Heard this somewhere.

A little boy asked his father, who was always busy with work, "Daddy, how much money do you make per hour?"

The father was a little surprised, but glared at the kid and replied, "Now why would you want to know that? Don't bother me now, I'm tired."

"Daddy, please! Just tell me how much money you make an hour."

The father relented and said, "Twenty dollars an hour."

"Okay, Daddy. Then can you lend me ten dollars?"

"Is that why you wanted to know how much I earn? Go to your room and don't bother me anymore!"

Later, as the father thought over what he said, he started feeling a little guilty. Maybe the kid just wanted to buy something. So he went to the kid's room.

"Hello son, are you still awake?"

"Yes."

"Here's the money you asked for."

The son took the money, pulled some more cash out from under his pillow and started positively jumping with joy.

"Thanks, daddy! Now I have enough, now I have twenty dollars!"

The father was confused and stood there gazing at his son until the boy said, "Daddy, can I buy one hour of your time?"

What can I say. Ouch.

Caricatures

Hmmm, been home for nearly two weeks now. Been doing the usual things, I suppose. Running about eating stuff, meeting friends old and new, resting at home. Seem to be doing a lot of the last. Running out of energy. I really don't understand how some people can socialise all day. Come on, three groups of friends a day? I can hardly summon the energy for one. Maybe it's just me, and it's normal for people to frantically get together. Maybe I'm simply low on energy, patience, social skills. Hmmm, sounds about right. I've spent a lot of time thinking I should break out of this shell of mine. Even my closest friends say I'm aloof and cold at times. Which is probably true. Upon some self-analysis, I've come to the conclusion that I cordon off sections of myself in all my social interactions. That is, I present certain aspects of myself to certain people, and other aspects to other people. It's tailored to each group, and to each individual.

Within groups, there are certain types of self I present. To some groups, I am the quiet, retiring, good kid. These are mostly my family, people I get to know in academic or work environments. Then there is the slightly more confident, self-assured, domineering me. There is also the earnest, enthusiastic me. All different types of me. Which is the real one? I don't know, and it seems a moot point, considering how artificial everything is in the end. For clarification, go read the archives.

Then within each group, each individual gets a more tailored version of myself. This should be fairly clear to most people. Each individual person you interact with requires you to put on a slightly different facade, to speak in a slightly different way, to focus on topics of conversation or activities that are of interest or considered suitable for the individual. I must admit that this more detailed tailoring of the self to particular individuals is far from complete. I do characterise people in certain ways, and there is some unfair grouping of personalities. I treat some people in ways that are similar, when perhaps differentiation might be more suitable. I caricature people, assigning them a generalised form of social self that is unfair and probably inaccurate. Ok, this might seem a bit ridiculous. If I present an inauthentic self to others, what does it matter if the people I perceive are not seen accurately? It's all a lie anyway. Well, not so. We all play a game, and being able to respect all the players is the only way to stay sane while playing it. Respecting others is, of course, only another way of giving things value so that I can feel better about myself, but we use what methods are available to us, yes?

To break free of this inaccurate caricaturing of others, there needs to be a major revolution in the way I think about the world. The problem is that while I do think it is possible to alter some contents of my mental set myself, changing the entire framework is quite impossible. the contents can be altered, but the methods cannot be changed using the same methods. That would require introduction of an external force. So it doesn't seem quite possible for me to treat each individual with the detail and effort required to acquire a full understanding of his or her presented self. All I can do is try, but the generalisation will continue.

Some day, I will explain how I change the contents of my mind. I think it's quite interesting, and I found something very analogous to it in a book by Roger Zelazny I read recently. That day, however, is not today, as I need to go wash up and head out for dinner now.

Crumbling

How do you know when a friendship has crumbled? I do not speak of shocks to the system, a crisis in the relationship that is obvious and violent, but the slow fading away of it. Is there an exact moment when the direction of everything changes? Or is there no pivotal moment, just a flash of realisation that it is gone?

Could it be when I no longer care what the other party thinks of me, or the other party ceases to care what I think of him or her? Or could it be when you no longer bother to meet to talk and interact? Or when you do meet, there seems to be nothing to talk about? Perhaps it is when the forms of friendship are run through, but seem empty, without content and meaning. The conversations become painfully slow and drawn out, and voices are gradually replaced by instant messaging, where a lull of half an hour between messages is possible without seeming rude. Ah, modern technology that allows us to slowly distance our friends instead of having to deal with awkward silences.

When your friend has a great deal in common with you, it seemed at first to be the most natural thing in the world to talk about everything you share. A soulmate it seems you have found. Then you start to become bored with the conversations circling the same topics over and over. You understand the other too well, and there are no surprises or unknown depths. Common interests become tired, and prevent you from discussing anything beyond these things. It is near impossible to go into depth about anything, as something you have in common gets in the way of the new direction you steer the conversation in.

When your friend has little in common with you, it seems terribly interesting at first. Everything is fresh and new, coming from a perspective completely different from your own. There is little that cannot be discussed, as there is a need to discuss everything, since the other does not know anything. But this too can weary, for the topics in the conversation invariably fail to interest you too greatly, or they would be part of your own personality. Eventually the conversations become tiresome and wearying, the lulls grow longer, the interaction demanding of ever higher effort to maintain.

Perhaps the moment of realisation is when you see the relationship for what it is. The other party simply needed you for something, whether it be a financial, physical or emotional need, and when that need is satisfied, or no longer an issue, you are discarded, set aside. When a person stands in trouble of any sort, friends become ever more important, but by the same token, when there is no urgent need, friends lose importance. Taken to the extreme, perhaps some freindships are predicated entirely on a necessity to depend on someone for something, and that person is no longer needed to provide that thing, then there is no need for the friendship to be maintained.

I am not a selfish sort, as a rule. I am generous with my time, my energies, my affections, my spirit. I do not expect my friends to repay me in kind to an equal degree, though it would be nice, of course. I do expect them to recognise that I give of myself for a reason; affection, loyalty, friendship. All I ask is that this is reciprocated in some degree. Nothing else. I do not need an equal relationship, but some return of the sentiment is desired.

It is a sad thing when something you value crumbles. But friendship is a commodity that has no value at all unless both parties assign it value. If either ceases to do so, the other will find there is no point in clinging to it.

Return

So I'm home for the summer. Ok, not quite. 2 weeks. Not quite. About 10 days left now. This sucks. Why oh why did I agree to go to Shanghai for the summer? I just want to spend the summer at home. Is that such a crime? I don't need to be occupied; I would be happy just sitting at home surfing, playing my games, popping out in the evenings for dinner or supper. It's home. I want to be here for a while. But I seem to be regarded as a spoilt brat for not wanting to improve myself over the summer. Sigh, this bites.

I think I need to become more needy and whiny. I'm entirely too sensible and grounded for my own good. Everything is internalised and worked out rather than allowed to leak out in bursts of angst or whines or anger or the like. It would do me a world of good to make a little noise now and then, here and there. I sit here in the wee hours of the morning, basically whining to the internet, when what I should be doing is whining to my dad. People say I have a choice whether to go to China or not. But I don't, not really. As ol' Goffman would say, I have a particular face to keep up, and the internal consistency of that face does not allow me to simply refuse. In other words, the construct of my personality is such that I, as represented to the world, will do the sensible and logical thing, and simply head off to Shanghai, work diligently for 9 weeks, then return to Chicago, my summer being considered a learning experience. To do otherwise would be a breaking down of my self, and that cannot be allowed.

Sometimes, I think I really need to stop being the sensible fellow. Stop doing the right thing for once. I'm like this paragon of virtue who studies hard, spends frugally, works for my future etc. Note that I refer to my public image, not necessarily my actual self. But it seems impossible for me to escape this image. I detest it, but strive to maintain it nonetheless. It is as if I am trapped in a dance. The dance started out quite novel and interesting, but now it seems confining. The slow pace was lulling and comforting initially, but the time has come to either rest or switch to another more pacy dance. The music refuses to change, my partner is happily dancing away, and I am powerless to pull away from her. I could just step aside and move off to another dance floor, but that would be impolite, and I could not leave my partner in the lurch, for she has been faithful to the dance I picked in the first place. So I continue going through the steps, going hrough the motions without any lingering enjoyment. I no longer even try to control the rhythm and pace, for I know the music will go on eternally, grating upon my ears more and more as time drags on. The time may come when I will become so frustrated that I shall throw up my hands and march off the dance floor. The shock will be palpable as the world watches me leave. Yet I know that the longer I keep dancing, the harder it will be for me to stop. Even as I change partners, I find the music to be unchanging, the steps to be immutable and equally frustrating.

Ah, what am I complaining about? I created this self, now I shall have to live with it. Fatigue, frustration, boredom; hardly sufficient excuses for me to fight out of this. I shall enjoy home while I am here; it seems I have little choice in the matter anyway. The sky lights outside my window, and it is time to go grab some breakfast.

Fade

Well, the mad rush of moving out of the dorms is finally over, and I have officially relocated from the prison cells of Max Palevsky to a refugee camp located in the same area. When you read the novels and watch the movies, there are always scenes of nostalgia and moments of reflection at the end of things. In a trashy novel, today would have been a day of tears and smiles as friends part and leave each other for the summer. The truth is that I am so glad to be out of that place, and far from being pensive and introspective, I have been so obsessed with packing and carrying heavy boxes that there hasn't been sleep for days on end now.

Now that things have slowed down, I finally have time to type a little something at the end of the academic year. I could try to sum up my first year of college in a foreign land, speculate on what the summer and the years beyond hold, reflect on the friendships formed and the changes wrought in my life and myself. I could, but you know I won't be as banal as that, right? Actually, I think I'll have to disappoint you this time around.

Before I started college, I was in the army, dreaming of freedom from the uniform. I swore never to wear green voluntarily ever again, to never pull on a pair of boots again, to never sleep through the days, refusing to work for no reason other than a refusal to work. Well, I broke every one of those vows. In the army, I thought school would be a delight, a chance to exercise my mind once more, to free it from its cobwebbed and debilitated state. I was wrong. School may be demanding on the mind, but I don't feel as if I have stretched any this year. I have been working well within my capabilities, the only time I exert my brain is when I try to avoid work while obtaining a decent return on my grades. It's pretty sad when you think about it. So why am I so resistant to applying myself? I thought a 3 year break from work would prompt me to muster some enthusiasm for it. A change seemed so welcome when I was so trapped in a rut in the army. Looks like I'm still in that rut. Ah well, there are worse things in life.

In terms of personal growth, I don't think I have achieved very much of it. In fact, I may have regressed somewhat. After reactivation of my mind, the refusal to strain myself in the course of schoolwork has left me with a great deal of spare brainpower. This in turn has forced me to expend it on the consideration of myself and the circumstances in which I find myself. The impossibility of accepting myself has settled in, and I find that I am so dissatisfied with myself that depression threatens not infrequently. When you find yourself boring, what remedy is there in the world that can resolve that gnawing sensation of melancholy? Friends, some claim, but that is flawed beyond all comprehension. Friends cannot give you a sense of the self that is different from what you create on your own. If you find yourself boring, what can anyone tell you that will alter your perception of yourself as such? Nothing.

When I came to the conclusion that I was boring, I was, quite frankly, stunned. Many people find me interesting, for I apparently have a great deal of personality and beliefs that tend to be different from the norm. But in the hours of nothingness that occupied my life for nine months, I have come to realise that there is nothing underneath the artificial construct I have weaved into my armour against the world. The fat kid with awkward social skills becomes the aloof kid who doesn't have a fat kid complex, has interests that are interesting and a bit quirky, has great force of personality. False, all of it. I do not think I am anything of the sort. It seems impossible for me to find an honest self. Maybe that is because I cannot even come to terms with what would constitute the truth of myself. Perhaps the personality I have created is the true me. Perhaps not. I am perfectly honest about all aspects of that construct, which gives people the impression that I am terribly blunt and direct. Ridiculous.

I find that I miss aspects of myself that were in evidence when I was much younger. I have been missing so much in life; every moment of my life has been designed to fulfil my expectations of myself. It is only now that the fatigue sets in, and the strain of holding myself together about myself is proving to be somewhat much. I yearn for childhood, for adolescence, for the halcyon days of youth I somehow missed on my road in life. Maturity is overrated. To never do the insensible and stupid thing is to miss the point of life, of experience. So I find have no experience in life at all. I imagined a world, creating it about myself, looking at it before I encounter it, analysing it beyond belief as I carefully slip through it. I feel like a dancer who weaves about the steps, always holding himself apart from the music even as he keeps in tune with it, never quite grasping and grappling with it. The classic criticism of musicians is a lack of soul, a detachment from the music itself. I feel detached from my life. I am not living it, but touching it lightly, letting my fingers trail through the material as it slips by me. So I crave immaturity; I crave illogic; I crave silliness.

So it was when I encountered a person who seemed to embody all this. Someone who is both younger than me and acted it. So painful to view her initially, so jarring to my sense of myself. I detested her then, wondering how anybody could be so unlike myself. A million others have passed before my eyes and provoked similar reactions. But as the antipathy for myself grew, the sympathy for this person so antithetical to myself grew as well. So I made a friend. Eventually I discovered the depths ran deeper than would initially appear to be the case. I think I shall leave it at that.

The only thing that lingers as I hurtle toward the end of this little adventure is disappointment in the failure to fulfil any high expectations I held. No, that's not true. I don't think I really had any major expectations for school. I may think I did, but I didn't, really. When I stood in the airport, the trepidation and excitement was so evident that you could practically crush it in your hand. I didn't feel it. I was so blase I surprised myself. Was my cynicism that harsh? Ah, what am I worth then, if I cannot become excited over even the greatest change in my life for a while?

The light dims about me, the lake holds the slightest tinge of pink, and my fingers tire of the strain of typing. I return home in 2 days, and I wonder if I am excited about that. The answer eludes me as does my failing sight in the fading light. Time to rest, and I will not, but I shall try, as I do every night.

Busy busy boy

It's the end of the academic year. I would love to wax poetic about it, but I think I need a list of stuff to do today more urgently. Too lazy to find a pen and paper, so it'll have to be here.

1. Suspend handphone line
2. Mail tax forms
3. Buy boxes to store stuff
4. Pack stuff into said boxes
5. Move said boxes, now full of stuff, to storage location
6. Eat some breakfast before the gastric juices start pooling at my feet
7. Sleep a lot
8. Figure out what's the plan for tonight

The customary ruminations will have to wait.

Dopey

Hmmm, this blogging on request thing is getting to be quite a challenge. Especially when the request is utterly ridiculous. This time it's "Dopey". Well, let's see where it'll take me then, shall we?

Dopey, could mean any number of things. The first that would spring to mind is the movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, I suppose. At least for me. Dopey would be one of the seven dwarves by the way. I will admit that I have never watched that movie to my recollection, and honestly, I have no particular desire to do so. The title of the movie has always, to me, smacked of porn. Come on, some girl with an innocent sounding name like Snow White, and seven dwarves holed up in a shack in the forest? Might as well call it Sylvia Saint and the Seven Construction Workers. Which reminds me, isn't it odd how sexual fantasies are constructed? Construction workers? Nurses? Maids? Waitresses? High school students? Dwarves? Doesn't make much sense at all. After all, what is it about fantasies that make them universally appealing? I can only assume that they are fairly universal, at least within broad swathes of cultures. I cannot speak for the fantasies of some primitive Indonesian tribe or something like that, but in a reasonably Western culture, which is today the de facto default culture for the world, the same genres of sexual partners seem to be held up as the pinnacles of sexuality. Isn't sexual preference supposed to be personal? Ok, let us deconstruct them a bit. I shall avoid talking about female fantasies, since I don't think I'm qualified to say very much about them. So let's look at typical male fantasies. Take the classic archetypes of the nurse, the waitress and the schoolgirl. I once saw an absolutely hilarious comic where in an effort to seduce some guy, this witch transforms into a morph of these three fantasies. The male's reaction was of complete shock at the sheer stupidity of the gesture. At first gloss, this would seem to be apparent, but why should this be? Would the ideal male fantasy not be a schoolgirl who is working as a nurse in an expensive hospital where they take your order for food? But this just seems contrived and ridiculous, so we can only conclude that each of these fantasies stands alone. Again this becomes difficult to support, for if they each stand completely independent, then it is unlikely that they can infiltrate the consciousness of so many simultaneously. So could it be the motif of submissiveness? The nurse and the waitress fulfil your every request, while I suppose the schoolgirl is young and easily cowed into submission. So when you take each of them, they can stand alone as archetypes of submissiveness, but cannot survive as a composite, since there is a disruption of the internal consistency of the warped logic that dictates the behaviour of these genres of people inaccurately. But the theme of domination also runs strong. Wonder Woman has to be the single most fantasised about female in existence. Superheroine fantasies are so much a part of the popular culture that they are openly acknowledged in the ultimate arbiters of our culture, television. So men want to dominate and be dominated simultaneously? Maybe the ideal solution would be to dominate a strong woman. Hmmm, maybe I'm just reading too much into this. I imagine a great deal more psychology background would be required to effectively delve into what I have only described above.

Dopey could also bring to mind the person who simply is not sharp intellectually. There is a certain bluntness of disposition and mental acuity that seems to endear some persons to the world. In Singapore, the person who is slightly 'blur' is generally considered quite charming. Why should this be? Should these people not be despised and rejected for being unintelligent? Perhaps it is the need to feel superior to others that makes people generate goodwill towards those who appear to be on a somewhat lower level intellectually to themselves. But that would not be entirely true as well. Below a certain level of dopeyness, so to speak, the feeling of the person being cute is replaced with a disgust and impatience at the ineptitude displayed. Then again, if you go even lower, it is generally quite difficult to find anyone openly hostile towards those extremely disadvantaged mentally. Those who actually are mentally handicapped are off-limits to jokes and jibes, easy as they may be to make. Perhaps it is a symptom of the desire to maintain an image of humanity, whatever that may be.

Bleh, it's Sunday, I have finals in a couple of days, and my fingers hurt from too much typing.

Anything

When someone asks you to write about anything, it becomes nearly impossible to come up with anything at all. This is really rather odd when you think about it, since when a topic is given to you, you can always think of a million other things you would rather be thinking about. But normalcy is a given that should be assumed.

Maybe the mind needs some sort of input before it is able to form any thoughts at all. Without external inspiration, the greatest mind would be in a limbo, unable to formulate anything at all. This would really discard the concept of originality, as how can one be original if there is an absolute dependence on the external for inspiration. Ah, but some might argue that originality and brilliance lies in the innovative ways in which the same material is dealt with. Thousands of statues have been carved, but there is only one David, which recently got a bath, by the way. It's interesting, because there was a major controversy over whether the cleanup should have been carried out in the first place. Some people argued that the dirt and grime accumulated over the centuries lent the statue character. Others pointed out that the statue was dirty and needed a good wipe. Fortunately for the world, the latter won out.

Enough with the digression. It is hardly unreasonable to claim that genius does exist, but I think that to claim that genius must be completely original is asking a bit much. After all, if an artist is able to perfectly replicate, say, Picasso, down to the last detail, does that make him less talented than old Pablo? Some may argue that the imitator would simply be on a level with Picasso in a technical sense, not on the level of true artistry. How about in sports then? If a soccer player were able to perfectly imitate and execute the moves of the finest players in the world and use them as his own, would he be considered nothing more than a technical automaton? In case you're wondering, the answer is no. Imagine a player who dribbles like Denilson, shoots like Zidane, passes like Hoddle. Genius or automaton? No question there.

In any case, there is no such thing as pure originality anyway. Every technique, every application of the mind, has its origins in something. The way any individual looks at something and thinks about something and acts on something is influenced, nay, created by his experiences and the world around him. Any interaction relies on the self, which is nothing more than the composite of all the interactions that have gone before. There is nothing in the self beyond what is external. There is no such thing as the pure self. From some point prior to birth, when the child is yet unborn, but is aware of his or her surroundings in the womb, these surroundings already begin to shape the consciousness, for the mind cannot help but be shaped by all that it experiences, no matter how trivial. Even discarding some experience as trivial is in itself a factor in the evolution of the self, for then there would be a new, or at least clearer definition of what is trivial.

Stepping aside from the psuedo-psychology for a moment, there is a reason why some people are considered geniuses and some are not. For sometimes someone goes beyond mere imitation. Sometimes a person is able to weave together the experiences and interactions to create something new and brilliant. The communication of the self that is a composite of everything else is the key factor. Every person carries within him or her the potential for greatness and genius, for the tapestry of every individual mind is unique and fascinating enough to constitute a great work in and of itself. The problem is making it coherent to others to the extent that there is some understanding of it. When I denigrate someone for being stupid, it is not that I consider the person devoid of merit or interest, it is that I feel that I am unable to understand and appreciate whatever is interesting in the person. Note that sometimes these people may not actually hold anything of real interest to anyone. In such cases, then all I can say is, tough. Sometimes what is there is something I feel should not exist. I have immense disdain for those people who harass young children, or those who debase themselves for a few dollars when they are not starving, and whatever they may hold within themselves that is useful or interesting or brilliant, it deserves to be wasted along with these creeps.

To conclude, it is rare that I feel the need to interact with somebody on an equal footing. I retain my sense of self, as cobbled together from my life as it is, far too much to try to reach to people without any sense of superiority. Maybe it is a mark of insecurity, a decision to limit the exposing of the self for fear that it is insufficient to satisfy the world, and worse, myself. I cannot bear the thought that I might not be worth as much as I think I am, so I avoid the subject. When I type this, I am doing little more than validating myself by rationalising it in a way that is reassuring and logical, thus giving myself some buffer from the danger of loss of self-regard. Sometimes I think I am nothing more than an escapist, not so much from things, but from myself, the fear of myself, the pain of being myself and finding it not so interesting after all. That would be worse than anything else that could happen, for if I am not interesting even to myself, what then is the value of clinging to this existence that bores me so much already?

Ok, I think there is a need for clarification here. That last post was not written by me. I think she's a bit mad, but I promised not to delete it, so I won't.

you have come for the knowledge of inconsequence. i never told anyone about the time you took me and defined me, to look for better than you and better than yours; to always look down on earth, to only glance momentariy and occasionally at the sky. i never told anyone of the vacancy you created in my room, of the emptiness you created at the rapidity of the panic you felt, seeing semen drying like a scab on my stomach.

Check this out.

http://www.blur.com/html_quicktime/rockfish_480.html

And some serious war footage.

http://www.olympus.co.jp/en/magazine/pursuit/200301/movie/movie_mp_b.html

This is impossible. I think I am getting stupid or something. I stare and stare at my problem set, and the answer refuses to come to me. Maybe I'm not staring hard enough. Shouldn't homework be designed to reinforce skills and drill you in the use of them, not to make you wrack your brain trying to figure out strange variations of what is taught in class when you have yet to master the standard version?

This is deeply upsetting. I think I have been too distracted this quarter, and too many things have been getting in the way of what I should be doing. I need some focus, or I'm not going to get anywhere. Well, that isn't true. I could head to the depths quite easily, and at present, that looks like a very likely destination. I need to pull up, but it seems quite beyond me at the moment. This is not a good situation.

Why am I even typing this? I should be studying.