex may be made.
Still, the manner in which she approached me is so horrid and vile and beyond all descriptions and all perceptions I have in my entire life. And this on a supposedly sane, innocent, and safe part of a megapolitan. I will describe how:
I was walking at 7:15, a time which was definitely abnormally early for me, on a fairly busy street, going up to King's Cross station (which you Harry Potter fans may remember as the station through which Harry, Ron and Ginny must cross nine and three-quarter to get to Hogwarts Express).
Suddenly, a disgusting woman walked up directly to me. I saw her and tried to look away. She wore this pink sweatshirt shawl over her head, and had a slight scar across the side, which is the only thing I see, and attempted to see of her. And yet, this horrid and vile woman for some obscene reasons picked me out as a target toward which she would direct her request this way and that. The street was noisy, some things I could not hear, but one I would always remember was the cruelest thing that sears and burns in my mind forever:
She lifted her hands, and with her finger beckoned me closer and then she said ominously, "Come closer. I am going to give you a fuck." I was slightly bemused by this turn of event, I had hoped to avoid any semblance of the meaner sort of sexuality that plague all forms of society in my vacationing there.
Oh, horrible, horrible, horrible, horrible. This is even worse than death. How can such a creature exist? And yet, even though I call her a creature, how could she not be but human? Sometimes, in my wonder at the piece of work that is a man, I wonder what stuff, experience, education, systems could have conjured such a destiny in her that she would willingly, perhaps even wantingly, be the sex object to the ravenous, depraved little man? I had thought she would want donation, to which I could firmly reject, but no, it had to be the f-word, fuck, fuck, fuck. I will give you a fuck. I'm going to give you a fuck. You're going to get fucked. There's nothing but a fuck, a fuck, a disgusting little fuck. A word that is of 16th century coinage, and it is this word thrown at me by this horrid and vile little woman.
After she muttered something and walked away, I shifted my gaze around in the hope that no one had seen me. Alas, that was not the case. A truck, with two men in there, one the driver, and the other the passenger. And that passenger, damn him with all the might God has, gestured to me that I should "go for it." Damn him, damn, damn!
The quintessence! Shattered, by this old hag! The wonderful (sob!) theory of communication as an interactive process! Shattered by that horrid and vile, ignorant and filthy, old and wrinkled, disgusting and depraved man!
Oh, horrible, most horrible! Horrible! Horrible! That I should my innocence lose by this! That it should come to this! That it should, in the greatest paeans, songs and dances, of the future of humanity, of the general improvements of civilization, come to an end by this horrid anomaly, this dark side that God, in his benevolence, created.
Oh, flights of angels, sing to me. Oh, saints, bring me from this! Oh, God! I do not know if I could ever have faith in you, except that I could not cease to believe in you!
Sometimes, I even wonder, if it was a man, and he was of a handsome sort, whether I would ever consent to a sexual act . . . Of course, the nature of this is different. Usually, that is acquired through the so called backroom, or the bathhouse, and so forth.