Monday, December 10, 2007 -- 6:13 PM

I've been trying to blog for the past year now, so far with no real results. It's funny to me, since I used to look forward to blogging as a way of getting rid of the stuff that piled up in myself. I took it pretty seriously and thought to myself more than once, "Whatever happens, I'll always have blog." For a long time now I've missed that, but every time I logged in to write, I haven't been able to organize my thoughts. I think that part of that is because I feel restless and more stressed out than I've ever been. Blogging was never a way for me to relieve stress. When it comes down to it, the real reason is that I've found other ways to download my thoughts. At least that's one of the reasons.

It's a funny feeling to have accomplished two-thirds of your life goals. It's almost an empty feeling, but I would only compare it to emptiness, I would never define it like that. The first goal that I've accomplished is that I live in Washington. For as long as I can remember, this place has been an orientation for me, somewhere that is always friendly, nostalgic, interesting; always good. Something that is a part of me, that I understand and can fit into. Now that I'm here, it's great. It has met and exceeded my expectations, but it is no longer an orientation, it has been fulfilled. I've changed since I moved here. Part of me feels like I've regressed, but that's part of growing, isn't it?

I didn't even realize that I had life goals, really, until I started thinking about this. Now that I've thought about it some more, I don't really want to call them that. I think I'll call them accomplishments instead. Not life accomplishments, just accomplishments.

I've made some great friends here in Washington, and I've fallen in love, too, and convinced her to return my love. That's my second accomplishment, although I would say that's more hers than mine. Love was my other faraway place that seemed so wonderful from a distance, and turned out to be actually better once I was there.

Having that connection with good friends and a trusted co-conspirator in life has made blogging obsolete for me. It's time for a new purpose, some more hopes, and a little drive to accomplish my last goal. With all that I have, how can I fail?

Wednesday, February 28, 2007 -- 10:18 AM

Today it snowed. Kind of strange for this part of the world. Anyways, by the time I hopped off the bus in Seattle it was raining and it felt pretty good. I get a cup of coffee and then head into this old brick building into a very quaint reading room where I read and mess about for awhile before class. That's where I am now.

I've been reading this novel, No Longer at Ease, about Nigeria and omigod colonialism and whatnot, and the writing is so good and so meloncholy that it reminds me of what I used to read. The story is rubbish but the writing is quite good, and reading like that makes me think more. It makes me feel pretty good to be in that mindset again, and I'm realizing that when I'm not reading I have little desire to write. This might seem obvious, and I always know that it's true but it only really hits me when I start reading again. I used to read so much more than I do now. Actually, that isn't really true. I used to read a lot more of this sort of thing. Now all I read are dry academic papers, and all I write are dry academic papers, and as happy as I am with how well that's going for me (super!), it does change who I am in that it makes a profound difference on my outlook. I spend much less time thinking creatively and taking an interest in the immediate world around me. Enough! Enough I say (again)!

Less TV from now on, I swear. Oh, and I gave up smoking for Lent.

Monday, February 05, 2007 -- 11:33 PM

Re-evaluation

One thing that reading Marx will do to you, if nothing else, is to make you reevaluate your life, specifically what makes it meaningful. By this I do not mean that I consider my life meaningless, because I do. What I am looking at is the added meaning that my life might posses if certain things were remedied. What I am looking at is a deficit of meaning, the same deficit that Marx sees as a result of capitalism, applied to my own life. Instead of capitalism, however, I see routines as contributing to the deficit. Of course, all of this is very obscure, so let me present an example. I have certain routines that I fall into and that I find very hard to dislocate. I get up and leave the house at the same time every day, catch the same buses, and when I get to school, I go to the same coffee shop and order, for the most part, the same thing. I go to class, sitting in the same spot every day, and then when class is out I sit in the same spot at the same library and study. I catch the same bus home every day, and this is where my habitual routine ends, since my evening activities are generally different. I believe that it is for this reason – the fact that the evening offers a variation from the rest of my day – that it is when I feel most fulfilled, and in a way self-perpetuates the monotony of the rest of my day. Since I have a time when my life is different, I can feel like I am working towards that, instead of gaining any personal fulfillment from whatever I am currently doing in my life at school.

It is this rote lifestyle that I believe directly affects my academic life as well. I take notes in class, writing down what the teacher says, and then, come exam or paper, regurgitating the information as it was presented, without creative analysis or interpretation. It is the same as going to the cafe and ordering the same drink, even if I feel like drinking something else, that dumbs down the senses. Eventually I will only feel like drinking one drink, because that's the only drink I order and do not even stop to consider how I truly feel about it, or if my feelings might have changed, which they do occasionally. The meaning comes from the action performed over and over again – custom, one could say – rather than from any original thought or feeling. Coming back to Marx, my studies and academic pursuits hold no use-value for me, since the end is satisfying, not my own intellectual thought, but academic requirements. This directly contradicts the reasons that I first decided to attend university, and directly compromises the legitimacy that I attach to scholarly pursuits. In short, I want to be able to benefit personally from my studies and generate some use-value from them, rather than simply getting through them for exchange-value, or material benefit.

Thursday, December 14, 2006 -- 10:00 AM

Finals are Over

Feeling this tired is more than just an excuse to smoke, at least that's what I'm trying to convince myself of. I'm sure that I look haggard and sickly, with long, greasy unkempt hair and lack of a shave over the course of a couple of days. It would be a blight on the image not to smoke. There must be more to this exhaustion, but I don't know what it is.

Thursday, November 02, 2006 -- 3:09 PM

1.

Death as a feeling is cold. It arrests us and turns us upside down and shakes all of our emotions out of us until we are empty of everything but itself. It brings to the surface the memory of the warmth of the last embrace before the sword fell once and for all, either suddenly or gradually. It is not, however, the warmth itself; it is the very opposite of that warmth. Our burning tears and pulsing blood will never take the place of that cold, as hard as they will try, and that cold becomes a part of us. Yet the touch of the cold is not all fatal. It drives us on to new life and makes all of our memories, the regrets at what was said, the regrets at what was left unsaid, the joy of all of our laughter, the tears we cried that all seem so unimportant now, our wishes of what could be, so clear in our minds that we can't help but to know that the warmth was real once, and will be real again. In this way we can be thankful for the cold and the discomfort for a time, as sharp as it is, knowing and appreciating that it will never leave us. For what is cold except the absence of warmth? Without it we would never know either.

2.

The cool fall air was everywhere and in everything. The trees felt it and began to prepare in brilliant colours that faded into the ground, and the people moving slowly down towards the cemetary were keeping it out in dark coats and scarves. It was a very still cold, so that the clouds of breath floated upwards and assimilated gently into the grey clouds and the hot tears that were everywhere among the crowd were quickly wiped away before chilling the cheeks of the mourners. The casket was akwardly unloaded and taken to the grave as the people continued to come, surrounding it, sheltering it from nothing. A restless little boy tried playing with his father, who responded by placing his hands firmly on his shoulders and kneeling down to whisper in his ear. A middle-aged woman buried her sobbing face in the shoulder of her husband, whose knuckles were white around her hand. The old women, the widows, who had seen far too many of these scenes, still did not accept the eternity of them and wept silently as they watched the family consoling each other as they had once been consoled. And all around the only interruption from the sobriety came from the birds, as careless and constant as death itself.

The eulogy given, the red roses placed irrevocably into the casket, the ceremony seared into the memories of everyone, the crowd dispersed, fanning out back across the cemetary. Looking back, it felt much colder as the small group of family remained frozen to the grave like a portrait.

Friday, October 20, 2006 -- 11:44 AM

With fall back I feel like I can write truly again, though not always well. This is definitely one of those works in progress that may never be finished.

Our Last Winter

That was the year that winter was colder than any of us remembered, but we talked about it only rarely, and thought about it much less. On the last day of our winter I opened the door and stepped outside without thinking or caring much about the dead icy air that burned in my nostrils and that I could feel down into my lungs. "No regrets," I said wryly towards the grey Croatian sky as I lit a fast-burning cigarette.

The box-like concrete Bosnian buildings, each looking exactly like the next, followed me down the road and turned with me between the alleys. My footsteps desecrating the freshly fallen snow were the only sound I heard, and it was loud and redundant, slicing through the icy-crisp air. I stopped and waited and listened for anyone behind me before realizing that I was wasting my time. I looked up once more before knocking almost silently on the door.

The door opened for me into a small room, stale with old cigarette smoke, spilled vodka, and fresh sweat. The brothers Ivanic and Osvit were both there, and the other foreigner besides me, Olag the Russian, was the one who opened the door. No one looked anyone in the face and I walked to the table and sat down without breaking the mood.

"I saw him again" said Olag finally. "I watched as he brought more refugees to the camp and when he saw me he said nothing, only pulled a young Serbian woman from the group, kissed her on the neck and then shot her in the head. He did all of this without taking his eyes off of me. Svinja." As he said this his voice did not break, nor did he look up even in his profanity and I suddenly shivered.

"It will do no good," said Ivanic. "Your talking does no good and I am getting tired of it". He was a little drunk and nasty but it was not the vodka in him that scared me, it was the truth. For five weeks we had all been thinking what he finally said and I suddenly felt the cold everywhere.

Ivanic moved his hand over a small paper bag that sat on the table. I had never seen it before, but I already knew what was in it before he pulled out the revolver. His hands were shaking as he loaded it with three bullets, leaving three chambers empty.

"Enough, Ivanic," said Osvit, suddenly sitting up. "You are drunk and stupid."
"What do you think, brother?" he said playfully. "The odds are fifty-fifty, and I've always had a weakness for gambling. It's in my blood you say, like our father. Play with me now for one round. Play the odds as we did in the old days when they meant something." His mood was lighter than it had been in months, and very menacing. Olag stood up. "I will have no part of this, comrade. You don't have enough disciples to crucify yourself."
"Leave then, Pilate," joked Ivanic. "There is the door, Judas. You fucking Russian, go and spill your guts over the dead of my people." He was feeling clever and jovial and very justified and we all knew that the insult was sharp enough that everything we had worked towards together was finally severed. "Load the other three bullets and be done with it," Olag said as the door closed behind him. His footsteps faded into the grey cold.

"A cause worth death," said Ivanic, spinning the cylinder. "A death without honour. The death of our people. To death then, comrades," he said, lifting the bottle of cheap vodka, and without anyone moving towards him he lifted the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. The dry click of the hammer snapping onto an empty chamber sounded much louder than it was.

Without moving the gun from his head, he took a drink. He was smiling and I was suddenly in no mood for this. "What, comrade?" he asked, looking at my disgust. "Save the bullets for the war, right? You would rather we kill the Croats and have our people slaughtered even more? You know nothing. You are no Serbian," he said, and spat. I looked away from him, still disgusted, and he pulled back the hammer again, his mocking smile gone now. "Play some goddamn checkers if you don't have the stomach for this."
"Do what you must," I said, getting up. I walked outside and shut the door but it did not muffle the sound of the revolver going off in the least. Halfway down the alley it erupted again, and echoed sharply off the buildings. I stopped once more to light my last cigarette.

It was a very cold winter that year, but it was our last.

Friday, September 29, 2006 -- 8:15 AM

A lot has happened since that last post. I moved and settled into Washington and everything is rose-coloured and fancy free. Granted, it was frustrating trying to register for classes at the last minute, but it all came together quite nicely considering.

For the first term I'm taking International Relations, Politics and Culture, and Political Theory. IR looks like it's going to be pretty easy, much of the subject matter was familiar from last year. Politics and Culture looks fun, as we're going to be following the election quite closely. The teacher is Jewish. So Jewish that he's taking off Monday for Yom Kippur. So Jewish! I'm also thinking about taking off Monday for Yom Kippur. Political Theory actually looks like it's going to be challenging. We're going through a lot of original texts like Hobbes' Leviathan and Locke's Second Treatise on Government, which is really cool. The discussion groups for this class are awesome, and by awesome I mean there are a lot of babes in them.

And with that I'm off.