I haven't written in here in awhile, but at least this time it's because I have been working on my term papers. I don't think I've ever worked harder academically, and I'm very content with the work so far. Something about trying that much, and doing good work has brought my closer to the Holy Spirit. I feel like I am doing what I should be doing, though you might not notice since my room looks like a mess and I'm barely getting enough sleep. I look wretched, but in a good way.

I'm actually writing this post as a reminder for a project I'd like to work on. At some point I'd like to do a poem or translation of Luke. It's kind of an intimidating project, because that Gospel is apparently the most complete Christology. So it would be pretty awful to foul something up, if I got a too loose. But I think if I frame it as a poem, it will be...nicer. I thought of the idea while researching the death penalty for my Aquinas class. I was just struck by the passage (taken from the New American Standard translation):

Luke 23:35-41

35And the people stood by, looking on. And even the rulers were sneering at Him, saying, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if this is the Christ of God, His Chosen One."

36The soldiers also mocked Him, coming up to Him, offering Him sour wine,

37and saying, "If You are the King of the Jews, save Yourself!"

38Now there was also an inscription above Him, "THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS."

39One of the criminals who were hanged there was hurling abuse at Him, saying, "Are You not the Christ? Save Yourself and us!"

40But the other answered, and rebuking him said, "Do you not even fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?

41"And we indeed are suffering justly, for we are receiving what we deserve for our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong."

42And he was saying, "Jesus, remember me when You come in Your kingdom!"

43And He said to him, "Truly I say to you, today you shall be with Me in Paradise."

44It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness fell over the whole land until the ninth hour,

45because the sun was obscured; and the veil of the temple was torn in two.

46And Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, "Father, INTO YOUR HANDS I COMMIT MY SPIRIT." Having said this, He breathed His last.

elephant tusks and miracle dust and indescribable things
the same warmth there ever was
is here again today and gone tomorrow

the least of things
wrestled with the sea
and endeavored to become what may be- unending

the bells that remind
ringing for better times
tears and memories running undone

resting in the solace of a shade.

Again, tonight, I do not feel like writing, but I've learned that times like these are the best opportunity for it. Today I worked on reorganizing files for the School of Education department. It's a somewhat large fruitless task, but it didn't seem too bothersome once I had started. The dust from the files irritated my sinuses, and I am still feeling the effects 7 hours later. I hope I'm not getting sick. It's the time of the year when being sick doesn't help; it's not raining outside, and it's not a lazy month. This weekend I will drive down to San Diego for a job fair. The archdiocese has set it up for its schools. It seems like a good first real shot at a job. Katyana only learned about it this weekend, but she decided to join. I am glad she will be with me. If I cannot find a job there, I will either have to find part-positions at community colleges in San Diego, or travel back up to Santa Cruz. It would be nice to head home, but I would rather be near Katyana. We've sustained our relationship from a distance for quite some time, but if it's left up to me I'd rather be near her.

Lately I've been having more bad dreams than good. I don't know if I am more stressed than usual, I do feel like I am handling my daily affairs more responsibly. But the dreams have been troublesome. A few days ago I dreamt that I was fleeing from the government. The dream proceeded like the post-apocalyptic (or in this case post- new world order) dreams I've had, characterized by the following: I am running from a force or entity that is much larger, more numerous and powerful than I am, there is a vague/uncertain threat of zombies, I am perhaps too keenly aware of the societal changes that are occurring as a result of the present crisis. The dreams are somewhat like Alice in Wonderland, as the experiences fluctuate periodically from eerily pleasurable to outright horrific.
What made this dream peculiar- and it's been long enough since I had that I don't remember much of anything else- was at one point, when I and the group I was fleeing the government with had driven into a town that looked very much like the Old City in Jerusalem. The sky was overcast gray, and our pursuer was just on our heels as we took a sharp turn onto a narrow street. The streets in Jerusalem are impossible narrow, and are paved with cobblestones large enough to make it difficult to walk on comfortable. When it rains, the oil makes the stones slick. This street was covered with Arabs lying prostrate, dying from some plague. We hardly slowed as we plowed into them, the ones still alive ahead struggled to pull the dead from our path. Their clothes were smeared from the oil and rain. My next memory of that dream was of riding a compact, red roller coaster in Japan with Takeshi.

I have been thinking about writing poetry again. It occured to me in the bathroom today that I might be a better poet than philosopher- it was a somewhat unhappy notion. However, I do take pride in my development in creative writing. From Mrs. Basilius to Mrs. Audino to the Sappho translation that the poet laureate appreciated to the professor who taught my steinbeck class, to norm partridge's tutelage. I can happily reflect on those experiences, rough as they sometimes were.

Earlier today in the bathroom- it was a productive day there for some reason- i read a passage by blaise pascal. It was about how we so rarely look upon the present, but are constantly engaging ourselves with the future or the past, either to prolong the good or to speed along or lament the bad. The challenge to look more adequately at the present is difficult to deal with. Especially, because it cannot be honestly put off for later. I do take heart in the idea that my happiness is not something that should be looked for on some distant horizon after grad school papers are written or after i have got a job or a law school position or a house for my children. It almost seems like bad advice to turn my head away from my plans for the future, even if to reflect subjectively on the present, but I know it to be otherwise. It just seems true that we are meant to live in the present, despite the magnificence of our future and the depth of the past.

My two brothers and I were all born in the month of April. Stuart, being the oldest, has had to experience everything first. And in seeing and being out there before either of us, it seems like like comes out him hardest. Ian is probably the most clever of the three. He has a way of looking at the world that let's him handle things- he's the funniest of us. My mother worried when we were growing up, about the effects divorce and broken family life would have on us. She worried that we would suffer from depression. She came from a large family, and her parents created a home for them, especially my grandfather. I can see why she was afraid for us; I can see a little bit of how she must have known things should have been different.

She wanted to hide us away from the world, just long enough. Long enough so we wouldn't have to run up against it before we were ready. Part of growing up in a fractured family is that you have to see and hear things before you are ready. You have to witness anger and resentment, before you know fully the sentiments that transcend those emotions. You have to see your parents fight, and scream, and weep before you can understand what would possess them to act that way.

My brothers and I have always been independent, or at least we have always sought independence. We get it from our parents, my father worked to create his livelihood without an inheritance or help from his own father, and my mother traveled across the world to work and to start a family. Mom could only hold us for so long, she thinks as soon as we turned twelve or maybe fourteen, that was when we were already fighting to be on out on our own. I had thought it was later. When I went to college, I felt like I was starting a new life. My things were then my things, and they were packed into my car. I had a room.

The world is upon us now, the three of us. It's turning and changing us. My brother's divorce, and his daughter, Amira. The house and the war. Ian's job flying, and my studying, and sitting here, and feeling sadness every once in awhile. It's all here now, and it's been there for years but it takes some time to see it.

I used to think if I could just make the right choices, life would go smoothly. Some things couldn't be helped, but if I continued to finish my work, and make it through the day, and be a faithful friend things would fall into place. Things just had to be done well. Now as I go on I'm realizing the world is so complex, and the guidelines are growing thin and far apart. We run the course of our lives, trying to give ourselves the best shot- cutting away at the worst possibilities, we insure that we have a job, and a home, and comfort in relationships. But at some time we have to acknowledge the unknown in the world. We just can't know what will come, and it's a fearful thing. We guard as much as we can, but we can only grasp and hold on to so much.

In my brothers I see many things. I see the home we grew up in, the woods we used to run through. So much of our lives is bound up amongst us. As I grow older I realize that they are what I want keep with me as the world changes. As it swells and fades.

No disrespect to Cesar Chavez, but the fact that Loyola Marymount University observes Cesar Chavez day, and ignores President's Day (a federal holiday) is messed up.

The last few days I have been considering the idea of insanity. My old room mate was telling me that his neighbor is suffering from some mental disease, something like schizophrenia. He believes that he is being possessed by a demon, and had expressed this to James on one occasion. He was also consulting with priests as to how he could be exorcised. The following evening he had an episode, and was taken by ambulance to a psychiatric ward.

It is a frightful thing to witness someone lose their sanity. Even hearing third hand accounts can be disturbing. On one hand this this is caused by a historical notion of mental derangement, namely that of demonic possession. It's not merely that someone has lost touch with reality through some dysfunction or imbalance in their brain chemistry, but rather that their will has been subordinated to the devil. They now pose the possibility of great harm to us and themselves, imbued with a demonic power. For me, the idea of their radical unpredictability is a dreadful thing. It would be strange to think that in all our interactions we are in the process of predicting what others around us will do next- we enjoy a certain amount of passivity to the world. But to be cognizant of the fact that someone near you has possibly lost touch with all intellectual and social norms would be unsettling to say the least. At the same time, it is more than their simply losing the possibility of social contract. In some way they lose touch with part of their human soul.

At this point, I've used broad strokes to frame the idea of insanity. The current perspective could include a range of illnesses from Alzheimer's to bi-polar disorder to those who are in a blind rage after experiencing great loss. I have not distinguished between the legal, medical, and social aspects of such a condition. These reasons makes this sort of inspection largely unfruitful. I am talking about a topic I have a woeful inadequacy to handle. However, I want to get at a common notion of the idea. That is a loss of the self. It could be argued that someone undergoing the throes of mental aberration still have "themself", but I can't help but thinking such violence done to they way one thinks radically reshapes the psyche. The reason I am willing to engage this topic, is because I want to elicit the idea that we should have a reverence for the suffering of such a violence.

Today, we often cannot help but mock those we think are mentally ill. This woman who projects her derangement with an obsession for children, and gives birth to eight children she is wholly incapable of raising is the target of great maligning in the news. People can't wait to take a shot at her. We've developed a great sense of distrust and suspicion regarding these manners, no doubt in part because of our awareness of how insanity pleas are abused in the courts. We see people faking dementia as a way of absconding themselves from responsibility. However, given the circumstance when we confront someone who legitimately suffers such an affliction, it seems to require a great reordering of the way we think if we are to display the appropriate sympathy. You can't lure someone out of irrationality with syllogistic reasoning, and this is even more so when it is involuntary. Our actions must be characterized by an emotive touch, a sensitivity to the part of human soul the insane still has direct contact with- namely the sensitive part.

Going over this entry I'm afraid the looseness of what I have written obscures my intention. Rather than become overly apologetic, I will re-synthesize my thought. When those of us around us encounter such an experience, when they lose grips with the intellectual part of their soul, we should direct our care of them in such a way as to exhibit reverence for their loss. However, temporary it may or not be, I think if we come to terms with the evil (natural or moral) suffered, we are obligated to mourn more than the forfeiture of our personal comfort.

It's been wicked cold in Los Angeles lately. It must be anomaly that the temperature is dropping down to the low 40's; it certainly is the coldest since I moved here a year and 1/2 ago. The other day I purchased some fried chicken from the KFC on Lincoln. I noticed when I was in the elevator that the bag had a KFC seal of approval for food safety. The idea seemed odd to me, the label was more advertisement than health notice. In this day, that sort of thing has become a selling point, rather than something granted. I had food poisoning, by that night. That sort of illness is much easier to deal with when you can stay at home all day.

The time spent indoors from the rain, cold, and illness has given me insight on the effects of sedentary life. I've become resistant to cabin fever. That is, I can spend a series of days without any physical activity, and yet not become restless. However, when I am at my apartment I only reside in a few places. Primarily that is in my chair at the computer, which at the most was meant for maybe 30 minutes of seating a day. It's a wooden dinner table chair, and really it would be more fitting for breakfast. My elbows and my finger joints start to swell from typing too much, it's a mess.

One thing I enjoy about this room is that immediately to left from my desk is a large window. Unfortunately, it's covered by vertical blinds that do a poor job at nearly all the tasks we expect of blinds. It's sort of comical how poorly they keep light out and insulate. The real treasure is behind those blinds. The view is something less than magnificent; outside is the fabricated apartment complex garden albeit with a more liberal distribution of trees. It's just enough of a view to take a look to clear my mind for a moment, and then to go back to work. I'd love an ocean view, perhaps one of those captain's cabin views out the rear of a spanish galleon. I'd never get anything done.

The courtyard outside my window has had its share of events. I watched my room mate's dog, Forban, lose his ball off the balcony. The poor thing looked so despondent. I couldn't find it below. During the Fall, at dusk, birds will land suddenly. The complex surrounding the courtyard offers some protection, and this area lacks any sort of wooded areas, so this is probably the best place for them to sleep. The sound of their wings fluttering is surprisingly audible. It's as if they spent the entire toiling with the wind, and they are just collapsing into their resting grounds. There is also a sweet aroma. I'd like to think it's floral, but it's sweet enough to make me think it's rust or some byproduct from the irrigation system. Really it smells like my mother's sweat.

I'm washing a thermal blanket for tonight. It was dusty when I pulled it out of my closet. It's the blue hospital blanket the nurses gave me when I broke my collar bone playing football. Someday I'll probably lose it, but it's quite a thought to think of my daughter wrapped up in it.

Sometimes when I get home from work and school I want to take off my shoes and shirt, and fling myself off the world. Just dive right over the edge and let my arms and feet hang backwards behind me while I plunge into the night. I wonder about the sailor caught under the superstition that the world was flat, as Magellan took them over the flat limits of the earth. Did he relish the idea of falling? I can imagine him standing apart from his mates, clinging to a hawser- his toes knotting into balls in an effort to cling to the deck. His eyes wild with wonder. For him it must have been about what's at the bottom, the real end. For me I want to know the fall.

My brother is back from the war again. I will be traveling up to Washington again to see him this weekend. He was scheduled to arrive on Tuesday, Inauguration Day.

Almost a year since my last post. I think that's the longest gap so far, but the good thing is I'm posting again. It's 5:00pm, but I'm tired mostly in the eyes. I've been thinking about my trip to the Philippines a lot. There is quite a bit that could be said about my experience there. At this point I'd rather leave that to pictures and random discussions, and hope I don't forget too much if I ever really want to put those memories to ink/key.

The big question I put to myself while I was there wasn't really a question, but I guess something that was influencing me while I was there. Most basically it can be put as this-> what's special about the Philippines? Is it that it has a strong history? From what I learned the prehistoric times in the Philippines took place during the flourishing of Ancient Greek antiquity. Relatively all that has occured in the Philippines has gone on in the shadow of the more prominent Asian civilizations more or less the West. Is it that there is such a stark contrast between first world Makati and the third world slums around the corner? My limited life experience with ghettos in developing countries (a mission trip to Mexico while I was 7th grade, a trip through the West Bank)buffered the surprise I think some of my family expected to see in me as dirt poor children pressed their faces against my tinted window in order to see if there was a handout inside. I wouldn't say I am numb, but I've seen it before. Is it in the things that only the Philippines has- this fruit or that beach? Or in the things that are distinctly Filipino?

I'd have to spend a great deal of time to really ascertain what is special about the Philippines if I went about it by asking those questions. I'm not really asking what is special about the Philippines, I'm asking what makes me belong to this place. This question is infinitely more important to me. I continue to reflect on the Philippines through the perspective that it is the land where my mother was born, and where my family continues to live. Every part of it, from the pleasure of halo halo to the travesties elicited by the corrupt government and politicians are in some part mine.

I think the question I will begin to ask myself is how I take ownership of these things- of the Philippines. This isn't ownership in the sense that I am indebted to solve all its problems or even take up residence there. It's also not ownership in the sense that I take advantage of all that is good there. It's ownership in the sense of belonging. The question as to why I belong there are easily answered. It's familial- ancestral. But now I will ask how I am filipino.

I know I will never truly belong there. I am American, and I am from California- Santa Cruz. But the faint tug that has kept me from becoming American in the same sense as my classmates comes from across the Pacific. I guess that's the mestizo plight. You never really belong here or there. Sometimes I can't help but sympathize with the nationalist/racist who thinks true citizenship is impossible for someone like me. In some acute sense they are right. Though I'd probably never let them know about it- it's probably not for them to understand.

Having returned home I am proud of what is there- in me. I've always known where my family comes from, but it was a rare opportunity to see what those places really look, feel, and smell like. In those two weeks my identity grew incredibly more complex. It seems cliche to think about it in this way, but I don't think it has to be. I don't think it was just a matter of seeing the manila smog, the jeepneys, the sigsig, the barrios. It was confronting that part of my spirit.

only because i want to see more than pictures on this here blog.
I am at the gleacher center, fourth floor south study lounge, sitting just to the left of the middle of this horseshoe sitting arrangement, and looking out onto the chicago river bridge and hyatt regency. it's a beautiful 47 degrees outside. i should be teaching myself about the stoics, now that i've spent perhaps more than four good days on epicureanism. i keep looking out of these huge huge windows and i want to be out there, walking down michigan avenue, embraced by the sun. at least from here i can witness such happenings, people walking by, the flags across the river bridge blown happily. i wonder what time this place closes. i wonder how difficult the exam will be. purchasing lunch today was a peculiar adventure. i'd forgotten that b-school kids run around in suits all day, i wore jeans and a t-shirt and barely fixed my hair. i felt like a dirty little puppy at the food court, wandering around aimlessly, unsure of what to eat or where to be. i was the youngest one there or at least felt like i was. but people usually love dirty little puppies, even when they're dirty. you can't hate a puppy even if she don't belong.

the faint tatters of clouds slip behind dark mountains
the desert is cold
a woman stands wrapped in a shawl, her hair spills over her shoulders.

her bare feet clench the clay,
tangles of weeds rub against the hardened skin.

in the distance a faint baby's cry
stiffled by the wind.

a step
and another more quickly,
the moonlight flashes against the darting, slender legs.

the gusts picks up, swirling around her-
sand tears at her face and eyes

it begins in her breath,
slowly it becomes like the wind.
the soil bleeds into her veins.

fingers trace the brush, blending
the sky envelops her.

Sometimes it's just better to write when my shoes are on and my contacts are dry in my eyes. I'm back at school, but I my foot steps are so barely touching the ground at Loyola Marymount. I'm half way on the plane to Chicago already. This last week cemented some decisions in my life, and that's just the way things are going to be. At least that's just the way things are going to be planned on, and if they change well then things will roll like they always seem to fall.

I've been giving more and more consideration to abandoning the academic lifestyle. Don't worry, I won't be jumping ship over open waters; I have every intention of finishing out my master's degree in philosophy. I still have plenty of things to learn here, and I owe quite a bit to quite a few people- including myself- before I can cut loose. When I left college at St. Mary's I had to make up enough determination to say that the philosophic life was right, and that I could make a life out of it. Now I've learned that philosophic life may not necessarily coincide with a PhD and a tenure track, no matter how much my professors say that scholastics and academics are complentary with the pursuit of truth. If I am going to be true with myself and live to my potential I have to honestly consider what will lead to happiness. If that means teaching at a high school, and leaving the world of higher academics behind- c'est la vie.

I'm not turning my back on it all. I think that would be just as detrimental to my vision as plodding on the PhD track without considering what I'd rather be doing. I very well my find myself a few years from now submitting articles for journals and applying to universities. But at this point I think the right thing for me is grow up, and that will take some real introspection. If I can suceed in being truly contemplative without the academic collar around my neck, I think I will have reached a point where I can branch out to professorship or even authorship. I really need to experience the wonder and majesty as I did when I was in the program. And I need to know that I can do that on my own, without trying to satisfy someone who is ready to evaluate me.

Above and beyond all that there is family and friends, and really what else is there. I'm ready to be there.

Tonight I'm not sure what I want to write about. It's been a little while since I've actually wrote something. This last week has aged me.

I'm sitting in my room waiting for the laundry to finish. I don't feel like cooking or cleaning or eating. And I think that's okay for now. For me there's something about an empty stomach that feels right when you're afraid of bad news. I've been wondering how and when Faith would become present to me again, like when I was younger. It occured to me the other day, that I often go so far astray that I don't think to pray even when I need it. I used to thing it must be a miserable thing for God to hear my prayers only when I needed protection. Now when I think about him looking at me when I'm in over my head and I can't step out of my own thoughts for a moment to think of Christ. I've never been convinced by people who lost their Faith over sudden traumatic losses. But that's probably because of every story I've heard about how people in the same sort of circumstance gained rather than lost their belief in God. I think I've let myself fallen prey to something worse, spiritually, soulfully, than those hard times. It's something like a disease in the soul to drift away like that. When I realize where I've gone I'm struck by the thought that I in all that time I must have done serious damage to my Faith, and that it will take time and devotion of thought to put me back in that better place. I'm not sure if that's how it works, but if it is, then I worry someday I won't be able to swim that far.

It's hard to be in prayer. Maybe I'm so used to distracting myself now that I don't have the discipline to focus myself and my thoughts for that long. Sometimes I really don't know how people can do it. Last night I was on a plane from Sacramento, and an elderly filipino woman was sitting next to me. When we started to take off, she pulled out a rosary and prayed for nearly the whole flight. It's something I've seen before, but this time I felt thankful. On the other side of me sat a young business man who was reading some sort of golf magazine. Sacramento airport probably had the highest ratio of single businessmen that I've seen before. This one was clean cut, and like all the other men in suits he looked like he rode this flight everyday. I wondered he ever appreciated women like the lady praying the rosary. I imagine he was so bored with the mundane experience of flying and the beer he was gulping was probably numbing any residual anxiety. I want a better prayer life. And I don't mean that I want the ability to stay in prayer for longer without becoming bored and then self-concious about that boredom. I don't mean I want to be like a runner that has trained himself to lope endlessly around a track. I think what it means is that I want the faith for the prayer to mean something more to me. I don't know if that's just asking for an inspired sensation, but it must be something like sincerity. The kind of sincerity that occurs between friends as they share in their grief.

Life will go on, I will grow old, and for better or worse I will try to prepare for the weight that will come. As much as I've imagined falling asleep at the end of my time surrounding by the people that love me, I know that things will be harder than it seems. I thought about alzheimer's and what it would be like to lose my self, that piece of my thought that's closest to me dashed away. It's terribly sorrowful, and even more so when I think how I could treat the ones that mean the most to me. To lose my self.

I'm not happy with what I've written. I think it's because I'm writing things that just aren't quite right; maybe I'm forcing smaller thoughts to have larger meaning. But I'll let it go for now, and maybe come back to something that was worthwhile.

Sailing to Byzantium
WB Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Having your team lose in the Super Bowl makes all of the post-game festivities just miserable to watch. But at least they weren't my team, and the loss is something like watching Reggie Bush and Matt Leinart's USC team lose to Vince Young's Texas in the National Championship. They aren't my favorite team, but I wanted to see history made by a team I can like. After tonight I don't want to think or see football till next season. Over the last few weeks I've been reading more articles written by strictly sports commentators as opposed to the ones who attempt some social/political insight, and I have to say it was an unfortunate time. If we were to have modern day soothsayers, they would be former football players in sport suits and cyber jocks with a tendency towards hyperbole. The good thing, and I should say the great thing about losing a Super Bowl is it should make you question how important the game is within the grand scheme of life. And while I think most people, especially the players and coaches will continue to exagerate what this should mean to them, I also think this could a rare opportunity for self-reflection. Well I guess that's really all I have to say about the game itself, thankfully. Go niners.

The commercials. I passed out sometime in the first quarter, so I didn't see most of the commercials, but from what I could tell they were again lackluster- and perhaps especially so. I made up for it by watching the clips online afterwards. Seeing all of the best of the commercials compounded into a stream of clips made them seem better as a whole, but when I watched the worst of the advertisements, I was again surprised by how bad some of them really were. I don't know what Under Armor was going with in their commercial. They went from a small company that used to provide a unique product to athletes through mail order catalogues to some kind of hulking sports apparel business that lacks Nike's taste. If I saw their motif in a movie, I would think they were the bad guys set on world domination through might makes right, nationalist motivations. Is that the culmination of blue collar work ethic? Sales Genie brought out the worst commercials, and not because they were simply not funny. These were the ads that had the animated Indian salesman and a family of Chinese panda bears. Typically, I shun use of the race card, since I think people tend to hide behind it instead of being honest about it, but these commercials were somewhat upsetting to me. I've seen more offensive content before, butI am suprised that Sales Genie had the gall to use this sort of thing for a Super Bowl commercial. I doubt there will be public outcry against Asian and Indian discrimination in the media concerning these ads, but I can't help but wondering what would have happened if the cartoons were Black caricatures. Most people probably just thought that they weren't funny, and hopefully won't bother to endorse a company that lacks creativity; which I guess is a good thing. But if I was Indian or Chinese I think I would have been a little red in the face after watching; I'm only half Filipino and I'm embarassed.

It's Monday morning again, and I'm actually okay with the idea of getting ready for work soon. I think knowing that I plan to put in a honest work effort is making it easier to head off to what has been typically a dreadfully boring experience. I'm glad that I woke up early again for a chance since I have time to shake off the effects of Super Bowl snacks. James and I bought a 24 pack of Corona, that turned out to be in cute 7oz bottles instead of the real size. Half the beer twice the bottles oops. We only finished half of them, but that's probably cause I passed out from staying up all night again. We had chips, dips, salsa, and a 12-piece bucket of fried chicken. I woke up during the 4th quarter and all that good health eating caught up to me. My finger was swelling up so I stoned myself on Ibuprofen and Indocin. I hope Katyana didn't mind my medecine head babel on the phone. I'm feeling better now, and my finger is moving freely. Guess I'll have to start taking Allopurinol more regularly again.

A few things are coming up this week. And now that I'm just running over them in my mind, the only thing I am personally involved with is Lent. I decided to give up video gaming websites. I can waste as much time on those as the real thing, and having those around is a trigger for a wowlapse. But I'm glad I'm doing well in that respect; I still have a long ways to go as far as productivity and work- I really need to get those papers done and out of my life- but that can't happen if I'm melting my brain over those kinds of things. Overall the surge is working. I also need to pick a Saint name for confirmation. At the beginning of the RCIA classes we discussed gifts of the spirit, and I chose Courage as the one I wanted to work on the most. Many of my classmates had chosen it as their strength, but for me I think it is a very hard thing to stand where you know you should stand, and trying to live life in the way it should be lived is a fearful undertaking. I wanted to pick a saint who embodies Courage in the way I am thinking of it- Augustine comes to mind, but I want to do more looking before I choose. I am pretty excited about confirmation since I am getting closer and closer to the rite.

I'm happy to say that I am writing this morning with pleasant thoughts in mind. It's around 7:20 in the morning, and my attempt to sleep for a full night was a failure. I tried to stay awake till a reasonable time, but I must have not waited long enough and woke up somewhere around 4-5 hours later at 3 in the morning. I may have pushed it to 4, but I wouldn't really call that sleep. I've been sleeping about 6 or 7 hours a day, but generally not for more than those 4-5 hours. I think it will just take some exercise to push me into a more normal sleeping schedule. Oddly enough. I'm sleeping at around the same time as those super athletes and pastry chefs that have to wake up early in the morning to accomplish their routines.

Back to the pleasant thoughts in mind. It's Friday morning, and I'm looking foward to a few events this weekend. Normally, I wouldn't be so proud of something like that; especially since I'm starting to see some of my high school and college friends take on the weekend warrior mentality now that they are taking jobs as accountants and real estate agents. Anyways, I'm renewing my pool membership, and that actually sounds a little bit fun to me. I'd probably swim everyday if pool water wasn't so cold. I admit that jumping in is always the worst part. This more of an interesting decision, because yesterday my checking account read 3 dollars and 56 cents. That's $3.56. I actually had to transfer money from my savings account for food. For me that's a little desperate, but in some little way I'm proud of it. At least I know that things are taken care of, and that I can at least make it from paycheck to paycheck. I've been thinking about all the times older people have told me about their times as a student with little or no money to spare. I'm certainly not starving; I just had a big breakfast. But I think I am finally appreciating what it means to assume responsibility for these concerns as a whole. I remember thinking about what that would be like when I was child.

I've become distracted again. This weekend I plan to head over to Janne's place. I haven't seen her since before the New Years, and I feel bad for not visiting more often. It will be nice to get away from this apartment. Saturday I don't have much in mind, but it would be excellent if I could pin myself down and do some research for my Plato paper. And Sunday is the Super Bowl. I'd like to get out of this place since it's not the most ideal place to watch the game, but I don't want to leave James behind. Hopefully, he's up for going some place. Anyways that's the weekend, and if you want to know what I really think of it, here it is- there are a bunch of opportunities to drink beer, and that sounds just fine to me.
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I'm bracketing off this portion of the entry, because I've been thinking about this over the last few days. In the December '07 edition of Time magazine there is an article about sensory disorders. In a segment of the article a researcher describes the most common sensory types founds amongst people. These aren't disorders, but she's found that most people fit into one of the behavior patterns.

Seekers- Enjoy extreme sports, touch others when talking, like being barefoot; hum, tap and make other idle noises.

Sensors- May startle easily; require quiet while working; notice minor changes in recipes; get motion sickness more than others.

Avoiders- Need time alone; have narrow food preferences; wear gloves for messy chores; steer clear of shopping malls.

Bystanders- Didn't notice clutter or ambient noise; may wear clothing askew; have bumps and bruises they don't recall getting.

After looking over the list a few times I've found that these aren't air tight. Just thinking about my brothers, I can see how they would cross a few of the categories. But I also think there is something to this; though it's possible I'm just putting too much into it. I see myself as a sensor. Clearly I get motion sickness more than others, I notice when the my burrito has a different kind of mexican rice, and really I can't work on a paper in a cafe, or when someone is snoring, or when there's punk music playing. I don't think I startle easily, but I'm not completely sure how to quantify that.

In someway I'd like to make an apology for sensors. Throughout my academic existence in the collegiate atmosphere, I've wondered what I'm good at. Fearfully, I've sometimes thought it was mimicry. I don't know if I actually have a creative bone in my body. That's why I was happy to hear Mr. Kelly talk about how no one is really creative, and that we all cop off other people before us, either conciously or unconciously. But it's possible that I'm exceptionally prone to adhering to other's ideas, and that I'm not worth much on my own. I guess if that's true, I've come to terms with it somewhat. I think the reason I pick up on other people's stuff, is that I can usually get a sense of people. Now I have to be careful when I say this, because I think it's a common thing for people to think they have a sense of people. That's probably why there are so many psychology majors. I think they want to get a handle of the way people act and react, and for the most part people are actually pretty good at this. This is why we expect people to see where we are coming from in certain situations, even if we may know very little about them. I just think they're more confident in their abilities than they really should be. To a great extent, and as much as people want to make it sound otherwise, people are still very much mysterious. And while we may have great faith in our ability to see into people, I think it's a mark of maturity to realize when that ability is in over its head.

If I had any talent that relates to the philosophic realm it would be that sort of sensing. Maybe that's why I'm more comfortable in (and gain more insight from) discussion rather than writing. And while I rely on it to make conversation go more smoothly, it's just a tool for the dialectic. Really you have to worry about any further use of it.

An hour later this post is going up, I'll think about these things and maybe write more later.

I edited the post I made on Jan 14th. Can't believe I forgot the last part.

Words in a song

In the movie Music and Lyrics, Sophie (played by Drew Barrymore) says something to the effect that the melody of a song is like seeing something for the first time, the physical attraction, the sex. The lyrics are like when you get to know them and their story. And the combination of the two makes it magical. I think most music people would agree, at least if you asked them they would say as much. But is it so bad that I can't beyond the melody?

If I think about any moment I was moved or touched by a song, I recall the melody being the source. I don't think it's superficial. In many songs there is every bit of story in the melody as there is in the lyrics. This isn't a new idea, and I think it's why people were and are invested in classical, orchestral music so heavily for such a long time. In the past, people were incredible sensitive to what happened in a musical score. I'm hesistant to say that people today are dull in that regard, because I think it still affects us in many of the same ways. However, with classical instrumental music you just don't get the cheat sheet with the words on it. I don't really mean that. The lyrics are more than a cheat sheet, and I submit to Sophie's wisdom that the magic really is in the combination.

Sometimes I have trouble reconciling the thoughts I have about the melody with the lyrics and the song as a whole. I think we all experience this occasionally when we are humming along to an enjoyable tune, only to interrupt ourselves when we realize the lyrics are just ridiculous, and maybe for a reason. The kind of trouble I often have is when a song reminds me of something that the song is clearly not about. It's even more troubling when I want to tell Katyana that a certain song made me think of her, but I can't really mention because it may only be in the melody. For example, if you go on youtube.com and look up Shatner + Conan O'Brien + Fear of Pop you'll find a video of a song Ben Folds and Shatner did on the Late Night Show. It has to be that version, the one I downloaded on itunes just isn't quite there. The melody reminds me of the days when Katyana and I just started dating. It's something like a nervous feeling in my chest, but at the same time there's calm. It makes me so happy. If you listen to the words, it's funny how much that song is apparently in another world than the one I imagine.

I cut my hair today. I had been growing it out for almost a year now. Well I guess more like 7-8 months. After growing it for so long, some amount of attachment is inevitable. Though really for me, it's not that important. It's nice to only use a little bit of shampoo, and take 2 minutes to dry off instead of all morning. But then again, it's nice to have long hair. What makes the decision for me is just that it's time for me to have short hair. It grew out for so long, because I didn't feel the need for that kind of change. And I guess now I do. Shame it has to make me shorter.

I realized at some point in my life, that I'm really an all or nothing kind of person. I found that I can stick to something if I am ready to commit myself to it. That sounds great and all, it's a good thing to know. But on the other side it takes a lot for me to prepare myself to change. And until I am ready, I can make for a pretty unimpressive human being. I haven't figured out if it's a good or bad thing. It does show a lack of moderation, and I'm trying to work on that in a few different parts of my life, but I also wonder if it's just the way I'll always be. It doesn't have to be a bad thing, as long as I can continually seek to recognize what is important (and recognize it to the extent that is necessary for me). But that's just a lot easier said than done. It helps to have the people I love around me.

Human Right

What is in a human right? In other words, what is the basis for one? I'm pretty sure we're born with them; so we consider them something earned or given when we breath for the first time. Is there something in breathing that gives us intrinsic value? But that's not the way I intend to look at the question.

It is somewhat of a fickle question to ask, at least I feel that way. To question the authenticity of a human right can easily be seen as threatening to that right. And I agree that this kind of threat should be taken seriously, but at the same time we must be sincere about these things. Simon Veil wrote that the philsophical basis for human right, the only philosophical basis, is that every human has a connection to a reality that is completely foreign to this world. By foreign, he means a reality that is altogether outside of the reach of human faculties. And in this world exists the source of the good, true, just, and beautiful. What is common to all humans, back on this worldly reality, is the longing- the deep-seeded longing- for the good. It's Aristotelian in that though we are incapable of achieving the divine, we seem to possess the ability to turn towards it. A sad, faint sort of mimicry, but really I think it's true. Any appreciable act committed by a human, probably had the character of this turning.

One thing I like about this way of thinking is it allows us to drop the hunt for equality. We don't have to turn a blind eye to the radical inequality in the world. People are deaf, ill-minded, hispanic, overweight, color blind, rich...whatever. To say that we are all equal in respect to these qualities is at best like the thoughts of a child who closes his eyes, plugs his ears with his sticky fingers, and refuses to exist in a world where he has lost this round, and must leave the four square court. We are inequal, but not to worry- the basis of respect isn't found in the reality of these inequalities. It is found in that which
is common and what is equal, that link to the reality of the good.

What human right is justified? It seems like the first things that should be protected are our needs. The most basic needs like food, air, water... etc. At least we can say we've protected our right to live, and living is essential. But what else? Shouldn't the grasp of our rights extend to include that which enables and embodies our pursuit of that other reality? It is a more complicated question to ask what the soul needs.

I have to admit I've become a little annoyed by people commenting on human rights in a non-chalant manner. I sometimes wonder if people could call anything a human right as long as it didn't directly result in someone else's murder. In a way this dilution is as harmful as flat out denial of human rights. If the right cannot be traced back to a philsophical basis, then I have severe doubts as to its necessity as a civic right. Maybe I'll learn something new tomorrow, but I don't like the idea of human rights being hypothetical lines drawn in the sand so that we play nicely.

It's 4:16am, and I'm about to start writing a paper on Aristotle and Political Friendship. I always write this late at night, but I guess there are a few reasons for that. I remember a Calvin and Hobbes strip, where Calvin talked about why it's scarier at night time- because there are so few distractions. That coupled with a sense of the unknown, and I think he's pretty right. However, for me the loss of distractions finally works in my favor. I don't remember how that strip ended, though I'm pretty sure it was happy.

Really, I'd prefer to write at any other time of the day. There is a certain stigma attached to people who stay up all night. For the most part it's true, and for the most part that have to do with laziness and insomnia. And in some way I'm ashamed of both of those. Ironically, night time is when I'm most productive. I'm laziest during the day time when I'm pushing things back or napping. Excessive napping is a sign of depression, but I'd think it could also be a sign of people who like to nap. I've always enjoyed sleeping when I'm tired. Besides, my brain cooks at night.

Another thing that struck me about Calvin's (de Hobbes) soliloquy, was that if what he said is true then there is some kind of underlying fear within us. If the daytime didn't present so many distractions, we would live ever present in that fear. It's hard to imagine what that would be like, especially in the daytime, but I think if you recall some memories of being alone in the dark you can guess at what that fear is really like. I know it's somewhere in the chest. And I know there are certain things you can do to either harness that fear or lose control. Harness isn't the right word, it's too gutsy, bravado...the kind of word a country boy with "no" fear would use. Something more along the lines of "deal with", in the sense that you can strike a deal between your rational conscience and your terrified conscience. Like if every fear you have is some sort of illogical abberation, then you have nothing to fear. But then again, what if that abberation becomes truth?

I've always thought it's the smaller things you have to be scared of. They present the possibility that you could get away. And the fact that that's only a possibility, but not a likelihood is scary to me. A huge monster will just eat in one bite, and then you can just go on your own way.

Anyways, I'm supposed to be working on my paper. That means it's time for me to strike a deal with my own fears. And while these fears have different kinds of teeth- insecurity, plain incompetence, whatever etc.- they're still there in the daytime.

**The comic ends- Things are never quite as scary when you've got a best friend.