The first half of today felt like the Radiohead song "Treefingers" on repeat. Numbingly, capriciously complacent. I spent the latter part of today at a year-end Ph.D/professor and spouses gathering. I tend to masquerade well as one of them, and perhaps thats because I have been built up to some level of standard that at this point I believe I am simply too weary to live up to. Its time to hit the reset button on that damn thing called ambition.

I am too comfortable. I need to get out somewhere. I'd like to go fetch a future. Perhaps the steppes of Kazakhstan and Lake Baikal. Whatever. I just want to wander around and laugh at things.

So while I'm still up and enjoying my buzz, with my brain hovering over that wide grey area between creativity and nonsense, I ought to say a few words about why I can't really blog anymore.

It appears to me that no matter what one blogs about, one does so most likely because one thinks the contents are interesting to a certain extent, either to himself/herself or to others. In most cases, this is a rather momentary feeling. In the past, I often woke up feeling quite ashamed for my public drunken ramblings on Facebook or Xanga. But there probably are those who find that it rather titillating to twitter "just brushing my teeth!" or to describe their status: "thinks I get Monday and Wednesday's lectures down... will review this a few more times to make sure I get it tomorrow, study bones over the weekend (along with the gazillion things I have to do over the Memorial Day weekend)!" (the latter courtesy of Facebook)

Of course, there's nothing wrong with this. The seemingly honest and heartfelt comments on these otherwise absurd posts suggest to me that there are indeed caring people and friends out there who care about the rather mundane thoughts and actions of others. But I sometimes feel tempted to write shit like "fuckin' Luis Scola needs to cut his hair!" or "BACTRIAN CAMELS!" only to find these feelings pass by quickly, because I know that the next morning I will ask myself: what the fuck. why am i sharing my private emotional baggage with others? why the hell did i just give a shoutout to Bactrian camels? (fyi, people in Central Asia used to put cannons between their humps) These moments of doubt and insecurity arise probably because my thoughts, ponderings, and inquisitions are usually nothing but fleeting, temporary moments; I either find a quick answer or find that their significance disappears shortly afterward. Either way, I usually end up finding them contrite and meaningless.

I'll probably wake up sober and find that all this was stupid and that I should cut this shit out, which should probably also be a reminder of why I should stop drinking the wine. This social networking, status update nonsense thing has certainly worked toward encouraging our narcissism.

Drag his ass back home!

An utter unwillingness to doozy myself, a lack of interest in peoples' stories, and a nagging feeling of responsibility to that which returns no satisfaction. Well, throw in some fifty-cent coffee at the bookstore and the twisted smiles of the ambitious. Its time that I go play dress-up and have superficial small talk with people; its the way of the world, they say, our Pomp and Circumstance. But all those charmful gestures are pouring out the punctures and holes scattered throughout the suit. Very soon, the guest lobby will flood, and may we all smother ourselves with our gracious words. Your annual thoughtfulness and caring heart, as expressed through your gentle words, are much appreciated.

Its becoming very hard to write in here.

Subjectivism

There's always meaning if we look hard enough. But who really has the time to care? It's all just "imitating fiction."

Holding on.

The non-fish finds itself amidst a stupendous forestmaze of bewildering dazzling lights. What am I to make of this landscape? With every turn that ends up in some dead-end nook, I hear echoes from a not-so-distant past, whispering: 'You've nothing to fear, nothing to doubt; your naivety has been misguided, but never look back...' But this was all an accident...it must be some sort of psychological fissure! What a cruel ventriloquist, a heartless puppeteer! A deliberate strangling to the point where I don't recognize my own face. This is really happening! Its the moment when I beg for directions from a mirror.

"Weird Fishes"

Sanity has became compressed into an uninspired white, sterile room devoid of the necessary aesthetic functions conducive to creative stimulation. Only here do clouds gather in the absence of winds. When the storm has finally finished its deliberate dawdling it unleashes a lethargic torrent of disgust, apathy, but calm. [ ] waddles doggy-paddles and twaddles. As he floats and sinks through this chilly inundation of dry words and empty thoughts, he can't help but notice the solemn expressions of the mute fishes attracted by this newcomer, although whether or not they extend their greetings cannot be surmised. He wonders what they make of this uninvited loiterer and his unfocused, deadpan gaze, but soon realizes the absurdity of wondering the wonders of fish. However long they have mindlessly or deliberately swam circles in their confinement cannot be known. But as with any fish, no matter what tank one tosses them in, he or she will always appear calm, at ease, and habituated with their new surrounding. [ ] is reminded, though, that he is no fish.

I'm sorry friends, but my weekend just got Dirli[c]ked

I don't know why and I usually don't care.

But holding a ph.D shouldn't allow you the liberty to litter your publications with needlessly protracted six-line sentences jumbled with baseless theoretical jargons and passive voice structures. More pictures in your books would also help too. Why must you deliberately make what otherwise would be an interesting argument so difficult to read?

Hong Kong.

Macau