A Collection of Spectacles

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I got accepted into Eugene Lang The New School for Liberal Arts. I’m pretty excited. I’m also going to stop typing out the school’s full name. It’s annoying. 

Pros: + Here, I can do a double major program or a major/minor program. If I go there, I’ll major in psychology and media studies? Something like that. Hopefully, I won’t die because of the course load. 

+I also have the option of creating my own lesson plan. I’d have to create a proposal and then submit it for review.

+I can take courses at any of the other eight New School branches like Parsons, for instance.

+I’d be in Greenwich Village. 

We’ll see.

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We’re  sitting in the car, driving around at night, the dark, all-encompassing, pitch-black sky surrounds us. 

She says, “So what about you, Allie Mason? What’s the purpose in life?” This takes the question I’ve just asked her and turns it around, making me contemplate it, which I don’t like doing. 

“Hmmm. What do I think is my purpose in life? Or the purpose in life in general?” 

She lets me answer both, making it a two part question. 

It’s a little sappy, but I’d like to help people. I really think that’s why I’m here. Not that I think I’m above anyone else in any respect and therefore more able to help, but I’d like to put whatever favorable qualities I do have to good use. 

As far as the purpose of life in general, I think it’s to experience everything on the vast spectrum of emotion. If you don’t know the depths of sorrow and loneliness, then it’s hard to recognize great joy, let alone appreciate it. Additionally, it’s important to meet as many people as possible, see as many places as you can. 

The point of life (from different points of view). Of course I’m shortening each person’s view quite a bit, which doesn’t really do it justice, but here we go anyway:

“To smoke weed and procreate.” Self explanatory? I think so.

“To love fully.”  That’s love in any sense. Love for an idea, an occupation, anything. 

“To leave your stain on the world.”  In essence, to do something that will be remembered. 

“To achieve one epiphany after another.”  To keep growing and changing as a person. Some people may never reach these heights of self awareness, while others may at a very young age. 

In other news: I’m seriously reconsidering whether I want to make Journalism my profession of choice, for multiple reasons. To me, writing is a release. It’s taking pent up feelings that I can’t express adequately otherwise, and making them open for consumption. It’s something that’s more for me than anyone else. I’d like to help others in a more direct way. Also, I’m beginning to get the feeling that if I try to make it a living, I’ll get so caught up in the hidden politics of it all (like changing my work to suit a publisher/editor) that I’ll end up hating the one thing I’m really passionate about.

Ideally, I’d like to become a psychotherapist. I’ve always found both abnormal psychology and examining people fascinating. It’s really geeky, but a few years back I compiled my own book together out of little clippings and things that I’d found on different mental illnesses. Actually, it’s a little creepy. Forget I mentioned it.

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#100 (is nothing special)

I am going to take all of these snidbits and half finished things and compile them all together in order to create a book of short stories. Or somethings. I haven’t decided exactly what yet. 

Here. I am going to write it down here so that I will have to do it. I’m forcing myself to get it done. To have some direction. 

For once in my life I am going to finish to finish to finish finish finish

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It’s very easy for me to detach myself emotionally, which is probably a huge flaw. However, when I do find someone I care for, I’m almost paralyzed.

Sometimes, when someone I really like looks me in the eyes, I get so nervous that I physically feel myself getting smaller.

I regress.

I am six years old.

This is the age during which I told my first lie. Well, actually it probably wasn’t the first, but this is the earliest one that I can recall.

As a small project, my father purchased a bunch of white and black rocks. He planned on aligning them perfectly in order to create a rock garden. I remember staring out into the garden and looking closely at each rock. The white ones were pretty. Each appeared as if someone had inserted tiny fragments of glass inside. However, it was the black ones that captivated me. Each was smooth, shiny, polished. If perfection existed, it was to be found in those rocks.

I gathered a few and put them in my pockets. Just as I went to go inside of my house, my father greeted me. He told me about the rock garden, that he had purchased new rocks, and that I was not allowed to touch them, let alone take them for my own because they were rather expensive.

He asked if I had taken any already to which I answered no of course not.

Immediately after, I ran upstairs to my room and emptied my pockets into a small dresser next to my window.

To purge myself of my sin, I waited until my parents left for work one afternoon. I walked out into the garden and put the rocks back in their appropriate places.

There were maybe hundreds if not thousands of rocks out there. I had stolen five. In theory, it was unlikely that I was ever going to get caught. When you’re young, it seems as though everything is taken to the extreme.

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I made a boy cry once because I couldn’t find it in me to hurt silently. I don’t hurt often but when I do it leaves its mark. It’s a short lasting scream jarring and terrifying. 

My new favorite sentence (simple and discreet):

I hope.

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Weirdest shit I’ve seen in a while. Kenneth Anger’s surrealist 30 min long short. No dialogue, but backed with classical and operatic music. Practically plotless. Filled with odd symbolism. 

Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome

EDIT: Wikipedia (might be good for something after all)…

(Simplified) Relationship between existentialism, absurdism and nihilism
 
Atheistic existentialism
Theistic existentialism
Absurdism
Nihilism
1. There is such a thing as “meaning” or “value”
Yes
Yes
Yes
No
2. There is inherent meaning in the universe (either intrinsic or from God)
No
Maybe, but humans must have faith to believe there is
Maybe, but humans can never know it
No
3. Individuals can create meaning in life themselves
Yes, it is essential that they do
Yes, it is essential that they do
Yes, but it is not essential
No, because there is no such meaning to create
4. The pursuit of intrinsic or extrinsic meaning in the universe is a futile gesture
Yes, and the pursuit itself is meaningless
No, and the pursuit itself may have meaning
Yes, but the pursuit itself may have meaning
Yes, and the pursuit itself is meaningless
5. The pursuit of constructed meaning is a futile gesture
No, thus the goal of existentialism
No, thus the goal of existentialism
Maybe
Yes

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Thoughts come and go, rapidly jumping from one thing to the next. Sometimes thoughts enter as if stuck on repeat. A tape recorder plays its message and is then rewound, and played again. 

We sit together on the porch outside. It is six, maybe seven, in the morning. Her face is barely visible. Together, we fail to understand why some men can’t separate liking someone from wanting to sleep with them. As if, to truly like someone you have to fuck them. 

An Imaginary Excursion: He and I. Me and him.  Intertwining. We conjoin for extended moments and then separate. The motion is repeated. Over. Over. Skin’s pressed to skin. Shallow breaths. 

It all comes over me at once, a cascading waterfall of flesh, inching down my sides and back. Up and down. Up. Down. Enveloping everything. 

[exit scene]

It’s three, maybe four, in the morning. I run my hand over face and feel a blemish on my forehead. Every time I feel it, it’s like I’m touching a foreign object, something that shouldn’t be there. I will proceed to pick at this all day. 

His eyes, blue–wait no maybe brown, and lifeless scan the room. He is incapable of looking at anyone directly for more than a few seconds. When his glances are returned, his eyes dart in different directions. 

Later, he lies face down, face pressed into the carpet. He’s one of those you name the drug, I’ve tried it, kind of men. I find something faintly beautiful in this.  I ask, “So what do you like to do?”

“For fun?”

“Yeah.”

He says something about how he likes to smoke and drink and-I cut him off. 

“No, NO. Other than that. Everyone has their something, a something that makes them tick. What’s yours?”

By now I’ve consumed an obscene amount. It takes so much to make me feel comfortable now, to make conversation flow more easily. 

Finally, he admits that he likes to play the guitar. 

Now I’m sitting and wondering if I’m thought about ever, if only in a passing whisper, a quick pitiful fracture in time. I feel indifferent at this point, surprisingly, because I know I’m not. I’m keeping a firm grip on matters long gone and those that have never occurred (and probably never will). 

How am I going to love?! I don’t know its shape, its form. I don’t know what it looks like.

Inside, daylight sneaks through my window, teasing me with it’s warmth. Outside, hints of Spring fill the air.

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My views on dreams, as they have changed over time. 

In the beginning: Dreams happen infrequently. They are nonsensical, like collages of random scenes, carelessly pieced together. They’re meaningless to me. 

The second step: Dreams are seemingly random, but if deciphered, they reveal hidden notions I hold about myself, the people around me, my desires, my wants and dislikes. 

The third plateau (déjà rêvé): Dreams and their meanings become increasingly abstract. I’ll try to explain.

Something happens in front of me. A daily occurrence, say my friends are having a discussion. I stare, watching their faces, and like a picture coming into focus, what happens in front of me becomes clear. It transcends all we perceive reality to be and takes on a more picturesque, movie-like form. In the same way that film directors can take actual occurrences and make them more photographic, eyes that are open and receptive to the world can stare at a scene and make it more cinematic. Then, they can deem something that’s seemingly foreign to be  anything but, leading the mind to ask, “Have I been here before?”  In turn, the subconscious will provide the answer and it will rise to the surface of your thoughts with unparalleled buoyancy. The scene in question was something that was viewed before, if only for the breadth of a second, in a dream. 

A dualistic nature is revealed. The hypothesis proposed in the second step is affirmed as one purpose of dreams, but another, a more intriguing one is discovered. They are windows that, if peered into at just the right angle,  can reveal future occurrences (or rather, future possibilities). It’s just my thought, but maybe thats why it’s possible to feel as though you’ve already visited every place you still have yet to see. 

I’m unravelling, coming apart.

The plumes of a bird,

The petals of a flower,

The inner folds, 

creases

are detaching themselves from one another

my mind has come to bloom

im being honest here and nowhere else because if you cant be honest when you write then swallow ink and lead dismantle your keyboard there is no point. if you cant write even when it makes you look silly or stupid or hurt like your skins been slowly meticulously violently detached from each and every nerve ending then…theres no point in painting landscapes with words if theyre bound to be set aflame.

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