neoacidcreep

Sitting in-front of this blank screen, packing a single cigarette for an incredibly long time, taking long drags of my beer bottle, thinking about the vodka chilling in the freezer, trying to come up with some sort of introductory sentence to begin my latest of latest tirades; this will have to suffice.

Having a particularly beautiful Bukowskian day.  The sun irradiating my left half with it's thermo-nuclear reactions from millions of miles away makes ancient cellular receptors tingle as they begin to convert solar energy into heat and vitamin D to fuel my biochemical machine so that I can pound keys laid on top of a circuit board causing a complete circuit to form and telling the electronic brain, housed inside this plastic shell, to output a specific series of Ones and Zeros onto specific pixels to display to me the character that was recently pressed by my finger-tip, and,  subsequently, fill in this blank form used to upload a text document onto the internet with a certain url that can be aimed at by any computer with the ability to receive bits of information sent out of the, seemingly, chaotic radio wave spectrum.

Not to mention the eight pounds of organic material that, theoretically, is producing the initial thought that is transmitted through a series of neural nets and synapses that travel down my arm, evoking specific muscle-groups to contract and release to allow my eyes, shoulders, back, arms, biceps, forearms, wrist, hands, and fingers to work in a harmonious cacophony of action to produce each keystroke within the set parameters of my memories recollection of what I believe to be the commonly accepted version of English that a portion of people on the world can read and comprehend enough to offer...

You get the point.

I just finished this book ("Cryptonomicon" by Neal Stephenson) and it has rattled loose a couple of old ideas in my head; most notably Platonic Ideas. 

I taught myself about them, at least three lifetimes ago (five or six years ago, but it feels like an eternity has lapsed between then and now), but had all but forgotten what they actually meant until a certain point in this book.  The book is extremely math heavy, or at least subject matter is math-heavy (he doesn't force much actual math done your throat which I appreciated.), and at one point he references Platonic Ideals and it sends me reeling.  Like a wave crashing in against the rocks of my mind I remember it all; I get what Platonic Forms/Ideas are all over again, but this time it has a tangibleness to it, a tactile feel, something I can hold on to and use like any other tool I have encountered.

This sets my mind spinning; I find myself again staring at leaves and the patterns of the trees production of them, I stare at the mold in my shower and notice an odd harmony between the halves, and then like wildfire spreading across a Californian forest, molesting and destroying everything in it's wake, it turns back onto myself. 


Using a broad brush, Platonism is, roughly, the difference between Universals and Particulars, whereas one is tangible and, theoretically, knowable, the other is lofty and unknowable. 

If you subscribe to the idea that everything in nature can be represented by a Mathematical Ideal (i.e. a string of numbers or characters that represent, implicitly, the object under scrutiny.), which I am, more often then not, inclined to ascribe to; then I myself am merely a string of mathematical computations that when totaled up, not only explain away all of my behavior, but also can, conceivably, extrapolate outward to what I might do.

Mathematically speaking, this is merely Platonism, maybe even Post-Platonism (which my memory fails me at this moment as to what is actually means), with an even more abstract concept at the heart of everything.  Whereas (to use the trite example), Plato talks about how we can see many different types of trees but we still have this broad idea of what a tree is supposed to look like, for instance; (the well read philosophers reading this will hopefully get this little homage) if presented with, let's say, a duck, and someone hands you this object that appears to be of living flesh and blood with all the normal characteristics of a duck and tells you it is a tree, most, if not all of us, would say "no, this is a duck". 

Let's try to take that idea a step backwards; you have never encountered a duck in real life, you have been told about them only from second hand accounts and have no working knowledge of what a "duck" is in-and-of-itself.  You would still posses an Idea of what a duck is and would not believe that, although, you were handed an object, and told it was a tree but did not have any of the characteristics that you have come to know as a tree, in fact, it was a tree.  Whether you necessarily equate it to that of a duck either, is a matter of conjecture that I am not prepared to delve into at this moment, but simply to state, that you have an Idea of a tree that exists outside of "actual" trees and that is this crux of Platonism.

With that out of the way, let me return to how this applies to Mathematics:

Mathematics states that everything in nature can be broken down into a string of numbers and characters that represent any given natural phenomenon.  All of nature is governed by the logical system, that I personally believe is summed up best within Peano's Postulate, that some give the header of "Physics".  All Physics is talking about is an ideal that works under given conditions, it is not necessarily always correct, but it is a median from which to start with the specifics.  Mathematics is an abstraction from the world around; it is a purely conceptual idea that exist parallel to this physical existence.  Mathematics can represent physical objects but can never, itself, be a physical object.  It is the purest example of the difference between Platonic Forms and Ideals, or Universals v Particulars.

With the next part out of the way let us enter into the home stretch, and, arguably, the hardest part; a little Quantum Mechanics:

Quantum Theory states (Quantum Theory being a sub, maybe sub sub, devision of Physics) that atoms are more likely to appear in places under observation; as if the human mind "locks" them into place when observing a given object.  If not under observation atoms have a habit of doing whatever it is they feel like doing, they do not necessarily group together to form coherent forms that are recognizable.  Atoms appear to move in a probabilistic pattern, i.e. that they could be in a given location given a period of time.

There is still mathematic proofs and formulas that, theoretically, can, at least, predict atomic movements.  This is not to forget that obviously a large group of atoms have solidified into an overall structure that many would point to and say that is a tree, or that is a duck, or that is Josh. 

Let us now begin to delve into my initial question:

If I am merely a grouping of atomic particles that move based on some sort of physics (that might not be fully understood yet, but one day, I do not doubt, will be understood), physics being an abstraction of reality that can represent any given natural phenomenon as a string of numbers and characters which can then be used to explain observable outcomes of a confluence of events, and, also used to extrapolate, at the very least, probable outcomes up other specific circumstances; am I real?

Refining the question more; am I real or am I merely a Platonic Ideal of "A Person Called Josh"?  I fear it becomes "wishy-washy" at this point (I have to revert to using Aristotelian colloquial); do I represent myself, "I" in the Freudian or Descartes sense (the "dues ex machina"), insofar that not only do I shape the reality outside of myself but also keep myself "in place" (at an atomic level) by being the Primary Observer?  Or am I (as Skinner or Newton (and to a lesser degree, Einstein) would have me be) merely a mathematical formula applying itself to other mathematical formulations and creating ripples through out the ether of "everything" (the universe, if you prefer it more)?

To bring the argument around; am "I" a Universal or a Particular?  Which implications spiral outward to; am I a free-agent or can I only choose from a "repertoire of behavior" given to a certain situation?

From a religious mindset I still offer up the abstraction of the mind-body-soul; which could just be the Catholic in me copping out of the question, just offering up some vaguely abstract concept to explain away any question that feels as though it is too big to be answered.  I do feel as though there is some merit to the idea of the soul if nothing else to argue the recently rising Quantum Mechanics question: which again is; if atoms need an observer to "stay put" but every part of me (that eight pounds of gray organic matter we call a brain is still merely atoms congealed together) is merely being held together, pardon the term but, by "the Grace of God", then who is the observer? 

Either there is a God that is observing me under a preexisting set of conditions or there is a "me" that exist outside of atoms and reality.  Either I am god or else there is a God.  My, very human, vanity would prefer the idea that I am the Primary Observer, that something within me is an abstraction from the Platonic Forms, that within me lies something that exist parallel to the physical world that is constantly aware of the world around me and, in particular, always aware of my personal aspects.  I, coming from a religious household (almost say this unconsciously), believe that "I" am in possession of a soul (or more aptly: my soul is in possession of a physical representation of what some would call Josh).  Replace the word soul for anything else and the statement, at least to me, still stands; call it the Primary Mover, The Immortal Observer, The First, The Alpha, The Tao, Nirvana, whatever.  It remains though; that something has to be observing us (Mathematically speaking), which, I believe can only force people to either believe in a God or in themselves as god.

Coffee, coffee, coffee.  It appears to me that coffee is one of the few things that I look forward to before going to sleep and rejoice in when I have procured a pot of this vile tasting shit.  9a.m. and I am already two pots deep...there will be a third.

I went away this week, I was an hour outside of town, staying in a motel, work related (I don't want to get into it.), and I don't think any one even noticed.  Spamboy did, but I think that is only because he was hanging out with Macs so, the way I figure it, that doesn't count for shit.  I was the only one in the group that wasn't really looking forward to coming back "home", I enjoy the motel lifestyle.  It's like living with your parents but they cannot yell at you no matter what you do.  It's amazing.

Bullet points:
Date-Night-Chick tells me I talk about myself too much and that I look at myself in everything reflective.
Stoned-Lawyer tells me that I use vague terms to identify people in my stories "it's always 'this girl I am talking to' or 'this guy I hang-out with', don't they have names?"
Honey-bunny tells his girlfriend in front of me that "I am an interesting person".
I say that I am the Devil and a cancer that destroys everything it touches.
Hilarity does ensue.

More on those bullet points later.

Now on the news at nine; "Josh's unnatural affinity towards Heroin addicts".
I was reading this book, "lullabies for little criminals" by Heather O'Neil, and in the story the chicks father is a heroin addict and it got me day-dreaming about addiction.  Heroin addicts have this milieu that I find so enthralling, I tried to come up with a better word for it but that is exactly what they make me feel like, enthralled.  There is just something about being so driven and purposeful, "What did you do today?" "Got High." "Is that it?" "...Um...yup." "Did you eat?" "Nah, got high instead." "Did you find a job?" "Nah, sold some stuff, got high, you know." "Did you bathe today?" "Nah, got high."

Hardcore drug-addiction is a form of asceticism, and in case you didn't know, Josh find asceticism very sexy.  Getting into a real drug problem is the closes thing a Westerner can do to actually being a Buddhist monk.  It's that kind of detached, emotionless, drive towards living that I want to live.  I mean, you know, before all the stealing and ripping people off shit.  Before they turn evil heroin addicts are worthy of some form of respect, at least the respect you show to any man that is completely devoted to something you don't understand, i.e. priest, monks, soldiers, martial arts masters, sword-fucking-makers, et cetra.

Remember that next time you see an addict begging for money; they are seeking enlightenment and they know exactly how to procure their own brand of nirvana.  No kneeling, bending, praying, chastity, rules, regulations, mortification, abstinence required.  ...When I put it like that it actually reminds me of "Siddhartha" (which for all you kiddies playing along at home is my number one, top five, most awesome, favorite of favorites of favorite books.  If you haven't read it please stop reading this entry right this instant, go out, get some razor wire, swallow said wire, pull it out of your ass, and floss yourself to death...please.)  I mean, in essence what else was Siddhartha doing with the Ferryman but casting aside all doctrines and expectations and allowing himself to experience one pure feeling?  Bam, heroin.

Something occurred to me about being in my twenties; it's like being a baby all over again but this time instead of mommy and daddy running around in back of you trying to instill in you their views and ideals, you are a baby raising yourself.  Now is the first time in my life that I feel as though I am (in-)actively crafting my future.  I really feel this sense that what I do today will actually affect my tomorrow.  It is a pleasing sensation, "much like an orgasm", a little exciting, a little thrilling, and a little messy.  I also feel like I am ready to start living this next leg of the adventure.  I feel like a pie piece in "Trivial Pursuit", I got all the fucking colors and now I have got up the inlet and the destination is theoretically one die roll away, I just have to get that last fucking question right and then I can beat my fucking dad!

That wasn't some insight into my mental workings, that last line there.  I don't want to be better then my dad.  That's a fool's errand.  My dad is amazing at the things my dad is amazing at; he is smart and witty, he sees through people's bullshit, and knows more about the world then I ever will, he is also a cock-sucker, asshole, and alienates most people (we are similar but that's just cause I still love the fucking guy and he was, arguably, 50% of the people that made my personality.), most importantly though is my dad is a Man, my father defines himself, not his job or his bank account, he is who he is and if you don't like it you can fuck off.  That is his best quality in my mind, or at least the quality that is most worthy of esteem.  I don't want to be better then him though, I mean I am better then him, at the stuff I am better then him at.  ...Wow, the logic train left me at the station with that sentence.  Fuck it, it'll suffice.

Anyways; I feel a sense of Becoming again.  It is a wonderful feeling, a feeling I have been chasing for...what feels like ever.  It will be fleeting so I treat it with a mixture of awe and "fuck it", to try to hold onto it will be to help it leave, to just keep plodding along will lead to it staying around a little longer.

Bukowski's writing makes me long for that kind of lifestyle.  The heroin addicted lifestyle, that is.  Well not Bukowski, he was a drunk, but his writings get me longing for the life of asceticism just like heroin addicts...sentence...structure...breaking...down...stream...of....consciousness...

Fuck it.

Reading Buwkowski always makes me want to go to a liquor store and get a bottle, a big bottle, of cheap, real cheap, liquor and drink.  Drink and write.  His lack of prose is so poetic.  His rapid chapters and sentences makes me all weak kneed.  I, apparently, like Bukowski.

I wanted to write about a new form of self destruction that I am about to embark upon, but truthfully I do not want to write about it.  I only had one sentence that I was going to form a thought around, so instead of trying too hard to make a complete thought out of it I will just say the line and leave it at that: Can I just keep on trying to drink my weight in liquor? No.  I have found a new form of self-destruction that is more palatable...

With a little more speed:
Date-Night-Chick's comments pissed me off just enough for me to feel the need to publicly validate my vanity, her words rebounded around in my mind for days after words.  I tell stories about myself when people aren't talking about anything I deem worthy.  If the conversation isn't stimulating I default to "this one time I was..." stories.  My stories are fluff.  Meaningless.  I do it to pass the time and fill the void.  They are normally cute little anecdotes that everyone can laugh at.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I look at myself so much because I love catching myself in different positions.  I love watching my body and face move through life.  How I view myself in my mind and how I actually look are always different.  Some times I am stunned at how good looking I am, but mainly I am looking at myself because I think I look like shit.  I catch myself in windows making horrid faces that I promise myself to never make again.  I see in the car's bumper my desperate need for a shave and a hair-cut.  The one-way windows of office inform me that I should be sleeping more.  So on and so forth.

I don't use people's names in my stories for the simple fact that if I used names people would realize I only hang out with a very few people.  It actually started way back when because I couldn't remember a girl's name that I had fucked and wanted to tell the room about it.  After a few more of those situations arising I decided I should just stop using names.  It has carried over to today because I only really do things with maybe three people.  I get tired of the same names, you probably would too.  It also has a little, a very little, to with the fact that I think I am a pretty forgettable character in the grand scheme of life, I never expect people to remember my name, let alone my friend's.  Very little.

Honeybunny tells his girlfriend that I am interesting right before him and I are forced to share a bed.  That just felt good.  It stoked my ego, which, you know, I am all about.  I do believe that Hunnybunny and I are quickly becoming friends.  I am trying to not latch on to him too much, or ask for too much, but I still feel I am.  Still feel like the little kid trying to catch up to the older "cool" kids. 

Which leads me directly into my last thought.  I am a virus.  A disease.  I am cancer.  I am Marla.  I suck all the life and health out of everything that is dumb enough to get into my striking range.  I am only about self-preservation, the status quo, and continuation of my happiness.  This is a reoccurring theme in my head, but it really sank in while I was sitting in the shower yesterday.  I really am only concerned about making myself happy and satiating my desires.  I could validate this thought, wrap it up in a nice philosophical bow, pretend that I have logic and evidence to support my case, but I won't.  I am scum.  I am venom.  I am poison. 

All I will say is that everyone I know will fuck me over in the end.  I stand by that.  I believe it.  I live it.  Perhaps this idea does sset me up to manipulate situations and try to get as much out of a person as I can before they discard me but you know what?  Everyone I have ever known has, in fact, fucked me over, at least in the end.  Everyone is self-serving, or at least I see it that way. 

But I am trying to validate my most abhorrent of personality quirks. With every word I still try to cast a negative light on it.  I still try to paint the picture that I am actually bothered by it.  Do not believe me.  I am trying to manipulate even this situation.  Trying to get you, the reader that I don't even know, to believe that I am a descent, caring, human-being.  I am not.  Quite simply.

"Don't bother, pretending I am seem fine, I like that, I'm a mess, can't stand, much longer in my head, I think it's time for bullets."