Waffling in THREE dimensions.

Saturday, December 30, 2006


I am watching Geraldo At Large. I am ashamed. I had my hopes set on watching the oddities of celebrities, but my shower took too long. The time would pass, their faces become distorted and contorted, not beautiful at all. I must watch a freak show of a different kind now. Oh, Geraldo, you expose the most hideous of evils; the wrongs of undercover investigations revealing pedophiles in Murphy, Texas. Oh Dateline, what have you done to that man who was so ashamed that he was compelled to kill himself? The town is outraged...or ashamed?? Geraldo brings out the worst in everything, currently my writing. He says hazing has gone horribly wrong, I disagree; it looks like they were doing some high quality hazing. Geraldo, your dateline commercials bring me to shame, and the "Red Hot guys" are totally gay. So completely red-hot they have burst into flames. "One wearing fairy wings was incoherent," Geraldo says. I love Geraldo At Large. Perhaps a greater guilty pleasure than Maury.

I thought I saw one, in the water. I couldn't tell through the undulations. It's been so long since I've seen fleas, I can't recall size comparisons. The cat, which hated me so before, has become friendly. I struggle to resist, but amicable animals always avail. I mean prevail, but I could not resist the alliteration either. It's aging: we acquired it months after the dog, which has since deceased. It can't escape lifts and scoops, poor creature. Ethan menaced to push it off the table. Kirsten says I've made a new friend, but will that friendship persevere fleas? At least she doesn't crawl into my bed and wake me up. Growling in my ear. Stepping on my face. I have a stuffy nose that can keep me up instead. I wondered if my long shower could be a delouser, I doubt my shampoo has anti-parasitic components. A useless ritual.

I had all these grand thoughts. Thoughts I thought were grand, but I can't recall them. Thoughts on my father and other turbulent matters. The television is distracting. I should have more to report, being Christmas Break. But I do so little. So so little. I worry about censoring myself, having learned that I have a "readership." Holy crap, Geraldo signs off with the peace sign. Late nights bring out the worst in people. But I don't want to go to bed.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I cannot say that I am looking forward to my birthday, as I am not expecting anything profound. Perhaps reading Walden made me less materialistic, or I may naturally desire few things, or I may have forgotten my principle desires, but in any case I am not holding my breath. Those with the means to supply me with those two chief desires I hold to, have expressed their denial of them. Given the great deal of work necessary to reach my birthday, I haven't much time to ponder it, although I found the thought of "not really wanting anything for my birthday" quite alarming for a time. For the time being, I have been anticipating my birthday as the end of an epoch. This downhill slide to the new semester has forged a much more tenacious beast, for which M2 has suffered. I fill a slight twinge of guilt, but in the moment it is easy to ignore, especially such times as he would bid by watching Yu-Gi-Oh. When I tried to locate an image of the aspect of Yu-Gi-Oh I despise most, I could find no such bestiary, though I must maintain that the "Thousand-Eyes Restrict," as I learned it to be called, looks like a giant floating penis monster. Fans of the show seem oblivious to this fact, or I am inserting penises into anime. Either theory is valid.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Things Ain’t What They Used To Be

I remembered that Christmas concert far too well. I went to it last night. The Santa, who I recognized as a trumpeter named Dave though I had never actually met him, scolded us, jollily, for being FA100 students that wouldn’t have gone for any other reason. It’s true; I probably wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Going to concerts alone has never been my thing, rather going out in the cold at all has never been my thing, and I did have a date. She needed to attend one more performance for her Jazz and The Humanities class, plus the orchestral event requirement Santa mentioned. It bothered me: for once, Santa was right.

A year before, I was in that band, playing that concert. I was pleasantly surprised that they only repeated one song from the year prior, a Jingle-Bells iteration by the popular Glenn Miller, of whom I have never been a fan. Aside from a nerve-wracking piece where I was the featured soloist for about half the song, it was a very enjoyable concert, very family oriented. Frosty the Snowman, Santa, last year Chewbacca, this year Rudolph all came. We were all expected to make it more ‘fun’ (though I did not consider it at the time to be), which led to some unfortunate oldster being cascaded by my indeterminate volleys of candy when Santa came to town.

I had been in that band; I’m not in any bands now. My grandmother found that hard to believe. Sometimes, I do too. The truth is, it stopped being fun. That is a gross oversimplification. And an untruth, I think. But there must be some truth in it, or I would not be able to regurgitate it so easily without getting sick. And if I hated it so much then, why was Santa making me feel nostalgic now?

My parents kept asking me all summer when they were going to hear me practice, after all I had auditions coming up first day of classes and I should be ready. They never did. At summer’s end, my father confronted me with a lecture about procrastinating or something, it was one I’d heard enough to forget. I was in the kitchen, no escape, cornered between a rock and a dishwasher. I confessed that I was no longer interested in pursuing music at this time and admitted that I should have told them sooner but was afraid that they would be disappointed, which they were more so for my putting it off. When they asked specific reasons I scapegoated unpleasant relationships with previous band directors, a partial appeasement.

I come from a musical family. My father played drums in his small town high school. I am often astonished by the propensity of skills my siblings and I display in respect to my parents who I have never considered exceptionally talented. When one rivalry ended my sister had taken the visual arts and comedy, myself the fields of music and academics without considerable effort on either front. I maintain that I am the superior wordsmith, but this may only because Amanda predominately writes pulp adventures with themes rehashed from the television she watches. Though, my sisters play trumpet and flute respectively, music was always sort of my thing. It was what set me apart among my cousins, what we invited my grandparents to see whenever possible, though they struggled to understand “the jazz”. My parents encouraged us to join the band because it would give us “a place to belong.” I’m not sure it was ever really our choice to belong or not.

My mother played flute through her middle school career and retired in that transition that catches so many young musicians. I heard her once blame braces. She would bring out her flute every year Christmas morning, but she stopped some years ago, whether this was because my youngest sister, who had started on the instrument, or even myself, because the fingerings transferred across our respective instruments, were now able to best her. It may have been the shouting match we had when I was in middle school that pushed her over the edge. She said I was wasting my natural talent. I thought it terribly rash to quit over my adamant refusal to continue to participate in a parade with the high school music outreach program. She had been volunteering at CHOMP, as the acronym was called, as the flute instructor at the request of a family friend, the new band director.

I did CHOMP every year I could, it seemed, and quit before it was finished with the same regularity. I even volunteered a few times while I was in high school, but always for selfish reasons with the same conclusion. It was because of CHOMP that I ever started playing. I was playing with my Lego’s in my room when a parent peaked in and asked if I’d like to play an instrument, I shrugged and with a “sure” dismissed them from my presence. It was the single most decisive indecision I have ever had the pleasure to be disinterested in. A parent brought me to the fledgling CHOMP and introduced me to the various instruments. Having “learned” a portion of the recorder in elementary school, something with similar fingerings seemed ideal, as that would be three less fingerings to learn. I picked the saxophone.

The saxophone is an instrument of curious workmanship. It uses bass clarinet reads, flute key-work, the neck of a bassoon, and a body made of brass: The platypus of music. I’ve been told there was a feature from the oboe inserted, but the illustrious qualities of the oboe have always eluded me in both retention and discovery. It is relatively new, invented in the 1840s, and was intended for military and orchestral bands. It came in some 14 variations, of which only about 5 ½ remain in use, all of which more so in the idiom of jazz than anything else. I eventually grew to prefer the Bb tenor sax to the horn I had cut my teeth on, the Eb Alto, which now sits derelict in my room.

I detest Jim Dunlop. I am an anomaly in this; most people celebrate him as one of their most influential educators, and I cannot deny that he is influential but I would contest that it was in an adverse way in my instance. Certain alumnus will visit every opportunity for some years to come. I regret that I also fall victim to the gravity of that band room, but only because my sister doesn’t have her license. While I know I should put it all behind me, I am far too tenacious to allow it. Petty rifflings like “you hold grudges like a girl” do little to sway me, and it is doubtful that an apology would either. I can recall only one time when I ever received an apology from him, and it had been prompted by an irate phone call from my mother, who was probably more upset than I ever could have been over such a solo.

I had the distinct disadvantage of being a member of the few Mormons in the Mormon band director’s program. It is a curious religion populated by mavericks and missionaries, all of whom delight in being called peculiar, although I believe they are the only ones to still use the word and perhaps ever to have described themselves with it. As one of the fringier religions, it was custom to be scrutinized by peers, to be judged by a higher standard. There would be gossip if we slipped a swear, our actions had connotations that echoed through that hall, and our director knew our parents, he played volleyball with my dad, we were held to a higher standard on all accounts. I didn’t care for that, but it was nice to have somewhere to belong.

The high school band was, with few exceptions, fairly good to me as a musician, up until senior year. It feels ludicrous to explain that while I was arguably the second best tenor saxophonist of my class in the state I played second chair in my high school jazz band. I made little effort with the audition piece at the beginning of that year, because I was the best. I played the piece with a few flaws that I had never strained myself to work out, but with a low volume, which was his biggest complaint in my playing the season prior. When the other player auditioned much louder (and with little else), she received the first chair, perhaps to teach me a lesson about arrogance or following instructions. He may have misjudged my character, though it seems very unlikely given the circumstances. I never challenged for the part; the opportunities he presented for that purpose were quite obfuscated. Though my peers continued to ask if I would challenge Xiang, the (un)fortunate overworked, overstressed girl who was handed the part meant for me, I would always declined; I couldn’t do it to her. She was nice, which made it all the most frustrating, and just a little delicious, whenever Dunlop would ask me why I wasn’t soloing and I would reply, “there aren’t any chords in the second tenor part.”

Playing inferior parts was not rewarding, and became less so as Dunlop continued to select songs I had played my sophomore year, on the lead alto part. They were boring and I craved amusement. I shared my frustrations with my peers and we found ways to occupy our minds in ways our music was not. Things became worse, or rather felt infinitely worse, after All-State. Having tasted the nectar of the gods, how could we return to the poor packets Dunlop offered us? At one point, the tension between the director and myself was great enough to quit, but I didn’t; I didn’t want to be a quitter, yet I have only played once in the past eight months.

The fiasco that was senior year was compounded by the experiences I had the summer prior. One of Dunlop’s offshoot programs, a version of CHOMP for the summer, was finally picking up steam and he wanted an admirable jazz band to be showcased, which required a more competent director, Mr. McKelvey. We sounded good; for a bunch of white kids from the suburbs whose bluest thought was that we were a bunch of white kids from the suburbs. I spent the hours after that concert lying on my girlfriend’s couch, trying to recover from a solo.

…If you can call it recovering, for it is really more like coagulating. For a brief moment, existence lights up, stored potential energy is released as burning sound. Many students are burned by this experience, others, like myself, enjoy playing with those scented candle solos, melting different parts of the wax. It is difficult to explain what happens during a solo, with the feelings of elation, fear, and some otherworldly feeling; but the result will be either satisfying, forgetful, or a failure. As I was coagulating on her couch, letting my fingers and knees harden that they might be useful again at some later point, I tried to figure out which it was. I tried to remember what happened, it was all a blur. There is so much to remember during a solo, patterns and other gimmicks useful to trick the audience into thinking you are competent, and much more you cannot learn but must experience, imbibe until it becomes intuitive. The gift and curse of improvisation is that it is temporary, allowing for infinite corrections and mistakes, which is of no consolidation after a solo feature.

I still feel pretty good about that ballad, I’ve Just Seen Her. A classmate had said it even “sounds like a Derek-song.” Mr. McKelvey remarked on day that if I continued to improve at the same rate I had between the last classes, “we’d be in business.” If a word exists for such a statement that both esteems and humbles a man, I wish I to learn it someday. I tried to uphold my end, spending more time working it out than I can recall (it blurs in the same way soloing does), listening to the same track on repeat, trying to play it along the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, failing miserably, but by less each attempt. That is called progress.

The concert was on a Thursday; we were to meet briefly on Friday to pass in our music and have a debriefing on the performance. Mr. McKelvey, whose high school jazz program is nationally ranked, gave us a little motivational speech about “musical highs,” which I understand to be much better than runner’s highs. I eagerly nodded my head in agreement, thinking I knew the rush he was describing that would get us so “hooked” that we “would never quit.” But I question now what I knew then.

The occasional fantasies of playing in the band of a late night talk show aside, I have never considered music as a viable career option, but I still forecast a greater portion of music classes, they have incredible GPA buoyancy. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just had to get in something to fulfill the needs of the scholarship I had received, only after I rejected it, then received a larger offer a few weeks later. It would pay for lessons and then some. Private lessons: the musical equivalent of braces, without which the masters still became masters, and say things like “Don't play the saxophone. Let it play you. This is our scripture.

The “practice rooms” the housing sheet had described were really just “storage rooms.” After one was emptied sufficient to put a piano in, a very boyish man asked me to not use them in the evening because people were trying to sleep. I had been assigned to the “quiet floor,” and the boy-man promptly would promptly shush me at ten any night or Sunday. I was not a Music major, I had no idea how the practice rooms in the music building worked, so I just did not use them, except right before auditions.

I could never be an actor. I do not have the sort of expressive face with impeccable complexion required, or the desire to acquire an admirable physique at the expense of leisure time, and I’d break scene constantly. But more so, I am terrified of rejection. I wasn’t afraid of public speaking until I recognized the face of contempt on my classmates following an excessively detailed exposition on Isaac Newton, who really wasn’t that interesting and it made them late to the library. But auditions are so much worse than a presentation. Speeches allow for a natural flow of voice, and a few stutters may be forgiven, but the stutters of music squeak, squawk, murmur, and moan, make children cover their ears. Oration has the advantage of being a natural condition of mankind begun in infancy, the want to share ideas in a coherent fashion, but there is nothing natural about pressing a tube of metal to your face and making your body perform multivariable calculus; it is pantomiming public speaking. Auditions are a horrible rush, roller coasters without lap-bars. It’s a verdict without appellate. You’re not simply wrong, but more wrong than someone else, ranked by wrongness. I know of no other discipline held to a standard so high as music, in which the timing of breath has such a measure of perfection, aside from medicine, which has the definite advantage of having insurance.

Band directors are scheming manipulators. All educators are, why else would arbitrary number be assigned to performance, itself an entirely subjective thing, if not for some manner of coercion. It is a system of incentives, with prestige (and currency) for the teacher and accreditations for the student. Would any remember Socrates if not for the prestige his pupil Plato attained? I do not intend to destroy the system in my words, however corrupt it may be, as it has benefited me. Despite admittance in the All-State jazz band, my confidence has never permitted me to accept that I won entry into the top-tier jazz band, Sound Alliance, without some of this director corruption. They groom people, constantly; they play favorites.

The day after auditions I called home. My mother was ecstatic. She wanted to tell everyone she could, but wanted my permission first, as if it mattered to me. She called weekly that semester, providing updates on things that could have been recapped later. “I told Dunlop you made the top jazz band. He seemed genuinely impressed.” Not proud, impressed. Like he really didn’t believe.

We recorded a CD. Someday I’d like to hear it, but I am not holding my breath. He said I needed to work on my breathing, my professor in all areas of music, which had shrunk at semester to the jazz band exclusively. That I had a small lung capacity, which I added to the list of quirks in my anatomy that have been secretly fighting me all along, and seemed to include the entirety of my vocal and respiratory systems. His prescription was to take up swimming, which I find terrifying. I find him terrifying. To me, he stands as a giant, easily six feet in stature; Polyphemus set to devour me at any moment. Each week we discover new some error in my tradition to rectify, to tear down and rebuild, and it seems we will never reach them all. I loathe lessons and their destructive nature that leaves me so self-aware, so naked in my playing. He asks me, “What are the two ways to get rid of a bad habit?” “Let it fade or just power-through.” It was the right answer. And the answer to what I was asking myself. It was the reason I quit.

My most immediate roommate cheers whenever he sees a clarinetist on TV; he says it is his instrument. “Played or plays?” tangent roommate asks. “Plays.” Like the television he watches, I suspect that to be a lingering pathetic fantasy, but I have never met a man who more exemplified the clarinet than him.

A family wedding brought my parents into the region, they called in weeks prior to ask if I’d like one of my saxophones brought when they came, I gave them a list of things. I thought it’d be nice to have around, incase I ever got the urge to practice.

I pulled it out. It had been a long time. I’d forgot how shiny it was, much more so than the tenor I usually played, or the tenor I was told to play. I couldn’t remember which reed was “good”; they’re probably wasn’t one, only various degrees of worse and used, all were warped and covered with tiny hairs from the case lining. The half-used box of reeds was labeled medium-hard; I shouldn’t be playing on those. I assembled the alto, Mr. Bandersnatch was his name, and pressed it to my lips. It struggled, the neck strap jumped, but I wouldn’t let it escape. It wasn’t like I remembered. It was an awkward embrace; a reunion of past lovers, the kind in movies with happy endings, but there was no intimacy between my instrument and myself. It was rape.

In the evening, adjacent roommate knocks on my door. We have thin walls, he’s recovering from a cold, he wants to verify that he wasn’t hallucinating I think. He asks how long I’ve played, fifth grade. “I don’t get to practice much with Mike sleeping all the time,” I go on to blame other things like the thin walls and not wanting to wake the managers’ baby. I justify it to myself with excuses that I’m a tenor player. I’ve never liked practicing where other people can hear me. They always revere it as some sort of art form, but it’s not. I don’t stare at them as they study.

These events haunt me for some time, as awkward conversations with roommates tend to be analyzed over and over, perhaps that they might reveal some snack bandit or toilet paper alliance. I discuss them with my girlfriend as we leave the bookstore, where I imagine they will have that CD at some point that I might have some record that I played in college, that I had not squandered my time with music having accomplished something substantial. I see a familiar face, no doubt my girlfriend thinks I was checking out some pretty face again, but it was something she was carrying.

“I thought…she…played alto…she switched to tenor…huh…” I’m not making sense. I notice more faces. “The jazz band’s up here...” She prevents any flight I might have taken, asking, “Is that bad?” “No, it’s just…” They recognize me before I can say awkward and I hope that it does not become so. While the tenor player has always been unapproachable, the alto player warmly greets me; they ask prepositions about my life. Responses are rushed as we are traveling inversely to each other, I promise to email them before I feel a jestful elbow from that professor.

“I’ve been going to all your concerts; they’re been great”

“Good. Come back and play”

If nothing else, my GPA could use the boon.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

A State of Decay

Someone did not flush the toilet. If they do should not be bothered to flush, why should I? If not bothered to flush, why should I bother to aim? To buy toilet paper? To use the toilet at all? Such is the slippery slope on which we dwell. Only a week remains, and it is not my duty to clean that facility, why should I care? Sometimes it is hard to. I plan to put a soup tabula in the shower head tonight during the night, as I do not plan to sleep for the second instance this week. I dismiss my fears, the night lends me solace.

I watched the game they play called "Battleship," a game of swamping canoes in the school pool. Items may be employed to block or lob water as according to some rules, which I have but a rudimentary understanding of. My mind reeled. I saw that the more skittish ships survived longer being out of reach of the other vessels for a greater portion than the others, as the event seemed to be a timed match and I cannot be sure what the rules of participation require of engagement. I imagined canoes powered by cranks connected to Archimedes' screws to shovel in water at an alarming rate in close proximity. Canoes stranded in the center of the pool were reduced to using hands and paddles with pitiful results. Surely, a pole would be of no use; they would never allow for a gondolier in such a tiny pool, neither would it fling with any ease or safety. I began to think some sort of Jai alai raquet (I know little of the sport and had to search extensively to anything of it) would be quite useful as it would make both an effective paddle and weapon. I tire of this for now, perhaps when I know more about this game I shall post more at some later time. My enduring roommates have begun the movie "Finding Neverland," and I shall be up quite late tonight, I am not very thrilled presently.

Sunday, December 10, 2006


I had a most devious thought during a heart retching, for all who love quality in their music, rendition of "Silent Night". One of those thoughts that once planted, supplants all previous opinions regarding a topic. It is one of those things I like to share with people every so often, because I am an awful person, to watch their reaction, sometimes to justify my position in regard to something they enjoy. Like when someone asks if I would like some eggs, I always shake my head sadly and say to them, "No, I don't eat eggs, and it saddens me that you do. Would you eat any woman abortion? Why then do you eat the hen's?" The wiser ovivore, a word which i feel to be true in its description but can find no accreditation to, would correct me at this point saying that not all eggs are fertilized, in fact most commercial eggs are not, and it would be more akin to menstruation. Whatever comparison will be made between menstruation and abortion, I choose the latter in my comparison because of its potent cultural oomf. But I have digressed, in my searching for the word ovivore through wikis and dictis, so I propose to lay down the thought (though not as eloquently as I would hope) which I first thought of during the meetings in a brief respite form the lecture on obeying the honor code in its nth reiteration. Whenever the song "Silent Night" is sung, be sure to not think about it applying to stillbirths. It totally ruins it.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006


I worry that she can't escape herself. Everyone should escape themselves: we are all awful people. I receive text messages late at night asking if I ever get tired of everything. Yes, I do. That's when I go to sleep. Get lost in dreams. Happy dreams, sad dreams, scary dreams, sexy dreams, super dreams, confused dreams. I could ramble about the necessity of following dreams, or just remembering them, the reasons we have them, superficial ramblings. They are important, and let's leave it.

I am a strong believer in the importance of deriving happiness from something, happiness wells, or if you will, happy little trees. I left my radio on Saturday, kept telling the alarm clock to keep trying long after I was stirring, to keep my roommate away. Near noon, a man was talking about brainwashing ourselves into positive habits. I heard John Tesh on M2's radio talk about similar things, but he misused the word habit, thinking it was any bad thing that you tend to do rather than a conditioned response. He used the example of misplacing the keys instead of placing the keys, which would be a habit unlike the prior. But I do not mean to talk about Tesh, I will add it to my list of grievances against M2 and continue with my story about the first radio-man. He spoke of the natural tendency to prefer whatever mental mindset is most comfortable, most familiar, even if not the most enjoyable. I see this is in many people, especially M2. I should not share with you the details of his heavy breathing, his hypochondria, and the general aura of discomfort he exudes. But know that I was quite satisfied this morning when he flumbled out of bed to scramble to the phone call telling him he was late for work, just an hour after his snoring had woken me. Which reminds me I need to remember to completely close my eyes when feigning sleep, so I can avoid the cliche comments like "Welcome to the land of the living" which he spouts at every opportunity, no doubt feeling clever for his utterance likely derived from some forgotten entertainments.

I, for one, with no intention of boasting, am doing quite well, in the fuller sense of the words. I have all the appropriate targets of animosity which I desire, which provide abundant malice for me to malign. A hatred set to simmer is my most comfortable mindset.I feel I am slightly behind in some of my schoolwork and have developed awful fall backs of morning math homework, but have resolved not to let this affect me negatively, although that is dependent of perspective and probably not the wisest decision, it is still mine to make. And in comparing myself to others (and do not pretend that you do not do the same) my luck is quite sufficient for my needs, and my ability to fling the most negative of truths, those that people don't wish to have noticed but are readily observed, have been of great use recently. I gave an impromptu lecture to some of my friends, which led to me being hailed a genius, on their failures with women. It did not matter that I could not recite their histories, I knew their patterns, their follies are intertwined with their beings, thus their histories were revealed. It is unfortunate that they did not believe themselves to be attractive men, because it is so easy to be attractive here. I maintain that the interbreeding has led to a net decrease in attractive individuals, and by no means am I asserting that I am a specimen of grand physical beauty, rather I perhaps feel that I am more true in myself that perhaps confidence in that revelation may lead to an aura of attraction. I will freely admit that it is entirely possible that the aura I just mentioned is a manifestation of some latent complex, but I will not apologize for it. The number of beautiful Mormons will decrease through the generations, and I foresee no decline in the trend. Of course, I am primarily referring to those Mormons of many generations, native to "Desseret". Missionary work will continue to bring new faces into the fold, which will be to some benefit, but how much will it affect the cacausian, and i suspect adamantly latent racist, population of the Jelly Belt? I theorize, and I am no theorist, that this trend, of which I seem more aware (or more diluted) than peers with which I have discussed, is because of the emphasis on spirituality in the culture when choosing a mate. I can draw no correlation between attractive people and spirituality, as I am not one of those involved, and whether it is inheritable or taught in the home, or some combination thereof. I am reminded of studies (whose credibility I can not verify in that they were on blog posts) that inferred that natural fearfulness was an inheritable genetic trait in mice, and a book I saw posted on boingboing.net that suggested that denial of reality was too. Could faithfulness follow such a trend as this?
girl asked in biology class, where we are studying evolution currently, to confirm that evolution is just a "theory" and that there wasn't really any "proof". The professor, who I admire all the more for how he can walk on these eggshells, that he was showing us the, and forgive me for not having the accurate phrasing, "things they use as proof" and then launched into a subsequent discourse on how we could rationalize these things from a Creationist's point of view. I think all the overwhelming observable evidence may have been starting to get to her.

I must apologize for my writing style, I have been reading Walden, and I grow to hate Thoreau a little more each day. I struggle to decide just in what ways I hate him and what the most accurate and complete description this person would be, though I must admit, he can craft an elegant sentence. Perhaps it is that at times, the essays seem to be little more than his intellectual masturbation, but it was the most thrifty choice for a report. I regret that this reading may have influenced the above style. I must go prepare myself for the day now.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006


I wrote a paper about it. I tried so hard to make it clear, have you experience it. Even now, writing this, I am struggling to find the right words to communicate what I'm thinking. It's hard, you see, because thoughts are fleeting things. In seven pages, I was unable to show you.

I hate formating on this thing; It is awful. Ambiguous Buttons stick. For shame, Blooger, Myspace does a better job than this.

Damn home teachers.

I'm glad they left, it would have been awkward and they were interrupting. I would have asked them to come back some other time, I think. Anyways..

In seven pages, I had hoped to show you what it is like, but honestly, I cannot tell you what that is; I have nothing with which to contrast it. I can try to tell you the differences between Derek and derek, but it is a construction, and I can not be sure of its accuracy in its imitation.

I was thinking, between the sparkling snowflakes that I struggle to distinguish from a side-effect that manifests in a similar flashing fashion and plots of snow-warriors, that film would be-or might be- a more ideal medium to communicate the condition.

The worst part is not knowing how different it is on the other side.

If I were to direct a film about it, or a person with it, or whatever, I think I know how I would do. I doubt I could, it seems far too ambitious for me and I would tire of it-or rather lose interest rather quickly. But if I were consulting a director on how to film it, something I feel far more capable of doing, or something (damn self-doubt, you plague me!). I run on in sentences often. I apologize; I do not wish to bore you. I may never manage to distance my self from myself in this posting to speak it, so I present a fractional bit I wrote down as I started to channel myself into a final of mine:

How I would direct a movie about a person with Adhd, spotlight camera>only one, or few things could be seen at once, other things would jump out at other times, the camera would not always be focused on what was happening, dialogue would sometimes fade into the background, things would speed up and slow down, things like that [mention this to show what I wanted to express in the paper]

Later I realized the best way to put it was that my mind has tunnel vision. Only one thought can occupy me at a time, and they shift frequently to compensate for the (precieved) capacity of others to focus on more than one thing at a time. So often I lament the brilliantly phrased idea that flees my narration, it rarely persists long enough for me to write it down, by that time it is so muddled by my trying to remember it that it looks so little like the original idea, which I suppose I merely could have thought to be grander than it really was, that it scarcely seems like I should have writ it down at all. See? There I just did it. Shame.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006


I went to some sports games; it was a mistake. It was just my roommates playing, but I still felt competitive. I shouted somethings...was silenced. The ref was nuts.

I had many things I wanted to say, but I transferred my blog to the new version, and lost the fire. Maybe later. There are things, but saying them now would require effort. They had surfaced, but aren't so easy to scoop out now. Whatever. Maybe I'll just checkout the new features..

Do they have glow-in-the-dark tattoos? Why not? What about temperature dependant tattoos? Imagine tattoos that, like action figures that you dip in hot water to change their color, became visible as blood rushed to your skin, raising the temperature. War paint that appears as you play. Can you imagine?

Thursday, November 09, 2006


Blooger is a superior name. It has euphony about it that blogger misses in it's hard consonants.

Worst Thursday yet. Although the Office was absolutely lovely, the conditions we had to watching it under were far from ideal. Kier has taken the tv back into his room, and when I proposed to move it back, as he would be gone for the duration of the night with his Dodgeball team, Andy objected because it was his tv. Excuse me while I take back a third of the dishes which I contribute. Including the plastic cups I bought for myself, which are now being used in some manner to wash Jon's teeth. I don't care to know the details, nor am I sure I really want them back. Sharing is caring, don't they care?

The more I think about it, the more I am certain that Kier excised the tv because of M2 (for his is the lesser of the two Mikes). None of us enjoy putting up with his anime shit, and I am the only one unfortunate enough to have to walk in and see him watching it on his laptop when I need to get some calculus homework. Nothing good comes from fetching homework, you see. M2 really pisses me off. I can't sleep with his stupid "Classy 97" on they way he does, so I stay up an hour later (which isn't hard since he goes to bed at 9). The kid has some problems, he seems to be suffering from depression, or for some other reason requires an excess of sleep. Not my problem, I don't care to get involved. Often when he talks, apparently to me as I am in the room and for some reason feels compelled to talk, I don't respond. I have nothing to say. Eventually, I hope he'll stop talking to me. Unless he specifically addresses me, I will continue to assume he is talking to himself.

Even more frustrating is the sink. Kier and Jons like things clean. I do to some extent, but that extent involves a dishwasher and me not touching food which is being metabolized by microbes. They periodically go on sprees of cleaning. Kier is so paranoid that he mixes acidic and basic cleaning utilities; the reaction is noxious. Last night I heard them discussing whether of Andy and Misty or me and Kirsten which would become the more slobbish household, because Kier can just picture himself visiting his roommates years later saying "why am I not surprized?" They even posted a sign up that says they'll put dishes discarded by anyone in the bed of person that used them. I use very few dishes, as I largely have been eating away or simple meals. Currently in the sink are several items which I contributed to the total utensils, I don't care to get up and check but its near five. Wah wah.

I'll spare the mustard story. Basically, I gleened that the best weapon to wield against Kier is a plunger. Ala Quackshot.

It's ok though. It's ok. It's ok because we control both Houses now. Soon gay marriage will be mandatory and schools will be handing out condoms full of pot. Life will be good.

Monday, November 06, 2006

My love

I love NPR. I just cruised over to their sight, because I'm still procrastinating.. And the header on one of their pages was "Arggh, WhyDoes The Shower Curtain Attack Me?" This is the same page that states: Kids, don't put Mr. Fork in the microwave, or sparks could fly!

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Danger! Risk! Head!

My family never finished reading that essay I wrote, probably for the best. They were in it. They won't mind if they never know. That's why writing about the dead and nature is so much easier, they don't care. It's quite fitting that they couldn't stay with it long enough to finish, or start, from my last hearing of them. But oh well.

There was a lot I left out. Many insights came to me after I had finished, some that should not have been shared in the essay. Other things I purposely left out. Will I redo it? Perhaps someday, I don't want to touch it now. I don't have enough to add and it's not worth fussing.
Have you ever noticed those people that speak with N's? Everything has an N to it. Words begin, end, and are spaced with the consonant N. Its like that hum your computer's fan makes, but with the letter N. Its hard to tell its Stark if they speak fast enough. Mike is a groaner. He groans. Sometimes he grunts. He always sounds like whatever he is doing is a labor to him. It may well be, if my greatest joys in life were the collection of anime series (he has the complete saber marionette collection now! all 7 seasons or something!), then I would probably groan alot too. When Jon needed to rotate his laundry last night, he needed to return Mike's, I told him to wake him up by snapping; it worked. Then we hid the remote. He spent an hour and a half yesterday freaking out when he couldn't find it. That's where we got the idea to hide it. It's in the lamp shade now. He claims to have been turned down by 3 girls this week "because they all had boyfriends". If he asked me out, I'd have a boyfriend too.

I got a hair cut tonight. I don't think it looks good. I don't want it to look good. I already have someone, why advertise with a haircut? It's all about the testing-facists. Long hair is of the devil. It's right up there with flip-flops on the road to hell. I don't think it was bad before, quite conservative for anywhere else, but you know, we are a peculiar people. Even more so because we take pride in it. I probably made a mess with it, but whatever; it was free. I like semi-colons; I think they are the puncuation that best expresses the fluid transition of my thoughts. He only used a razor, those that rattle your skull. I don't know how I feel about that, but it was probably the safest bet. But what do I care? I rarely have to view my own hair.

Seriously, sometimes he sounds like he's just freaking constipated.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Essay I shared

The Last D is for Disorder

Derek Allen

It’s not something I tell people about. Maybe I should disclose that information to my professors within the first week of semesters, but I don’t. They’d treat me different. I don’t want to be different with their special accommodations. I can’t help it. It is incurable.

I think sometimes people notice. The most obvious sign is probably the tics I experience ever so often. They might notice that I stare off a lot, or that I break the stride of conversation with a “random” thought. I don’t have the best memory. There’s only so much it can do. There’s only so much I want it to do.

The side effects hardly even bother me anymore. Well, they do, but they don’t seem like side effects anymore. The vertigo, sweating, upset stomach, occasional insomnia, decreased appetite, however I do worry about my heart sometimes (it’s always racing!). Luckily I’ve only experienced hallucinations once and that was a special occasion. I’m so used to the dry mouth now that I actually drool a bit on liber days if I’m not careful.

Liber is the word I’ve chosen to denote the days where I’m drug-free. It used to be every weekend, but I think that unbalances my body a bit. It’s Latin for freedom, and it’s a bit like that, but more intense. I only do it when I know nothing will be expected of me. My days off are a lot more boring than Beuller’s with the majority of the time probably spent looking around and scratching myself. But there’s a feeling of liberation there, a short-lived one. I’ll sleep an unhealthy portion of the day away and spend a lot of time doing nothing in particular. What time I do end up engaged in something never feels satisfactory, since my sense of time is reduced in my liber state. It is living in the present to the fullest extent imaginable. It’s like becoming a child again. So many things are fascinating again; the details leap out and consume you. I really enjoy the respite from the constant inching. Formication is the most unpleasant sensation short of physical pain.

I first recognized that feeling, that sensation, junior year of high school. The health teacher was talking about cocaine addicts, the side effects mostly. She said they often described feeling like there were countless beetles under their skin, impossible to remove. Sometimes I worry that people will think I have head lice they way I scratch my head. I can’t help that it itches and the itching won’t stop. Physical activity that makes me sweat makes me itch more. Luckily, I can maintain my slender figure without such exertion.

I will never be fat, not necessarily exempt from cardiovascular problems, but never overweight. It’s a stimulant, you see. It lasts up to 13 hours, and from there I’ll drink Mountain Dew (“Satan’s Nectar” if you ask my sisters) until a few hours before bedtime. The caffeine is pretty weak comparatively, but it tastes good, and it’s rebellious. It’s always struck me as ironic that they give the hyperactive kids stimulants to calm them down.

“It’s 6:30; I got off early. They’re waxing the stairs.” I was surprised to see him there, clipping his toenails. I prefer to wake up slowly, over the course of several hours, starting with a soft blend of NPR that diffuses into my dreams. It makes me feel informed.

I could only grunt at him, it is the fullest extend of my still sleeping facilities. I take my medication in this groggy state each morning, as it takes a bit more than an hour for it to take affect and taking it later can cause insomnia. I thought, “Which ones? I’ll be sure to avoid them,” with the intent to ask, but it never reached my lips.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s the medication for?”

“Adult Attention deficit disorder.” I’ve seen a few of the infomercials that try to raise awareness for the condition in adulthood, because it is so often associated with rambunctious kids in elementary schools. The adult made it sound more grown up, and I am an adult now. I always neglect to mention the hyperactivity aspect. I think it has the strongest connotation. A kid that does poorly in school is just dumb, not inattentive, but a kid that is sassy to a teacher, medicate him. People don’t think of me as dumb, I guess that’s why they often are surprised if I tell them I have been medicated since age 8.



“Oh, I’d never heard it’s full name before.”

“Yeah…” Most people haven’t, I wanted to say, but I just fell back into bed. If he ever asks again, I’ll assert that the Mountain Dew I take it with is beneficial. I drink a lot of Mountain Dew when I’m working on projects. It helps me concentrate. I don’t think I would have made it into Oregon’s All-State Jazz Band without having its extra stimulant boost at the end of a very long day waiting to record. It’s my spinach really.

People blame sugar, video games, television, severe head trauma, parenting failures and inadequate teachers, genetics. Some probably just blame themselves. I try not to be one of those people. Blame doesn’t help anything. I like to imagine it as being sort of like a race, or secret society, or something. Not an incurable disease, it’s part of who I am. I’ve read some writings that prefer to think of it as a personality type. I like that.

A lot of people think they have it, but haven’t had it diagnosed. Some claim they have it, as if it were an excuse in public domain. I know the symptoms well enough; I can pick out the traits in classmates in high school. There’s debate over how severe it needs to be to count. There’s a lot of debate on everything. People think you need to act a certain way to have it, or that you aren’t smart if you have it, or…I hate those people. I don’t tell people about myself because of those people. I worry about those that ruin it for the rest of us: The parents that doctor shop to dope their kids into better grades, the teenagers who abuse it (is it apathy, disbelief or rebellion?). Grades have never been an issue for me like they were for my sisters, not that grades meant anything in elementary school, when I was diagnosed and medicated. I was disruptive. I was unruly.

I don’t like to read about it. I find it depressing, accurate, and simultaneously comforting and unsettling at times. I don’t like the word “disorder”. I don’t want to be broken. I’ve been struggling to come to terms with myselves, some sort of inner balance.

I like to think of myself as a relic; we’re too common to be a throwback. The numbers float somewhere around 4% of the total population, there’s no way to do a census of us. A race society forgot, never knew in its race for efficiency. I like to think I have adaptations to an archaic way of life. I could, I think, be a good hunter, or soldier, if I had to. That’s what I’m adapted for, I think/hope, at least according to the Hunter vs. Farmer theory. We’ve forgotten Nature, that’s why I struggle. Other reasons are insufferable.

It makes sense to me: A downsized genetic niche, phased out by the more successful farming mind that has shaped our society. Saying I was developed to hunt is so much more glamorous than having a simple learning disorder caused by the random chance of choice alleles. I tried taking Calcium supplements for a few weeks after I read that a calcium deficiency has similar symptoms. I wanted to be sure.

I’m primarily inattentive. My sister Amanda is primarily hyperactive. I don’t suppose it really matters since the treatment is the same for all three versions (the last being some combination of the two), but I resent the hyperactive part of the name; I never use it when I describe myself. I like to think of myself as a calm and rational individual. But I am not non-hyperactive. I don’t like to think about that. I don’t like to think about how I can easily be worked into a frenzy, by excitement or frustration. It took years to cage hyperactivity. Somewhere there exists a video of me running through the kitchen in tighty-whities with passion and friends can recall instances of my logomania. My favorite things let him free. I try to designate time for my favorite things.

I’m sitting in a car, driving from Boise International with my mother. She doesn’t feel she gave me a proper send off before. Her guilt has compelled her to help me move in. It’s a long drive; we talk about a lot of things. My favorite topic is politics, but she likes to avoid it. I think she’s ashamed that I became a democrat. We talk about our family’s greatest struggle: ADHD.

You can read all about the controversy (where it comes from, what it is, if it is), but I will tell you that I think it’s at least partially influenced by heredity. My entire immediate family is ADHD or ADD, and a few uncles on each side display symptoms. My father and youngest brother it has not been enough of an issue to warrant diagnosis or treatment. They only diagnose it if it’s an interference with daily life; the way fears only become phobias if they are beyond control. It’s a good thing my dad is his Union’s shop steward or he would doubtlessly been fired for his hot headedness. We once discussed the insults he would throw at his boss the next time he would get into a fight with him… we discussed this over dinner.

Chelsey’s grades tank whenever she doesn’t take her pill. Amanda just doesn’t care about her grades. Mom’s had the same fight with all of us. I maintain that I am the better child for minimizing the conflict, but really the baby born during my adolescence was what really stole the thunder that was meant for my coming of age.

I tell my mother that I really wish that Dad would seek help for it, just because it would make him a better father. Maybe he would spend less time playing video games, that is what we have most in common, and I am ashamed to admit he can beat me at Halo (but only on the PC). Maybe he would be more patient; things wouldn’t have to always be on his schedule just because. He won’t have any of it; he’s used the term ADHD as a put-down. I’ve never been that close with Chelsey, but we all can see the difference in her from it. I don’t know if she can. I think Amanda knows its importance, but I am unsure. I think our family would be better if we all realized the importance of treatments.

Certainly others would disagree when I say importance. Perhaps it was because I was inoculated at such a young age, I’ve grown dependent upon it. I can feel it take affect, and when it dissipates. Seventy minutes after I take it, my stomach will begin to hurt if I haven’t eaten. With my variable awakening each morning, I’ve forgotten when it wears off, but it’s about 10 hours later. My hunger is more intense and I can sleep hours longer without it. I am groggy throughout any period without. Afternoon church can easily be slept through. I told a bishop that I would try to cull my dependence upon it so I wouldn’t sleep through meetings if I lapsed over weekends. I never did.

I’ve ended the cycle of physical dependence several times over my life, but the psychological dependence and my self-confidence is tied to it unfortunately. I was liber for some time after that semester ended, but it was not a beneficial situation for anyone.

I read Girl, Interrupted on a train in Germany. It was a great book, creative nonfiction, really. The way the nurses in the mental hospital treated the patients, I really empathized with that. Tonguing the medication you really don’t want to take, clinical drugs as a threatened sedative. My parents still use it as a threat against my sisters when they don’t do their chores. No wonder Chelsey hates taking it. It’s a punishment, a declaration that she can’t perform without it. Her natural self is not good enough for them. Isn’t that always the way with parents?

My third grade teacher told my mother of how astonished he was that day I lapsed on my treatment and ate perhaps thrice my usual portion for lunch. I’ve always been underweight, probably always will be. People always tell me to eat more, that I’m too thin. I know that, my biology textbook tells me this. But I don’t get that hungry--it suppresses my appetite. And I only eat until I’m not hungry; I don’t like being “full.” It’s really not that pleasant. I often get stomachaches, which makes me want to eat less. In seventh grade I overheard my father describe me as a “ninety-pound weakling,” I cried.

It’s a hard thing to describe, what it’s like to experience, and I can only imagine what it’s like on the other side as well. Edward M. Hallowell has describes the condition quite insightfully with the passage:

“...It's like being super-charged all the time. You get one idea and you have to act on it, and then, what do you know, but you've got another idea before you've finished up with the first one, and so you go for that one, but of course a third idea intercepts the second, and you just have to follow that one, and pretty soon people are calling you disorganized and impulsive and all sorts of impolite words that miss the point completely. Because you're trying really hard. It's just that you have all these invisible vectors pulling you this way and that, which makes it really hard to stay on task.”

But is only part of the experience, an experience that for me often changes through the day and is primarily an issue of expectations and social constraints; finding the balance between.

I don’t watch movies or listen to music much. Music distracts me entirely. If I try writing with a song in the background, I end up transcribing lyrics. I can go to the movies with someone, as an event. There’s no problem there, but when the movie comes to me, I put it off or start it and leave. I require a firm narrative hook. I feel like a loser going to the movies by myself or watching them alone.

I don’t think I hear the same hymn in church as everyone else. Every consonant clashes, S’s are the most fun and F’s don’t carry well at all. It’s too quiet to study in the library; I need some ambient noise to lift the crushing hush. I’ll often get caught up listening how people are saying, instead of what they are saying. Certain people, like Bob Ross, have a way of talking that lull me to sleep. I think it’s the happy little trees.

Conversations can be awkward for me. I’ll speak without thinking and change topics without warning, talk to myself without excuse…it’s quite embarrassing! My sister breathes through her skin, like a frog, as she doesn’t find time to inhale between words. I didn’t know I could also do this until a father-son camping trip where I talked the duration of the commute, most likely about warplanes or something else my father had minimal interest in. My brother does that very thing now and is much less shy than I ever was. But they named him after a furniture store, so there you go.

I always need more input, my eyes are always darting. Floor tiles, carpet, the grooves in brick, all are elegant in their asymmetry; such harmony is their cacophony, fractals beautiful in their incongruence. I fall into them, sometimes into my own reflection. Sometimes I stare quite a bit and for long periods, sometimes at nothing in particular. My eyes are always darting. The World Wide Web traps me. I chase hyperlinks through Wikipedia, seeing how everything is connected. It is dangerous to me, to learn in this fashion, I don’t want to stop, but it’s not what I should be learning about… Not very productive. Most people will procrastinate to some extent. I procrastinate things out of existence. I’ll spend hours reading on Wikipedia, and then try to justify it as being educational. Those hyperlinks, those portals to knowledge, I love how they connect ideas, theories, fantasies. I get lost in those. I often read the articles on television shows so I can stay current with a show that I don’t like so I’ll be able to talk to people about it. I spark-noted Harry Potter, my family loves the series but it looks like too much of a commitment to me. There’s a theory that every article in Wikipedia can be connected to another through a chain of 6 other articles. I think most of those connections are through The Simpsons. When I start talking about something I learned on Wikipedia, my girlfriend just smiles and nods. It’s not boring to me.

I used to take Ritalin, now my mom takes it. It’s become such a prevalent drug, that Microsoft Word even knows to capitalize it. I take Adderall now; I guess it’s pretty popular among tweakers. People only really know about Ritalin, it became the catchall for the drugs, the way Kleenex is for tissues. I hated Ritalin. It tasted awful. I had to take it with juice really fast so you didn’t get the bitter taste from it. I once bit one of the pills in defiance, one of the most awful experiences of my life. But the worst part was that the dosage was such that I had to go to the nurse’s office every day after lunch, before I could go to recess. It was like that even through junior high. If you forget to go, they send you a note. The teacher gives it to you in front of everyone. Everyone whispers about the note as you take it. You have to walk to the office like you’re in trouble, just because you forgot, the hallmark of the disorder. They made it out like you were going to die if you forgot. Maybe they found some comfort in being certain that the wild and crazy kids were drugged out, like a mental hospital. ADHD doesn’t kill people. I just forgot.

Sometimes I wouldn’t realize what the note was for. I’d be puzzled when I heard my name called. They keep the drugs locked away. I never was sure why. Often I had to wait for the nurse to show up or stop attending to the kid that feels sick or the bleeding knee. I always worried about catching whatever the sicko’s there were coming down with. I knew I was perfectly capable of finding and taking the pills by myself, I think the nurses knew it too, but it was protocol. I’ve never liked protocol.

On field trips, I’d smuggle the drugs myself. The stigma of walking to the office was inferior to that of the teacher tracking you down to administer the globule. They put the troubled kids together with a teacher or chaperone, and never one of the cool ones. I’ve been in that group, to make it easier for the teacher to find me and administer the globule. Eventually I removed myself from the system. Honestly, I think the two smaller doses are more effective than the one longer lasting pill, but it’s not worth feeling like an ass when that note comes, and it’s oh so easy to forget the changing of the guards.

Auburn hair. I’ve never been great with colors. I only wear about 6 colors, it’s simply easier to match. I don’t know what color auburn is (a type of reddish-brown-orange?). I had to pull out a Crayola, the answer didn’t satisfy me, and none probably ever will. I can’t remember a lot of that psychology paper, the one my mother wrote while she was finishing her associates’ degree at a community college. I was in first grade when it was written, probably second, but I only remember a babysitter in the first two grades. The topic of the paper was Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. She must have written it after I was diagnosed, to better understand me…or whatever… I found it when I was in high school, freshman year: the most volatile of the four. She wrote that children with ADHD often have auburn colored hair. I cried a lot that night. I don’t think I was ever supposed to find it, tucked away in an unmarked white binder, full of notes and catalogues on the condition, deep in the bottom shelf of our library--the bottom shelf, right next to the photo albums. She got an A on the paper.

I didn’t start acting out until second grade. Being disruptive in class, that’s usually when they start medicating, before that it’s not necessary and it should usually be considered a last resort. My sister Amanda and I had the same teacher for that grade, a teacher who was amazed when she first saw Amanda raise her hand and wait to be called on to give the answer. There must have been a change in me too. I once sat at the girls’ lunch table, waiting the entire half-hour just to tell her that the world spins at a thousand miles an hour. That doesn’t even make sense; it’s too perfect of a number. That couldn’t have been that same kid who let everyone know if he didn’t want to be in school. That one that banged his head against the divider between the classrooms when finally forced into the classroom he hated. I recall these events particularly; they had to call my parents to escort me. I don’t like to think about it. I had a temper. The pains of puberty taught me pretty well how suppress that demon.

I hated school. At some point that feeling stopped. It must have been in second grade. How dare Ritalin rob me of my hate! I feel cheated by it. I told my mother once that I didn’t like taking it, it made me “be good” and it wasn’t a choice. This was before Cub Scout camp. The other boys didn’t have to take drugs, they got to run and be free. But my mother was also the Den Mother; I had to behave. After working at that same camp years later, I saw both of my two selves. I think I could deal with those kids a lot better for it. After all, we have the same attention span.

She asked me once, she was sitting on the porch, when I stopped being a good boy, I used to be so good, she said. I didn’t have an answer. I just stuck my hands in my pockets and did the little dance that children do when they feel uncomfortable, pretending their jacket is a pair of wings.

I like those chairs that spin. I can’t remember having a doctor without a spinning stool. It made it all very informal with him on his stool, and much more enjoyable up until he arrived (which always took so very, very long). My mother has always remarked that Dr. Meyers seems so knowledgeable in the areas of ADD and ADHD, like he had personal experience with it. She thinks his son has it. He has always referred to them as separate entities, though the distinction is not as official in the DSM-IV. But hyperfocus isn’t included in the DSM-IV and I have experienced that.

Hyperfocus is an amazing ability. I don’t quite understand it, and the Wikipedia article doesn’t cite its sources. It is awesome; I wish I knew how to trigger it. Time ceases to exist; nothing exists except the task at hand. I have spent hours engineering robots from the Lego robotics sets. I built a crude walking one once; it was really more of an ambling shuffle, but still an achievement in my mind. My sister does it a lot; she draws for hours. The ability to act so single-mindedly on a task for hours without break can be a great benefit, but it can just as easily be used for video games as homework, perhaps more so. And it is very, very difficult to change heading. The gearbox for ADHD doesn’t have a clutch; it’s an on-off switch. Driving stick took me a couple years to master.

When I was little, my mother tried to give me heroes who had ADHD to look up to. The ability to hyperfocus has usually been their most redeeming qualities and since ADHD is a new condition, its diagnosis is purely speculative in the retrospect. I think she said that Franklin had it, which I question; the man was very well organized, but was it an adaptive behavior? I can’t be certain. President Jefferson was. He meets all the criteria: strokes of brilliance, problems structuring his personal affairs, extremely passionate and stubborn. Other lists I’ve seen include Albert Einstein and Thomas Edison, which makes sense from what I know of him. But there’s no way of knowing. And it’s not like making decisions quickly is a bad thing or being stubborn and whatnot. It’s just different.

I’ve adapted my lifestyle to better suite a college lifestyle. To-do lists were very important last year. I updated one daily on my computer, but now I keep it more on my cell phone. I use the countdown and alarm features constantly. I also rely more on other people for reminders. If I feed everyone the same information, times and dates, one of them is bound to regurgitate it at some point to me. It’s a constant struggle to not get distracted; procrastination is so very easy. Breaks are important, if I can tell I’m about to lose my concentration, I’ll take a break to refocus, have another glass of Mountain Dew. It’s easy to offend when you’ll blurt things, so I try to keep quiet when meeting new people the first few times until I know what topics I should avoid. I’ve stopped carrying cash to avoid impulse buying.

I don’t like to think of it as a disorder. The name, Attention-Deficit Hyper-activity Disorder, is very focused, very concise, the opposite of what it describes in a way. It seems so negative. There is a word, “neurodiversity.” The basic premise is that just because a brain is wired differently, it doesn’t make it broken or diseased. Opponents of “curing” autism coined the term, as it would be equivalent to supplanting people’s personalities. The more I think about it now, the last D represents just another characteristic of the condition: a deficit of attention, hyperactivity, disorder. I’m all right with being disorderly. As I try to find myself between myselves, the Dr. Jekyll and the Mr. Hyde, my girlfriend reminds me, “don’t get me wrong. I like both you’s.” I think I’m O.K. with that.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Ninja attack!

I found a most devious thing to do in my break. I'm letting my writing settle before going back to it. I'm not sure how I should make the claim. I told my myspace blog page to play this sound: http://download.npr.org/anon.npr-mp3/atc/atc_teenbuzz.mp3 and then viewed the page source after i updated to get the html syntax i wanted. then i started posting the embedded html in various comments. it should make an awful buzzing noise. I'd post the syntax, but I'd have to edit it to get it to show, and I'd rather not. lift it from http://www.myspace.com/10771497


I think i'm doing some good work here, and I didn't want to lose this passage that I've decided doesn't really need to go in this essay:

I’m not sure what, if any relationship there is between my temper and my ADHD. It’s a fuzzy line there, knowing what is what about me. It was an issue though; I once threw a pencil sharpener in class when it wasn’t sharpening my pencil correctly. It was very frustrating. They agreed to buy me a furby when they eventually took me to a shrink for my “anger issues”. Or whatever. They later said it was a waste of time and money. Damn right.

They’ve tried to appease us at every turn. I got a new Lego ship when my little sister was born. I don’t know if the therapy did anymore than make me feel completely ashamed of myself. This, coupled with the painful experiences of adolescence, intensified by a pregnant mother, has taught me to bottle and avoid conflicts pretty well. But I’m sure these things happen to all kinds of people; I don’t want to be alone in this.

Saturday, October 28, 2006


Oh, when will that benevolent artificial overlord rule us? The inconsistancies of humanity are too much! Let us celebrate and embrace the constructs of the mind in their flawless granduer. No more shall religion opiate us into a stumpor of false security, for we shall have a grand leader without flaw, only justice to direct us!

I thought I was doing alright in that stupid religion class, but no, I've failed all but one assignment in the class. Perhaps it was because I was using 1.3 spacing. That would make sense, he did want single, but the one assignment I got an A on also had 1.3. Be consistant. Use the right number of significant figures if you expect us to. Proof-read your damn powerpoint slides!

Midterms have passed, my mom is going to flip when she sees that i am failing a(nother) religon class. I didn't even realize I was until today. It'll be fun telling her I didn't know I was failing...

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Freaking weenies!

I will have more to say shortly I think. I have alot to write. I keep meaning to share it, but nothing is complete. You don't care. All my problems are personal, I feel good about that. I admit I am a horrible lab partner, but I will not apologize for it. It was one of those days again, Mike passed out on some bean bags, I was going to get a picture, but he sleeps lightly. Next time; he has those days often and let's everyone know it. He says, "It's just one of those days, that's all I've got to say," and he does not stop. I hope I can get my absentee ballot soon enough to vote...

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Russia Yekaterinburg

WE had to explain what blogs are to the class a few week ago. Maybe it was more, I can’t remember. I can’t even remember when I started my double life. The more I learn about the people here, the less I trust them. Everyone has a motive. What’s mine? Perhaps it is to escape. She says she can’t breath here anymore. She counts days, weeks, hours, sometimes. She still wants to fight it, I lay down and surrender. I had a nightmare about my favorite things, they weren’t so special, then I ate candy for breakfast. I was free this weekend. I don’t trust them. At least I’ve begun something. Nothing works as it should.

It was clever, I never told you.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

The Office

I am excited for the Office coming back. It is very excellent. I think it coupled with Earl are the primary reasons ABC moved Gray's Anatomy to Thursdays. I speculate the addition of new 3 new cast members may be tied to Jim leaving the Scranton branch but keeping him in the show. It will be a delightful season. Last night Mike proclaimed as he shuffled about his last ritual, "I hate that [kind of(?)] show, but to each his own, right? I could never even get into Lost." I am puzzled by his choice to include Lost and The Office as similar shows. They hardly seem congruous in my mind. Good-bye, girl, for I shall be watching your doctor-slut-fest no more!
I am really enjoying my creative non-fiction course. Expository seems like a more harmonious word for the genre given the deceptive connotations of the word 'non-fiction'. Interestingly, many of our starting essays were on what is creative non-fiction. Genre defining itself within the genre it seeks to define. Delightsome.
My alarm just went off telling me to go and finish my composite functions, but I say "Nay! I shall delay!"
We must write a short piece of creative non-fiction of our own as well for presentation. I have had numerous thoughts of things I could write. The nature of the genre will dictate that it will be introspective and truthish, in as far as we can recall events and our impressions of them. Thus, I will be limited by my boldness to share my shames. A recent idea I'm playing with is an exposition on why I'm no longer making music. Organizing my various reasons could turn out quite well. My timer when off again and I'm losing my focus to the other tasks I set off last night (it was getting dark!). I should go. It would be good, but there are some aspects I am still reluctant to share, and ommission of them would leave my arguement incomplete. Just went off again, need to go. I am reluctant

Sunday, September 10, 2006

RE: Bloody Stool

The following is a email I sent a friend regarding the current status of things, if you care. I don't, not enough to be original.

Mike? He reads books called "The Daemon Lord of X," where x is the location of said fantasy. He has a Dungeons and Dragons poster of different dragon species (the Bronze Dragon is my favorite, although it could never fly with such tiny wings). He has no less than six Star Trek models, even the Enterprize from the shitty one that was before Kirk or whatever. He watches anime on cartoon network. The only channels I've ever seen him watch are cartoon network, sci fi, and discovery (but only once!). He keeps a katana under his bed, and has several others at home with a few knives. You wanna know how I know he's ubernerdy? He's taking class called "Dating and Courtship". And he likes to listen to soft-warm-and-fuzzy-rock when he goes to sleep. It is awful, although John Tesh does have a voice fit for the station.

Fuzzb411's roommates are pretty cool. We watch Pinky and the Brain over at her place (DVD BITCH!!). The Christmas episode is really emotional. Pinky asks Santa to give Brain the world, and when Brain reads Pinky's letter that they forgot to give Santa, he is so overcome with the Christmas spirit that he relents on his plan, which would have given him the world. It was a good one. After we finish Pinky and the Brain, we're gonna start Darkwing Duck (suck it!).

My last math assignment was on Linear Equations in Calculus. It's "applied" for the life sciences and economics. Pwn'd!!1

Saw Rockapella last night, of Carmen Sandiego fame. As soon as trench coats are made, a stalker should be made. She Was good at hiding. Like a femme fatal version of Waldo. Sadly, she does not leave her clothes behind in the same fashion.

We had an air alert advisiory this last week. Idaho sucks ass.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Clever or ignorant? You decide!

I can't make up my mind about this one.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Time off

I regret taking thursday off. It was nice to relax, but not the 76$ worth. Pathetic. I doubt tomorrow will be worth it either. Only 2 weeks left there. It's not so bad. This is work:

Wednesday, June 21, 2006


Was finally able to get a hold of that former bishop. They got in at midnight last night, so my incessant calling ever half hour for 5 hours was needless. Here’s what gets me, his wife just said that he was “in-town”. They live in Rexburg, Idaho. What the hell can that mean?

Tuesday, June 20, 2006


I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Frequent nightmares, waking often, nothing you care about. I haven’t been comfortable at all lately, very cranky. I think both may be caused by my recent regression to wearing jeans. They don’t feel natural. Bulky, rigid strides; I hate them. I don’t have an eye for matching clothing, perhaps worsened by dressing in the dark all year, and jeans make it worse. Blue on the bottom? Where do you go from there? At least black and beige are fairly neutral, comparatively easy in my head. Aside from my cumbersome clothes, employment and education have been frequent challenges. It’s taken days to get my urine cleared as clean: faxing prescriptions, calling around, and much more effort for piss. I expect a call soon telling me when they want me to come in. School has been much more troublesome. It is very frustrating. The entire episode has me seething. I will let you know how it ends, but it is making my reflection on my past year much more bitter. It’s becoming a chore to write.
Yours in Hatred,

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

The Pretender

I'm not sure if anyone remembers that show about the man on the run from the government agency that trained him to be able to perform any vocation immediately because he was a genius. As the protagonist, Jared, flees the government who raised him only to betray him (or something like that) he would assume some identity and show up to whatever job that character had. It was like Quantum Leap meets the X-files. Two things never really mad sense to me about that show: Why he left little clues for agency to follow (in retrospect it was probably to provide some conflict and continuity to the show and some psychological thing I don't understand at this time) and Why no one ever bothered to check his credentials. He walks onto an Air Force base and flies an F-16 and no one notices that they've never seen this guy before? He just makes up some official sounding bunk about being transfered and no one bothers to check it out? Perhaps we are too far removed from the care-free life of 1996 to understand. Anyways, as I scour the job offerings, their various requirements and salaries, I think, "I could totally b.s. that job." One in particular stood out to me: Elephant Supervisor. I could totally do that! Little reading on captive care of elephants via wikipedia and you're set. If I wasn't so afraid that an elephant would gank me, I'd consider it. I know they don't have any applicants yet, as they've extended the deadline.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Eats, shoots and leaves

I had jury duty on Wednesday; I brought a book. The last chapter decried the internet and emoticons in particular. "What book would spurn those lovable smilies?" you ask. It was a book about punctuation (see title). I was hesitant about checking it out at all, but the brief bit I had read a few weeks ago was enough to sell me. I am now trying very hard to not desecrate the comma and friends in this post (it's much more difficult than I thought!). Did you know there are thirteen acceptable different uses for the comma alone? I bet you didn't! That's why you use it incorrectly. For a book that relied fairly heavily on British culture, I was able to follow it without much trouble- except this one passage about a pun. Basically the English language is falling apart and we shouldn't let it. So use proper punctuation! Periods are called "full stops" over there. Weird. Check it out, it was pretty funny, despite what the topic might connote. I was worried it'd turn me into too much of a stickler, but I don't have the resolve necessary to crusade like that given my time online.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Wash the car.

I dislike Prom. It is an antiquated puzzle of awkward teenagers pretending to be sophisticated adults in their last steps of childhood. I'm somewhat proud of that sentence. The flowers: What in the Hell? Wear them on your wrist? Why not! It is gaudy and an eyesore. Would you like your penis tacked onto a jacket with an enormous needle? If teens were more coordinated they wouldn't need a letteropener to skewer it, coupled with their embaressment at being unable to wield a sword, despite their aptitude at WoW, someone will be stabbed. My mother said that "a little courtship isn't a bad thing" or something similar. However, I maintain that Prom is not courtship! Sadie Hawkins, Winter Formal, and Homecoming could all be called courtship, but by the time Prom rolls around all capable students have well established a date for the event, well in advance, so far back as freshmen year for fear of rejection last minute. They know these people they are going with, the relationship, the expectations, the menu have all be prepared far in advance. By Prom night, Prom has already been worked through each mind several times, each scenario impossibly planned, prefected, and packaged in their minds with the only remaining execution is the enjoyment of the event. Prom is not courtship, it is the final steps of the mating dance, with its culmination in the hotel room that night. Those that will have already decided and those that won't. All relations involved adjusted beforehand. The ritual requires the fancy hair, the fancy clothes, the fancy dinner, and the fancy make-up for the finale, and they deliver. For me, this muligan of tonight has all the pricetags of last year, but with less reimbursement from parents, and again without the union. I don't mind that, but only having forty dollars left in my bank account is very worrying. I'll only have enough to fill the cadi once and search 200 miles to find employment before I'm sunk assuming an even three dollars a gallon, an average of 15mpg, and a fuel tank of 15 gallons. I most likely won't be given that car to drive, but I can't remember the stats for the others and the cadillac makes it all look very dismal. And I do love dismal. Plus I'm always nervous about seeing a different barber.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006


This is the commercial that was deemed “inappropriate”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Io1rkAmupwY&search=skechers
Those bastards. A whole 30 seconds. A strike for changing the channel with my watch after a prude couldn’t bare the immorality of a shoe commercial. There was no one else watching but me. Thanks for saving my soul, fucker.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006


God, I hate the people here. I can’t wait to get out. 22 days left.

Friday, March 10, 2006

I put on my cloak and wizard hat

The more I think about it, the more I equate blueballs to being the male equivalent to menstral cramps. I will thusforward refer to them as "mancramps" from now on, except when explaining what the term mancramps means.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

I saw a coyote while I was on the bus!

I saw Chick Corea in concert last night. I wouldn't call the music they played jazz, but it was definately an evolved form of it. Corea likes to experiment with different styles and tries a new genre every few years. What ever style, it's usually inspired by L. Ron Hubbard and scientology. Last night was sort of an exposition on communication, and not really The Ultimate Adventure as his new cd claims. They were selling copies of the book that inspired the music, which was by Hubbard, in the lobby after the performance. They had a dancer. I don't think I can explain it further than that. It was neat, wish I had been more awake for it. I saw poorly dressed people, utah socialites, and just plain ugly mormons. The dancer got alot more applause than I would have anticipated given the audience, especially the guy who sat behind me and says "golly" as his primary swear. The best part was probably this t-shirt they were selling in the gift shop of Sheraton. And the worst was probably the 8 hours on a bus next to a girl who, although moderately attractive, will not shut up. She just goes on and on and on and on. Very much a turn off. The nice thing about this is that she has her sax lessons right before mine. Also when she called antelope "cows" because she thought it was cute to call deer cows and cows deer. But they were motherfucking antelope. Stupid Idahores.

Sunday, February 12, 2006


Someone died in my ward. I had never met the guy. I signed his card. I didn't want to. I felt weird doing it. I think my signature somehow cheapened it. Oh well, I've never met his family or anything, they live in Albania. It sucks for his room-mates, or does it? More room maybe? I wonder what the finacial ramifications will be for them. There's a fast for his friends and family tonight/tomorrow. I'm not into that, but i'll conform outwardly. The guy's cousin is still in the hospital, car crash.

This is my reminder to tell the head resident that I will be going to the chick corea concert on monday.

I've been playing quite a bit of Urban Dead recently, its fun.

Thursday, February 09, 2006


Singles Awareness Day is coming up and I don't really have anything planned. Not so far planned as it is a committment in itself. Singles Awareness Day sucks. I got a haircut, and now McBride is calling me Goose. It is a slow thursday. I predict a disgusting amount of proposals next week, which I expect to overhear about. Marriage isn't an optional thing here, it is a requirement. Girls act as though they deserve a proposal so much as the ring already belongs to them long before it is presented to them. There is a certain amount of destiny and fate in this religion despite it's supposed emphasis on free agency, especially with the eternal marriage stuff. Many people talk about finding the one although that is not a viewpoint exclusive to the church. Usually refered to as that special someone, the whole point of deifying them to the point of undermining freedom of choice to remove the factor of human error, that perhaps you just chose the wrong person. Afterall, they can't be "wrong" for you, if you were "meant" to be together for eternity. Yet, there are still lots of divorces in the church, even temple divorces. I just created that term. Marriage:divorce::temple marriage:temple divorce. Anyways, it really just irks me when girls say "She got her ring!" Her ring. The guy was the one that freaking bought it, bitch! For you, it was a gift, as in he had possession of it! Belonging to him! Just like she will! Not technically, but she's still commanded to be subservient to him. Its in The Family: A Proclaimation to the World. The father is head of household. Because this is the interweb, I won't fact check that; I feel that I am right and it bares truth unto me. In fact, it has to be true, because I feel it in my heart*.

Also, CoX is having a 2-week trial, for v-day. I don't know what to do with it. I miss that game, mostly playing it with friends, alone it wasn't as good. And yes, she is attempting to lick my discarded hair. I was itchy all day yesterday.

*Real Ultimate Power: The Offical Ninja Handbook, Robert Hamburger, pg 11.Kensington Publishing corp., New York. 2004.

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