Diary of a Solipsist, pt.3

I saw this building, with a sign in front that read "God is still speaking." Of course I know this is one of those human churches - a sanctuary to some invisible metaphor - but I can't help but think to myself, 'I'm not talking to any of them.' If I'm not talking, then who is? It's a funny thought but I do wonder at times if I'm not alone; if one of my fellows is "of the same stuff," so to speak.
Of course, we may all be gods - not of this world, I mean, but of other worlds. Stars and worlds and systems come into and leave existence constantly, just as humans do. One could infer that these births and deaths correspond to the cosmic ones. This is a lower level thought. Taking it up a notch, there must be a god of the universe, since it remains despite the birth and death of things within it. I don't think any human is the god of entirety, though; they aren't exceptional enough. In fact, I may not be exceptional enough to be god of the planet holding humanity, but it won't do any good to consider such a thing.
Until I meet someone that has seen the world as I have, painted its skies, seen the land in all its changes, observed the room; I'm the god as far as I know.

Diary of a Solipsist, pt.2

As I related before, I am twenty-one according to human standards.
People took note of my existence in the human point of 1989 as they have on many other instances. From that point, they took pleasure in following my growth up to another point when many had died of the world's wear and tear, or their age. At this point I take my leave, and those still alive continue on to eventually die, perhaps wondering about me before their end. Afterward, I reappear in the world in some fashion.
I have thus used two interesting words: before and after. There is a "before" and an "after," very rarely a "now." I find it difficult to think about the now without it quickly passing into before; and difficult to notice when an after passes through the now. In any case it's futile for me since there is so much time for me to give attention. If I spent all my time focusing on time, my preoccupation would draw attention and give me away, assuming the focus is so strong I end up motionlessly absorbed in it.
In truth, I don't take human time seriously; because I am in this form, in human company, I fall into the time they create. (Humans are always seeking some order, some way to catalog things neatly, like that.) In fact, I'm unable to keep track of all the time I've experienced. The days flow quickly or slowly, just as much as the seconds of a single day for some people. A year to me is as a day, in memory. After an accumulation of years comparable to the human lifespan - I forget.
I awaken - beginning a new set of years. I believe this is to keep the overwhelming extent of time from flooding my mind: forgetting to keep things simple. Occasionally I wish I could remember all my experiences, or at least find the words put down on page, if any.

Diary of a Solipsist, pt.1

I have decided to take up writing something of my life, as I have done many times before. The writings of the past have been lost, at least I cannot find them; turned yellow then brown as the pages tensed and shattered, words losing track of their rightful place. Those same words wander away in a state of fugue and find themselves living with other beings, or perhaps collected by me to be placed back on the page, to rewrite myself.
My name is Nathaniel, at least that's what humans call me. I find it hard to place much emphasis on the name because of all the variations that come from it: "nicknames." On top of this, humans can share the same name and rely on a "last" name to individualize themselves. However, like first names, last names can be shared by multiple humans. The importance placed on names may stem from the idea that qualities constitute something. Cups aren't cups, they are a material in a certain form- they are shiny, sleek, dull, heat-resistant, chipped, and so on. Similarly, attached to names are honor, trust, and other aspects of the person; a while ago people would fight to regain the honor of their or their family's name. Yet how can importance be placed on names when said names are given seemingly at random. Probability determines not just how many people will share first names and last names, but how many will share the exact same name. In such cases, more than a name is needed to tell people apart; other characteristics such as age are used.
According to human time, I am currently twenty-one years old. Of course, I'm much older than this, just as some people are referred to as "old soul" and whose eyes are engraved with many rings from a young age. But I will leave off for now and pick up with the strangeness of human time.

Being Back

Currently listening to:
Tropicana
Ratatat

This is the first week back after the week-long break. Things seem different now, the other hall has mentioned that our hall no longer prop our doors open, we just leave the latch out to keep the door unlocked. Andrew and I are basically the only ones that still leave the door wide open; our roommates would have it otherwise, they're sort of strange. Also everyone is very reticent about interacting, more mellow. John has it the most, he is not loud anymore and is gone from the hall all the time. It seems like drastic changes have happened in this short week. I have no idea what a month vacation will do, but I can't wait either way. It's only a couple weeks away.

The Thursday before the break I was very sick but still showed up to my policy class and bio lab to take quizzes. I got back my policy quiz and have a C. I'm not heavily surprised since I was not comfortable and barely conscious, but I worry about what this will do to my grade if I don't get an A on the final. I will have to study really hard; I think I'm teetering on an A in the class.
*****
The past week I've been preparing myself for a little thought experiment where I will try to see the world solely through the eyes of god. I will go about my life as if I were god and write blog entries about this solipsistic experience. So this will be the last of my normal blog entries for a while. This should result in some interesting thoughts and writing.

The Sound of the Moon

When I talk to people, they are real. They seem to have lives going on, are three-dimensional beings. When we stop talking, they are still real. But at the same time, they are so many paper dolls scattered on the floor. Doesn't make much sense, does it? A paper doll seen up close is obviously a doll, but from far away they seem like they could be living, breathing. After examining someone they turn to paper dolls somehow. Some are more real, though.

I found a postcard of Dallas, downtown, all aglow. For some reason I couldn't put it back in my drawer. Is this where I belong? Is this my home? It made me reminisce, stirred things up in me. I think I'll take it back to Colorado.

Merle comes in when certain songs are playing on the radio. I think she realizes certain beats make me move a certain way, and pet a certain way. I think she likes it when I pat out beats on her.
*****
Yesterday I was sitting in a tree waiting for Dandelion and this cat came over to me. She laid in my lap and I pet her. Then these bible women came over and I told them what they wanted to hear, and the cat made its way down to them and followed them back to their car. After they drove off, I couldn't see the cat and figured they had taken her away (she had a collar but no tags). So I climbed down for a bit and soon she was following me. We went back in the tree. Dandelion drove up as I was going down to get my camera, and when we came back out, the cat had followed us to my yard. She did a funny run-dance to come back over to us.
She's no Smokey Mountain, more like Hobbes. Dandelion called her Samsonite - what an odd name. So we played around the tree, then the three of us went walking around the alley. Samsonite always lagged a little behind but examined things after we had left. When we were crossing the street to the dandelion field, Samsonite was still in the alley meowing after us. So we went back to her but she sped off last minute, then followed us back to the street.

Tonight Dandelion and I took another go at wine making, this time with Strawberries. At the grocery I brought my change so I could trade all my metal for a few pieces of paper. She pushed all the coins through and I can only imagine how her hands smelled, since I'm sick. I don't like being the friend that's sick, I feel like it dampens the mood having to run for a tissue all the time. So we made the wine in a gallon jug since the Mr. Beer container was taken back by her ex. I hope the yeast is still operable, or enough. I also met her new boyfriend. I don't know.

Oh, Samsonite

Sometimes it's hard to swallow.

Trust

There was some discussion of fellatio today, I guess because it's the thing to do these days. I thought about the topic afterward and confirmed that each time I imagine the act of a blowjob I can't help but acknowledge being at the female's mercy. There is a definite vulnerability in having a part of oneself within one of the more powerful moving parts of the human body. So, on that note, I have come to the conclusion that any time I allow myself to be in that situation, I would have complete trust in my companion; much like a dog allowing someone to nuzzle their head against its neck, or lifting its front legs from behind so that it stands up on two legs.

On a separate note, I had one of those in-between dreams when you're just beginning to fall asleep. Essentially, my roommate and I are in disagreement (much like in reality) and he presents me with two buttons: one, he says, will erase him from existence and the other would bring him back. The logistics are that if he ceases to exist, either his belongings would also vanish and a scenario in which my roommate had never showed up would play out, OR his belongings would remain and a scenario in which another roommate with a similar taste in belongings had always been there.
In any case, I pressed the button, playing along, and he vanished. I figured I'd press the other button, and he came back and went on about how a certain responsibility comes with such a device. Then he picked up the button that returned him and I pressed the other button, erasing his existence and that of the other button. The rest of the dream is a consideration of going through life erasing people that were bad or that were about to cause me harm, perhaps even some I thought were in my way.
The idea of the button is strange. I think the saying goes something like "if I had a button that would remove you from existence, I'd press it" or "be careful what you wish for." It's an interesting concept to think about, the ways it would alter reality and shuffle time (maybe?). Perhaps people are dangerous in mentality than physicality. Naturally, someone stronger or faster poses some danger, but a certain mentality is needed to actually make the person dangerous. I think it's the willingness to press the button. I would venture to guess that someone buff is just as dangerous as a child that speaks of a particular button.

I don't particularly like this school, nor many of the people here. I don't mean I have negative feelings towards them, just that they are the sort I can see myself losing contact with if we're separated. It leaves me sad, almost as much as my inability to find a fitting counterpart here. I guess it's just one of those lonely hollow-feeling days. I can't wait for the long drive home and seeing Dandelion again.

Aspectus Exceptio

Currently listening to:
Ramblin' Woman
Cat Power

In my GIS class we were discussing how maps convey information and that a particular satellite takes pictures at a 30m accuracy, so each pixel is the equivalent of 30 meters squared. To give a map or other image more resolution, the amount of pixels is increased. However, you can't just get these pixels out of the air, you're limited by the amount of pixels a camera, or the human eye, can take in to make an image. Images that take on more pixels do so by splitting each pixel into four of the same color and so on. It's interesting to ponder what we really see and wonder about all we miss out on because of the limitation of our inner (and outer) cameras. It's a lot to ask to see things with greater accuracy in terms of pixels, so I'd like to see things in their true colors as opposed to the ones they reflect.

I think light contributes to and is affected by drugs.
The world is photo realistic.

Room to Myself on a Friday Night

I've started gathering songs for another mix CD. I like to think I'm pretty good at selecting the right songs.
*****
The world in a hallway is pretty flat; focuses become more than 3D. People pop out like figures in a pop-up book. Someone enters one door and goes through the bathroom of the suite and exits the other door. It's obvious what has happened yet it's fresh and novel once more - "of course it ended up that way!"
Mikenzie and her roommate Grace are interesting people, the banter between them is witty and fast. Mikenzie speaks or does something once in a while that sets the atmospheric mood to noir, like being in an old detective movie. It's strange to do nothing and yet so much at the same time.

Holidays

Currently listening to:
La Mer, Jeu de vagues
Claude Debussy

I don't believe I like holidays. They make me feel awkward because I don't like the large crowds that result or the seeing of people I haven't seen in a long time, I don't know what to do around them. Holidays seem to interrupt the daily existence I become used to - as well as the person I became in all that steady time.
However, I do enjoy the idea of Christmas: the family/friend dinner by a fire while the world outside is bare and white and the way smells are so poignant on top of the uniform smell of cold. It's a holiday that shuts you in with tea and a book, if not in the company of another.
Still, I don't know why I feel this way; it only serves to isolate me from the standard college student. I guess I haven't found the people that are more like me; maybe I don't want to deal with people; maybe I just need a break from this college.

EDITX
I'm really not unhappy here. I think I just need a break. As I posted a while ago, it's hard to really feel and be emotionally involved out here. People interpret my mood differently and some even get upset, specifically Robyn. The way they interpret tells me they don't really know me, perhaps my fault, though I'll claim the ignorance of not even knowing myself - especially not since I've come out here.

Overcome With Bouts of Misanthropy

He was often predisposed to feelings of confused discomfort, much like the feeling of being watched when no one is around. That something was wrong, but he didn't know what.
"What's wrong? You always look a little sad, a little angry."

He spoke of nature and how long before the conceptual form of a cylinder mathematicians know and love existed, the trees had been producing such shapes out of necessity; of math which rests on a foundation of concepts which have never been seen in their purest, seeing two birds but never the two itself, for example; of time which twists numbers into something much different, and the girl who believes solely in it, tying dates and times intimately together with the events of the corporeal world.
He retold the story of young Arthur turned to a bird by Merlin to see that his land had no boundary, that property lines were man-made and so existed only within man; he pointed to the concrete below and lines traversed and crossed each other in a giant checkerboard.
He confessed that to preserve something implied the killing of it, a living bear could not be stuffed until it was dead; that the American man was concerned with this preservation over conservation; and he gestured to overweight American Indians in full dress dancing to the drum and chant of Mexican and Hawaiian and Japanese alike, for Native American Month; and he spoke of the South American tribes that remained untouched, "conserved."
He always looked a little sad, a little angry.

If I Were To Go

Currently listening to:
Thrill is gone
B.B.King

Last night I had this weird sort of headache and sore back. It was a sort of pressure in my head that made me lose feeling so that everything was dull. There have been some cases of meningococcal disease on campus, one resulting in death. I thought to myself as I lay in bed, what if I have this meningitis form? and perhaps this was my last night (death supposedly results quickly from it). I've always believed diseases should be kept around for population control, so I knew not to be fearful of any sort of end; I don't want to be contradictory. If this was to be the end, then so be it, my regrets being the writings I didn't finish and the packages I ordered that I wouldn't receive. Fortunately Dandelion's stuff was sent out earlier in the week.
This morning my back was still sore and I now feel slightly chill, probably a minor fever. I think this is just some twenty-four hour deal.

Mountains of Home

This weekend I went camping with Devin, Andrew, and Brandon. I'll have to write about it in another post when I have more time.

Of note, I have developed a sort of twitch with my left eye. I thought it was because I have been tired lately or the weather was being a little wacky, but it usually only happens when people come into my room to talk to me or if I'm walking and I come up to some people I know. Maybe I'm just tired of my environment in this big college. I need fall break and a long drive.

Some Ideas

1. Dual perspective short of a moment between a boy who is most stimulated by tactile interactions and an OCD girl tormented by symmetry of touch.

2. Female perspective of being OCD and pursued by a male. Similar to the above but there is no relationship in this one.

He is tired, laying on the floor next to her, who finished eating a snack. He rests his head on her thigh and she puts up no resistance. She goes so far as to run her fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes. I sit not far away, awkwardly not wanting to remain there but not being able to leave immediately. I don't understand the difference in his touch and mine that brings about the difference in her reaction.

Rainy Day

Who is the child and who is the adult, hm?

Like Most Things In Life

Currently reading:
Tales of a Shaman's Apprentice
Mark Plotkin

It's like cold tea with iced cubes floating at the top.
Close inspection of the golden brown liquid reveals currents in the form of diffusion: wisps falling from the cubes, the water making its way through the thickly sweet surroundings. It's like a sheet of thin plastic folding and expanding in a watery environment. I shake the bottle and many air bubbles cascade and swing around the perimeter of the bottle, toward the lid. When everything settles, all is still and uniform.

I Think I Figured It Out

Currently listening to:
A Cloud to the Back
Sam Prekop

I thought I was feeling overwhelmed but I think I'm actually getting that feeling "pre-break." Around this time, colleges usually have Fall break in the middle of October, but at CSU it happens around Thanksgiving. So I look out the window at the blue sky and see myself as a bird, just escaping. I feel like I need to get out of here, I need Fall break.

I'm Still Alive

Sorry I've been absent from here for a while. I've got four tests coming up tomorrow and Friday plus the Thursday lab. This is the first week I've felt overwhelmed and yet still calm at the same time. I think this conflict of feeling caused me to be more apathetic and distant which some people took to be anger. Maybe I am frustrated, I don't know. Once the weekend is here I hope to be 100% again. This last weekend my roommate was gone and everyone else left for day trips, so I was here alone and I think that allowed me to return to my normal levels of peace, rather than the extremely outgoing person I am when everyone is here. Perhaps, adjusting back to the outgoing self is rough.
Anyway, I finally got the Sam Prekop CD I've been trying to get for so long and Perryl is sending me his corduroy fisherman's cap I love and Rebekah is sending a letter, and other packages I've ordered. I still need to write my sister, family, and Dandelion.
I don't like eating here much anymore. After a meal (especially breakfast) I feel uncomfortable, like a weak stomachache. I can't wait to live off campus and cook for myself.

It's getting cold here.

Ode to a Beard

Babies cry
and mothers sigh
and girls never say nay.

Add Our Feelings Together. Divide By 0. Move On.

I want to take note of a recent high I had. It was probably very good, fresh plant material because it didn't seem like I did any more than I have recently, and yet it was sort of an over-high to the point of feeling sick. However, I didn't get so sick that I threw up, so maybe I'm getting better about that or am finding the amount that's good for me.

Anyway, it started out as the general high where certain dialogues are very funny because they're seen in that new light. In the hall, the feeling mounted and I began to feel the mood within the words people spoke. Of course, words have emotional backings to them, they're all charged that way. But the feelings I could sense seemed much more tangible as if they were coming from the mouths of the speakers. It was almost claustrophobic being surrounded by all those feelings.
So I went in my room and laid down and closed my eyes. Stories started up; this concept is very difficult to explain, especially a day after it happened. Essentially, my mind's eye saw "bubbles" or scenes on a stage which were brief and singular. The content was similar to two pictures combining into one fresh scenario. That's about all I can describe it as since I can't completely remember.
The night was emotional and downing and quiet, so I slept twelve hours. The next day was still dazed and foggy and eating brought back the high for some reason. I don't think anything should have still been in my system, but then I've always been a little odd with drugs of all kinds. I called it a sick day and just mooched around until my night lab.