Van's Journal: Year 2

14-Dec-2000 |13-Dec-2000 | 18-Nov-2000 | 10-Oct-2000 | 07-Oct-2000 | 03-Oct-2000 | 18-Sep-2000 | 15-Sep-2000 | 07-Sep-2000 | 02-Aug-2000 | 01-Aug-2000 | 29-Jul-2000 | 28-Jul-2000 | 24-Jul-2000 | 22-Jul-2000 | 06-Jul-2000 | 05-Jul-2000 | 26-Jun-2000 | 23-Jun-2000 | 02-Jun-2000 | 10-May-2000 | 06-May-2000 | 03-May-2000 | 02-May-2000 | 05-Apr-2000 | 26-Mar-2000 | 17-Mar-2000 | 25-Feb-2000 | 21-Feb-2000 | 13-Feb-2000 | 01-Feb-2000 | 31-Jan-2000 | 29-Jan-2000 | 17-Jan-2000 | 14-Jan-2000 | 06-Jan-2000 | 22-Dec-1999 | 22-Dec-1999
 

December 14, 2000 : Today I found a fold-out fan in my closet and went to open it. Have you ever noticed the virginal quality of the fans? They are so delicate, and light, with only two fragile strands of bamboo to hold them together. As you slowly spread the bamboo for the first time, it blossoms in your hands. You stretch it so slowly, so gingerly, for fear that separating it faster would tear the delicate floret. And though you know it can support itself, you still hold each rib as it unfolds, even if only gently grazing them with your fingertips. Watch anybody who opens a fan for the first time, and they'll do it like this--naturally. There's something so touching about that, and I don't know where to begin.

Sometimes while I'm in the shower, I let the water get too hot, and it scalds my back. Not enough to damage the skin, but enough to hurt a lot. And as I do, I brace myself against the shower wall, dig my fingers into it, and live in the moment. I feel my senses come alive. The hot winds of steam gust across my skin, the hot vapors moisten my throat, and the white flickering of candles shows diffused through my closed eyes. And just before my skin can take no more... just before I know it might break and blister.... I turn the water down. Perhaps I just want to experience being the fan.

December 13, 2000 : Today I am at Burger King once again, but a different one. I had to start avoiding the last one because the manager was hitting on me. Of course, I didn't realize he was hitting on me until just recently. I always thought he was just a nice guy.

I was going through the drive-thru window when he was there. "Hey, I thought that was you!" he exclaimed. I never could figure out why he always recognized me over all the other customers. He reached out his hand, and I gave him my money. Apparently, he just wanted a handshake. "Oh, don't worry about that. I'll take care of it!" The lady with my food came from behind him and he said, "Don't charge him."

Now, this was weird. I mean... have you ever had anybody in a drive-thru window just give you free food? So I was like, "Thanks... but... umm... why?"

"Oh, just because. Just take it graciously."

"Oh yeah, I'm sorry, It's just.... this has never happened before. Here. In a drive-thru window."

"Oh really? So.... what are your plans for tonight?"

"Umm, I'm not sure. I have this research project to work on."

"Oh, you go to LSU?"

At this point, I really should have seen it coming. I look back in amazement at my social ineptitude. "Yep, do you?"

"No, but I'm going to UNO [University of New Orleans] in January."

"Oh, that's nice."

"Yeah. I dunno... tonight I'll probably go out with some friends to Evolutions."

Slowly, the pieces of the conversation now began to pull together. Evolutions is a gay bar and dance club.

About this time, a car pulled up behind me. He said, "Well, I guess I'll see you around then. Come inside more... I should be here tonight. Come inside and we'll talk."

"Ah.. yeah... OK..."

I drove off. And as I left the Burger King parking lot, I realized fully the events that had just transpired. I can only guess that I show up so big on the gaydar screen that I was able to drown out the interference coming from the girls he had seen me with and the two blaring "George W. Bush" stickers on my car. Not that either interference would completely eliminate the possibility I would be gay, but let's be realistic in this politically correct world.

A couple of days ago, I wrote a story with a fictional quote. Originally, I had the person who made the quote a man. But then I realized that a reader would look at that and say, "A man would never write anything like that. It's too.... sensual." So I, a male writer, changed the person who made the quote to a woman.

Lots of the straight guys I've met have wanted me to be gay, with the idea that it's the only thing which would cause me to have some of the qualities I do. Apparently, at some point, I had managed to make it common knowledge that I was gay to everybody who worked on the first floor of my building. Funny that it was common knowledge when nobody asked me.

Perhaps I could grunt a bit more, and scratch some more, and wear unmatched clothes. But why should I change myself to fix an error on the part of others. Maybe a lot of people would let events like this make them wonder if they really aren't exactly who they think they are. But I prefer to think that this is a problem in the current state of gaydar technology.

If being gay is defined by whom you can love, then why do we make decisions about people based on the way they dress or the mannerisms they use? Granted, a seed spurred the stereotypes. But it's pervasive by no means.

I don't mean to knock being gay. I don't think there's anything wrong with having sex with other guys. Hey, lots of them are really cute, and there's something to be said for experimentation. So don't think I'm sitting here saying, "Eww gross!" But I could never see myself loving a man like that, or achieving the same kind of emotional intimacy that comes from the mutual discovery in a heterosexual relationship. It must be possible for many men--but I don't think I could do it.

This attitude is kind of shocking to a lot of people. I think a lot of it comes from stating that being gay is about whom you can love. It's a lot easier to say it's about sex. As long as you make it about sex, you can write gays off as sexual deviants, victims of some kind of perversion against nature. You can do all kinds of stuff with it. You can say they're victims of a disease and are totally innocent, or you can say that they're evil and will go to hell. Either way, your judgement on gays satisfies a need within you. But as soon as you bring it into the arena of intimacy, it becomes such a sticky issue to deal with. So many of us are afraid to say, "You can't love him!" It's something we can't quantify. You can say, definitely, that somebody had sex with someone else. It was a physical act that you can damn or endorse as you see fit. But how do you damn a feeling? Some people are enlightened enough to know that you can't damn feelings, only actions. Where are these people left? They are left with a moral dilemma that forces them to think. It forces them to, for the first time, consider the possibility that homosexuality is something truly "human" in the emotional sense of the word.

The real kicker here is that nobody actually has to deal with this issue. People choose to deal with it. If everybody just said, "Whatever," then gays would be with gays, straights would be with straights, and everybody would be happy. Some people would still be content in assuming that all gays will go to hell, but they wouldn't feel threatened about it. They wouldn't have to post web sites with fictitious images and sounds of gays burning in hell, and they wouldn't have to make martyrs of two men holding hands.

It's really kind of silly. One side feels the need to constantly preach the evils of being gay, going so far as to making things up that demonize them. Meanwhile, in response, the other side holds parades and makes flags to show that they refuse to let anybody bastardize their identity. It's like two absurd peacocks.

Some fundamentalist religious groups are all-too quick to capitalize on this. They make a huge display of cleansing one of their brothers who has been made gay by whatever evil of the day. And then in a righteous, divine process, their church, in its infinite forgiveness, provides therapy to the poor soul. Everybody wins, right? The gay guy doesn't have to deal with being an outcast, the church gets to show off its ability to forgive and heal, and the whole community is satisfied in knowing that they've saved their brother from damnation. Everybody goes home all happy, prays before bed, and falls asleep knowing that they've done a good thing.

Ignorance is bliss, for all parties involved.

November 18, 2000 : Wow, has it really been that long since I've written?  I guess so.  I've been just so busy.  Now you know, when  I sat down to write, I had this awesome, profound, world-changing monologue in my head.  And I just lost it.  Oh well, just trust me--It was pure genius.  Pretend to be impressed now.  That's it.... very good.

I've thought some about loneliness.  I think that a lot of times, we think we're lonely, but we're not.  We're just missing something.  And some of us go through our entire lives trying to find somebody to fill this void, but it's not somebody we need.  It's something else, and we don't know what.  I realize this is not a new concept for most people, but sometimes I know things, and it doesn't occur to me what a profound thought the knowledge is until something else clicks.  I think what clicked is me thinking about this in reference to people who are never satisfied in a relationship, no matter what.  They go through a seemingly infinite stream of mates, each one finally leaving in this exasperated look that says, "I don't know what else to do to make you happy."

A few days ago, I was accused of being an "old soul."  I'd heard the phrase before, and never knew quite what it meant.  She explained it to me, and I said, "Oh yeah, I've been accused of that for years."  And then she thought, and she volunteered what she thought made somebody an old soul.  She said, "I think what makes people old souls is..."  and then, I saw her stare off into thought, and I could feel her brain working from across the room.  I had never seen so many synapses fire up at once on one person in my entire life.  I remember thinking that she must be pulling together a tremendous amount of information to come up with this answer.  I was highly impressed.  After about three seconds of this, she said, "it's that they're not surprised at the prices they have to pay."  Her answer wasn't what I expected.  And I was delighted... I let it soak in.  And as my synapses started firing, I thought that my display of mental engineering wasn't nearly as pretty as her's.  Maybe it's easier to accept this paradigm shift working backwards, I thought.  Her answer did make sense.  And it really seemed to fit right in to a lot of the decisions I'm about to have to make.

A week or so ago, I was talking to a guy who said, "I think I'm a beautiful person, inside and out."  Some people really do think that.... some people are also satisfied with the way they are.  Sometimes I ask myself, "Am I beautiful?"  And the only answer I hear is, "I'm working to become more beautiful.  I'm trying, I really am.  I just need a little bit more time."  I always have this stress over me, that I have to better myself.  That I have to change, and grow actively.  I can't sit by, and let life dispense experience where it sees fit.  I have to seek it.  I have to rip knowledge from people and from the world and I have to force it into me.  And sometimes I just want to break down and ask if I can stop growing now.... ask if I'm OK the way I am yet.  But who would I ask?  Only one person's opinion matters, and he's not satisfied yet.  Sometimes I feel like the only way I exist is as a plan, on my own drafting board.  And throughout my entire life, I come back to the board, and see something that's not quite perfect.  So I take out my pencil and make a few changes.  But I'm one of those works that a master architect never quite finishes.  There's always unforgivable flaws, but the only person who can tell is the architect.  And eventually, he dies, leaving the work still unfinished, and imperfect.

And here is where being an old soul may get dangerous.  I probably won't be surprised at the prices I have to pay to change.  I won't be surprised when people leave my life, or when I move, or when I throw myself into a radically different environment.  And I have to wonder if one day I'll look back, and I'll say to myself, "I really was OK.  I didn't have to sacrifice so much."  But I still feel incomplete, and terribly flawed, and I'm not going to look for somebody else to fill in the gaps for me.  I'm not going to expect somebody to come along and give me the strengths I don't have.  So here I sit, incomplete, begging my own hand to finally add the finishing touches.

October 10, 2000 : In the time it took me to drink my frappuccino, I wrote this entry.  Damn I'm good.  If only journal writing counted in the GMAT.

So here I am at Starbucks, a.k.a. "Yuppyville Prime."  I think everybody thinks that I am crazy, sitting here in short sleeves with a frozen blended frappuccino, with it being something like 40 degrees outside.

One really good thing about this place is the fact that all the good looking girls hang out here.  I'm not sure what it is.  Maybe it's that all the girls who can afford to pay $4.00 for a few ounces of drink all had rich daddies that could afford sexy wives.  I think there was some sexism in that statement somewhere, but I can't point to exactly where it is.

A few days ago, I had thrown on some clothes very quickly to go to class.  And in the haste, I slipped on these very old, very worn jeans.  They're really comfortable, which is the only reason I keep them.  But they are also now really tight and really thin, so I usually don't go out in public in them for obvious reasons.  Anyway, lots of people start staring down at my jeans while I'm walking to a class.  I usually don't garner nearly that much attention, so I start getting kind of self-conscious.  I mean, I have a small frame and am real thin, and don't normally think I should be seen in painted-on jeans.  I walk through the Union book store and pass by a full-body mirror to check myself out.  Behold, there's a bulge for all the world to see.  Hmmm... I'm not sure if this is a dilemma or not.  I mean, is this grossing people out, or is it just something that attracts attention?  With nothing I can really do about it, I go on to my next class.  Now after I sit down, there's this tall lanky guy sitting next to me, and he starts taking notice every so often.  I keep catching him out of the corner of my eye, and he darts back whenever I start to look back over at him.  But he keeps.... looking... over.  I'm thinking, "Geez guy, take a picture."  I got similar looks for the rest of the day, including one female professor who had trouble looking at me in the face when she talked to me.  Maybe then was the time to bring up the idea for extra credit?

Oh well, ideas of whoring myself to the faculty and staff aside, this whole ordeal made me think.  After a day of walking around in this dress, I finally plopped down in front of my computer and started chatting with a friend of mine.  I opened the conversation proudly, "Oh, I was such a slut all day today.  Let me tell you about it."  I think she was quite amused.  I wonder if this is anything like some women feel, having guys stare at them all the time.  After only a couple of hours, I quickly became desensitized to it.  I knew it was happening, but it didn't really distract me.  However, I have to wonder if I'd be able to keep that up for months or years on end.  And while I don't plan on shopping for leather bottoms any time soon, I have to admit, it was kind of nice.  Just having people notice you, for whatever reason, felt good.  If I was a woman, I could definitely see myself dressing the part of the slut.

In other news.... I found out some disturbing information about my crush, Katie Holmes today.  Somebody told me she was dating Chris Klein, the guy who played the jock in American Pie.  Now my chances are ruined.  Now I know what kind of guy she goes for--the tall, beefy, studly type.  She's dating a superstud.  I can't blame her.  Hell, he looks so good, I might even date him.  But I digress.

To my right, there is a woman, probably in her mid-late 20's, dressed as corporate-like as she can get.  But she's hot.  I wonder if she ever dressed like a slut when she was younger.  I can definitely see it.  I also wonder if she's ever taken some handcuffs and a spiked collar, and then.... ah well, you get the picture.  Yep, all the sexy ones hang out at Starbucks.

October 7, 2000 : Today I was at Barnes & Noble.  I stepped out on a balcony on the second floor which overlooked the first, and watched the people down below.  I observed this little system, of some people looking at books, some people looking at people, and some people wandering aimlessly.  They follow the aisles, trying to form lanes of traffic, with road shoulders for people to stop and pick up books.  They follow social protocols of personal space, formalities, and eye contact.  I walked downstairs and joined the roadways of people, living this system I just observed.  I pulled off on a shoulder, and picked up a book about the planets of our solar system.  There was a picture of the Voyager 2 probe in front of Neptune.  Neptune is such a beautiful planet, with its pretty blue color.  It looks so peaceful.  And I began to think again about this question we all try to answer:  "What are these humans?"

Humans are a race with features of survival we have not yet come to understand.  Their more advanced brains and more agile digits are not their primary advantage--rather, they thrive in the social systems they form.  Humans have identities like no other animal.  They have homelands, without which they lose sight of who they are as individuals.  They have a sense of history and need to know where they come from.  So crucial is this need that they build universities, archives, and religions to understand who they are.  Humans are many organisms.  They exist collectively as one organism like an ant colony, and individually as a separate entities like elephants.  And one of these human organisms cannot survive without the other.  What are these humans, whose systems are so powerful that they dominate their environment?  These humans eat other animals to fulfill their duty in the food chain, yet they exhibits the same animals in human-made zoos to bring their beauty to the masses.  They were not born to fly like birds, so they sprouted wings to rule the skies in silver birds of aluminum.  They could not swim like fish, so they brought their environment to the depths of the seas.  They were not close enough to their moon, so they broke the chains of the Earth that hold all of the other animals, and brought themselves close enough to touch it.  They could not understand the starry night, so they invented mechanical observers to go out and send pictures back to their home.

To whoever may find this journal, let them know this--that if you do not find humans here, they were once a race of gods.  And their story is one more magnificent than legend.  Sometimes they were fallen angels, when they did not respect each other for their spendor.  Sometimes they were the greatest beings, reaching beyond the limitations of their world and their bodies.  Inside each person was an expansion more massive than the universe around them, and collectively they were a being too grand for even their own understanding.  And that they were sometimes fallen angels when they did not understand their grandeur made them fully human.  So as you read this, may you understand our nature, as one human understands it.  And in whatever books of history you may have, or whatever encyclopedias of knowledge, make a note of the people who lived here.

October 3, 2000 : Hi Van.  It's me, Van.  If you followed what you were supposed to do, you're now reading or listening to this while you're forty years old.  There is so much I'd like to ask you.  What advances did you make in personal growth?  Not that it's a very easy question to answer.  Where did you end up living?  Did you stay in the states?  Did you ever decide if monogamy was a good idea or not?  Did you ever finally seduce Britney Spears?  No?  Ah well, you can't have everything.

I think it's time we had a talk, just between me and you.  I may write a few more of these letters, I don't know.  So be looking out for them.

Do you know how many sacrifices I've made for your benefit?  Do you have any idea how much I'm giving up so that you may lead a more fulfilling life?  Sometimes I worry that you don't appreciate and respect me.  I worry that you are even jealous of me--that you resent my youth.  Do you?  Be honest with yourself.  So God help me, if you EVER say, "If I knew then what I know now," I'll kick your ass to next Tuesday.  Don't disgrace me like that.  Hey, here's one for you... "If I could know now what I'll know then."  Try that one on for size, you ungrateful old geezer.  OK, maybe that's a bit harsh.  I'm sure it's easy to forget the sacrifices I made for you when you have a few less black flames on your head, and a few less thrusters moving the old ship around.  It's easy to forget how hard I had to work so you'd have the wisdom you do, after it's all said and done.  But rest assured, my life's a bitch because of you.  Not a day goes by when I don't think of your well-being.  I could be using these resources on other things, you know.

Oh, don't tell me.  Now you're saying to yourself, "But you didn't have to do all that work!  I would have rather you spent the time enjoying your youth."  Spare me the bullshit, and stop looking at my youth through those glasses.  If I'd had the resources you have now, maybe I would have.  But I don't have those resources, and now you do.  It's because of me that you have them, so don't disgrace me by criticizing the work I did to give them to you.  This is the trade-off we make, you know.  I get my youth and you get your wisdom.  So don't you dare even start to criticize me for not knowing how to live my life better.  I think this fumbling around life I have to do because I don't know everything that you know is a good trade-off for the better erections.  Heheh, how's the Viagra holdin' up, buddy?

Now is the time to tell you, I suppose.  I'm giving you one last gift, above and beyond everything else I've given you.  I think it's time I put these body image issues aside.  I can't do this to you anymore, this lack of appreciating youth.  Remember, you don't deserve this gift--if anybody does, I do.  So I strongly recommend you drop to your knees and thank God you have someone giving this much to you.  Maybe it doesn't seem like a lot to you know, I don't know.  But it sure seems like a hell of a lot for me.  I'll be borrowing a bit if your health in the form of a few cans of Coke as payment.  It's a steal.  Trust me.

September 18, 2000 : I just came from Wal-Mart, where I saw this guy I know.  Well, I don't really know him.  In fact, he probably doesn't even remember me.  You see, it all started about a year ago when I went out to eat with Sanjay.  We went to a local college place that has a very casual college atmosphere, with people everywhere and cooks who all have long red beards and tons of piercings.  Anyway, I saw this guy sitting alone at a booth.  He stood out because he was the only "non-traditional" student there.  He looked to be in his early 50's, kind of large, black, and bald.  I noticed all of the papers spread out on the table, most of them having a huge heading with "Frank Lloyd Wright" in it.  You couldn't get away from it.  Even from across the room, you see "Frank Lloyd Wright" plastered everywhere.  I'm making a big deal about that because I'm blatantly defensing myself for what's about to come.  I had recently finished a paper on him (I think that's the second time I've referenced that sucky paper in my journal), and thought the references on it might help him.  So of course, with this collegiate atmosphere all around us, and this shared environment of learning and piercing, I opened my big mouth.

"Oh, Frank Lloyd Wright," I said.  "I just did a paper on him.  You want--"
He barked back, "Do you look over everybody's shoulder?"
"Oh, um... I'm sorry, I--"
"No, answer me!  Do you look over everybody's shoulder?"
"No."
"Well don't look over mine."

He promptly went back to his papers.  Guess he told me.  Oh well, so much for that idea.  A few weeks later, I saw that same guy outside of Coates Hall.  He was fumbling for some change in his hands by a newspaper vending machine.  He saw me there and asked if I had change for a dollar.  It was pretty apparent he didn't remember me, which isn't surprising, considering he never even really looked at me.  I just gave him some change and told him not to worry about it.  I've seen this guy every few weeks since then.  He stands out.  I always wondered what he's studying, what he does in life, etc.

Anyway, it looks like I finally found out what a job of his is.  He stocks shelves at Wal-Mart.  I was looking for Visine in the medicine area, and when I looked around the corner, there that guy was.  He was sitting on the floor, surrounded by packages of Trojan condoms, putting them on the little racks.  I asked him where the Visine was, and he told me it was just on the other side of the shelf he was stocking.  I walked back around.

"Did you find it," he called out.
I answered back, "Yes, sir.  Thank you."

That's the latest in our ongoing dialogue.  I was almost afraid to ask him where the Visine was.

September 15, 2000 : Sometimes my entries here seem a little elusive, like I'm trying to make readers try to understand me.  Maybe on some subconscious level, I'm flattered by the idea that someone might actually take the time out to try to decrypt the words and understand me.  I don't know... but at least it's not my official reason.  I personally don't think it's a reason at all, but who knows what goes on in those fireside chats among the ego, id, and superego.  I think it's about time I finally said how and why I write this journal.

First, everything I write here is usually information on myself I own pretty well.  Usually, if I haven't churned the topic around for at least a few months to a few years already, there's no way I can even make the leap from the thoughts to the words, no matter how much I want to say it.  Second, even after I own that material, it takes a really long time to write.  On particularly internal thoughts, it can take upwards of a couple of hours to put out 300 words.  When you see a short but powerful entry, expect that I put at least a couple hours into it.  Perhaps this is why I have significantly fewer entries than most online journals.  Third, I typically don't write entries based on what I want people to hear.  I base them on what I want to force myself to "open-source" to the world.  One theory is that if I put it out there for the world to see, then I have to be comfortable enough with it to accept.  I'm an emotional person.  I knew that when I was in preschool, but for some reason, I forgot that fact for about a decade.  This brings me to the fourth reason--so I will never forget again.  The sixth reason is so that others might benefit from what I have to say.  Sometimes, knowing others have had the same feelings is comforting.  In the time this journal has been up, I've probably had about six strangers thank me for posting it, and one make fun of it.  The one who made fun of it quickly got disinterested when I wouldn't get pissed at him.  In all honesty, that one person is the one I'm most thankful for.  Without having to put up a defense, and without having to fool myself, I truly never did get angry.  And I truly never felt sorry for him.  I think that shows a certain level of development and comfort with myself.

Now, I could go on to mention some things to remember about reading my journal.  Suddenly, my business major instinct kicks in and says, "But Van!  Designing a product that needs those types of instructions is not only bad interface design, but also demonstrates corporate arrogance!"  And to that instinct, I say, shut the hell up.  It's my damn journal.  So here's some things you need to remember.  First, I design the journal without very much respect to what has been said.  Much of it is written in ways that will only make sense when things I plan to say are said.  The problem is, when I try to explain myself, there's no way to really do it unless you already have a lot of background knowledge on me.  If I try to fill in that background knowledge as I go along, I'd spend all my time writing preambles to entries, and never get to the meat of the matter.  So, I leave those preambles for times when I can clearly organize them.  Think of it like I'm writing this journal so it would make sense to archeologists thousands of years in the future.  If they dig this text up after I am dead, I want it to make as much sense as possible.  And hopefully, I won't die for a long time, because I have a lot to explain.  I'm sure I pissed a few people off with the elusive all-quote entries.  I can't blame you.  It's always a conversation with me and someone else.  All I can really say about quote entries at this time is that they are not always to the same person, and they do not always take place at the same time frame.  Some happened years ago, and some happen as I type them.  But before I name the entities I'm talking to, I want to have better descriptions of them.

And now for my personal rules when writing journals:  First, don't mention people by name.  It can get messy, and just because I make my life known doesn't mean they want their lives known.  Second, I never go back and change the content from a previous entry.  Generally, once I send a new entry to the web site, it is written in stone.  The only exceptions are when I want to go back to add a hyperlink, or make an absolutely necessary grammatical correction.  But I never go back and change the actual content.  The only time I might consider changing content is if it is a matter of grave importance (i.e., someone tells me, "My husband saw that entry, he thinks you are talking about me, and now he's going to kill me unless you take it down").  Third is a less critical rule, which I have broken once.  Don't use the journal to write to somebody.  This is more of a rule to keep the journal on track, so I may bend it if necessary every so often.  But so far, I've only done it once.

September 7, 2000 : He walked up just to my left and I peered over my shoulder to look down.  His was small, and puny looking, and the way he played with it was like that of a small child with his toy.  I smiled smugly and whipped mine out, in all its rigid, masculine glory.  The way my hands wrapped around mine exuded confidence and experience.  I caught him darting his eyes over to witness it, only to quickly turn back to his own when I looked over at him.  Our hands starting moving furiously, working to achieve a final goal as quickly as we could.  But before we even started, I knew it was all over for him.  He had inferior equipment and inferior skill.  Eventually, I won out.

I am talking of course about taking notes in class on my new Palm Pilot.  This guy sitting next to me in class had a new budget-priced m100 model.  I, on the other hand, had my glorious Palm Vx, and I could tell he was drooling over it.  Ahhhh, if this isn't compensation for my inferiority complex, I don't know what is.

As time goes on, I am coming more and more to realize how incapable I am at supporting a real monogamous relationship at this point in my life.  It's not something I'm ready for.  It's not something I want.

August 2, 2000 : I am back at Burger King, and armed with my keyboard this time.  I'm the only white guy here, so I think now is the best time to write about the racial issues I was talking about earlier.  It's so ironic that I'm the only white person here, also the only person who happens to have a $400 Palm Pilot that he's taking notes on.

I am thinking about how so many people blur the line between cultural differences and "justifiable" discrimination.  In this region of the country, black people tend to walk slower.  They also tend to have smaller bubbles of personal space.  That's not a prejudice statement, that's not discriminatory.  It's just pointing out a cultural difference, much as one would observe the larger personal bubbles kept by the Japanese.    The problem is, when these cultural differences are observed in blacks, they're no longer considered cultural differences.  Instead, people say something like, "Bahh, damn blacks, always so slow."  I think that is, perhaps, a root of so much discrimination in this country.

Generally, I'm a pretty conservative person politically.  But when certain individuals say that multiculturalism is bad because a one American culture is better, what they really are saying is, "Every group in this country should drop their own culture, and instead adopt the normal, upper-middle-class culture of white European Americans."  Now I fully believe that they do not know that's what they're really saying.  Contrary to popular belief, most of them are trying to think of the good of all individuals, not just themselves.  But it's just that I don't think they have the multicultural experience to fully realize the implications of what they're saying.

One language?  Yes, a country need a common way to communicate.  A set of common cultural aspects?  Yes, that's inevitable.  But a single culture?  No.  That's wrong.    People shouldn't be forced to abandon their culture to be a "real" citizen.

I'm in a predominantly black neighborhood right now.  I can't help but wonder if this street would still have the nice sidewalks it does if it wasn't right outside the gates of the state's flagship university.  That's a real question of institutionalized racism.  Think about this.... a poor neighborhood has no sidewalks.  So, pedestrians are forced to walk on the side of the street, cut through intersections in front of cars, and generally piss off all the drivers passing through.  So, the drivers get angry at the poor people, and start talking about how they have no respect for other people, and that they're just leaching off the decent, tax-paying, God fearing Americans.  OK, that was a bit sarcastic.  I digress.  But anyway, people begin to adopt this attitude about poor people (and oftentimes, it's associated with minority neighborhoods).  So when new, low income housing projects are started, the common opinion is that these people won't respect what they're given. After all, they're always roaming the streets and holding up traffic.  So, we won't put sidewalks in this neighborhood.  Granted, the thought process isn't that direct, and it's not that conscious.  But it's still there.

I realize I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said before.  I'm just reflecting.  And as I reflect, I notice that the noise level has risen dramatically behind me.  So, I look over my shoulder, and find that a thousand little black school children have come into Burger King.  One of them is staring at me, no doubt wondering what I'm typing on.  I'm done with my meal anyway.  It's about time to go.

August 1, 2000 : i am writing this entry at burger king. Using the palm hand recognition is very slow. Now i observe the differences in black and white cultures. But to tell you about my observations i will need to get my keyboard.

July 29, 2000 : The August 2000 issue of Maxim featured some actors who portrayed Satan in movies.  It made me think about how we personify Satan in art and literature, which has always been a favorite topic of thought for me.  It says so much about what we view as impurities in our lives.  Whether you believe in a god of evil or not, there is a definite feeling we can all name "Satan".

One time, I was at some sort of dinner party.  I forget what it was, but I remember that I was about fourteen, around adults, and I was listening to conversations going on around me.  Suddenly, upon hearing what one group was saying, a sickening feeling came over me.  It was one of those realizations that quickly creeps up on you out of nowhere, like victorious troops must have felt upon first entering the concentration camps after World War II.  The thought so impacted me that I whispered it aloud to myself:  "If there is a Hell, they are all going there."  When one of them finally spoke to me, I looked into his eyes, and I saw him--not the man that stood before me, but I saw Satan.  It was like an insidious parasite that crept out from behind the eyes of an unknowing god.  If I could have held a bolt of lightning in my hand, I would have struck the Devil out of my fellow human.  And while it took a human mind to realize Satan in a carnal state, the effects of this personified phenomenon are the same in books of social work and religion alike.  Only the wording is different.

It's very eerie, to realize Satan is all around you.  He doesn't exist behind the bars of a jail or at the throne of a dictator, but instead as the impurities and bureaucracy we let into each of our lives.  It's comforting to think of Satan as having a will, and that he tries to push into our lives.  That way we we can wear a patch or a rosary, or make a donation to get rid of him.  But we give our own will to Satan.  We, the gods of unfathomable power on this small planet, single-handedly create a Devil and give him will.  Whether this proves imperfection, or adds to our perfection, still remains to be seen.

These are the thoughts typical of that stage in my life.  It's enough to make you paranoid.

July 28, 2000 : I look back on my journal entry from July 6, and my eyes focus on the words, "It is you who seeks validation.  Not these walls."  I think those are some of the truest words of the human condition, and advice that I should heed.  If everybody realized that concept and was able to apply it, the amount of hostility in this world would plummet.  And the amount of personal growth could very well skyrocket.  Sometimes we get so caught up in protecting our protection, we forget about the underlying person we wanted to protect in the first place.  "It is you who seeks validation.  Not these walls."

I got a Palm Pilot Vx yesterday.  I can feel my productivity shooting up already.  And already on the calendar, I added something that most people forget--sleep.  And I even told it to set off an alarm an hour ahead of time so I'd know when to start getting ready.  I've got to get some more sleep in my life.  I also added class times that I know so far for next semester, and all of my contacts.  The device should give me the freedom to make journal entries away from my computer, and transfer them to Redstroke when I get back to my apartment.

I've been trying to expose myself to different kinds of music.  So far, I've experienced Gothic Metal and Electronica.  Gothic Metal would be good if it wasn't for the fact that 85% of the songs are ruined by totally moronic vocals.  First off, they all try to sound like they're Satan, or at least some sort of demi-devil.  And if that wasn't crazy enough, they make Satan out to sound like someone who's been smoking unfiltered cigarettes for 50,000 years.  I mean, it's entirely the wrong type of music to even try to simulate Satan.  If you want to put Satan in a piece of music, make it in an Opera, or maybe a halfway humorous piece of Gospel or Country.  But not metal!  Satan has no place in metal.  It's just not his style.  Whoever came up with that idea, I think, was just some punk hooligan with purple hair who doesn't know who screwed him up, so he's decided it's cool to be dark.  Or some mumbo jumbo like that.  But anyway, I like the Gothic Metal minus the vocals.  The verdict is still out on Electronica.

I went to a flesh hanging once, and they pulled off the use of Gothic Metal every well.  They actually could have thrown Satan in there, and it still would have been good.  But they had the whole atmosphere going on as well, so it's not really a fair comparison.  I'd like to go to another one of those, but nobody in my circles seems to be up for a good flesh hanging.  It's pitiful.  The wimps.

July 24, 2000 : When I was 16, there was this girl who was furious with me because she didn't feel I was coming out of a shell for her.  And as much as I tried, I had so much trouble trusting anyone.  Or even showing people emotion.

I told her that in the environment I had grown in, when emotion was shown, it was usually anger or sadness.  And I wasn't very eager to put myself on the line to experience emotion again.  I remember some of my words well.... "Don't give up on me.  I'm still trying to learn how to show love."  I want to remember it like a perfect movie scene, with all the perfect inflections, with tears in my eyes, while holding her in desperation.  But the truth is, I said them on the phone, while sitting in an office chair, probably while twirling a pencil among my fingers as I thought about three other topics.  They were major words, and were some of the conclusive results of a year of intensive self-therapy.  And the fact that they were said in monotone makes them no less valid, I suppose.  That's who I was.

You know, my intense hate of ageism probably comes from this period in my life.  It's when I realized that the adults who I had  trusted with my emotions (and mental health) were far more screwed up than I was.  And on so many accounts, I was right, and they were wrong, and they made decisions for me anyway.   This happens to so many kids, I think.  And when I realized I really was right, and I wasn't as crazy as I thought, I was filled with anger.  I'm almost afraid to say "I was right," because the first response from most people is, "Oh yeah, sure, when you're 16, you know everything.  Right."  I've heard it so many times.  Luckily, though, this is my journal, and I pay the rent on this web space, so I'm not going to justify myself this time.  I was right.  A lot of my life got screwed up because they were wrong.  Live with it.  Move on.

I think sometimes that I'm too far behind emotionally.  I fear that I'm not adequately developed to form relationships, and that I don't really deserve anyone.  And then I try to set aside those fears and develop myself more.

I'm so tired.  I want to rest just for a little while, but I fear falling further behind.  I'm drained emotionally, though, from trying to grow and change and adapt to new people.  I just want to stop trying just for a little while.  Stop and experience who I am now.  Perhaps that's the best thing for me.

I've tried to use more quotes in journals lately.  It's part of my effort to stop wining about the inadequacy of verbal language and to start dealing with it instead.  All this growth is hard work.

July 22, 2000 : A few days ago, a man came to pick me up from my apartment to go get my car.  He was from the shop that was fixing it.  When I got in the van, I started trying to identify what type of music was playing on his radio.  Finally, an announcer said it was gospel.  That was one of the two possibilities I had decided on.
"Gospel," I said.  "I haven't heard that in a long time."
"Oh?"
I tried to remember the last time as I continued, "Yeah, I went to a Catholic school and they played it at some of the services there."
"What religion are you?"
I hesitated to answer for about a half of a second while I tried to decide if I was still going to claim Catholicism.  "I'm Catholic."
He stared off into thought for a few moments.  "Catholic.... umm... what is that, really?"
I knew what he was getting at.  Lots of people think Catholics worship Mary over Jesus.  "It's Christian."
"Oh, Christian?  Where is it?"
Now that question confused me.  Where's Catholicism?  I said the only thing I could have, "World-wide."
"World wide?"
"Yep.  With about a billion members."
"Now that's a lot of people."
I kept trying to answer his question.  "It's headquartered in Rome.  A place called Vatican City, actually."
He suddenly realized what religion I was talking about and said, "Ohhh yeah, that's where that umm... that Pope... what's he called?"
"The Pope?"
"Yeah!  But what's his name?  Pope umm..."
"Pope John Paul II"
"Yeah!  I saw him on TV."
I told him a little bit about the church history.  He seemed baffled that it was almost 2,000 years old.  I told him about where protestants came from, and about corruption and the middle-ages.  But I tried not to give too much detail.  Finally, I returned the favor.  "What's your church," I asked.
He gave me the name of a specific building and told me its address in the city.  And suddenly, his first question all made sense.  He wanted to know where I physically took myself to attend services. Now I was on the other side of the fence. "Ohh... and is that a denomination, or....?"
"Fourth Gospel Church."
I'm glad he answered my question better than I answered his.  I was silent for a few moments while I tried to think of how to say my next thought tactfully.  "Now this is funny.  When you ask me my church, I give you the name of a religion.  But when I ask you, you give me the name of a building." I was silent for a few more moments before adding, "Maybe that means you are more satisfied with your religion than I am with mine.  Because you named a community--a home.  And I never thought to do so."
He didn't seem to understand what I was saying.  So to avoid risking offending the poor guy who only came to give me a ride, I changed the subject to something lighter. I began to think about what the Church means to me.  I haven't been to mass in.... forever.  And this experience made me reflect back a few years ago to a Palm Sunday.

I was driving home from mass alone when I saw a very old woman walking alone in a bad section of town.  She had the palms in her hand that were given out at that day's service.  I doubled back and pulled up beside her in a parking lot.  I rolled down my window and waved the similar palms I had in front of my face so she would see them.  So she would trust me.  I asked, "Do you need a ride?"  First, she saw my palms and gave a weak, hurried grin.  She got in and explained that she had to leave mass early because she didn't realize it would be longer than a normal mass, and she left food cooking that she had to get back to.  I asked where she lived, and she gave me the name of one of the Antebellum mansions.  So, I drove her there.

I think about this experience because of the type of community it showed.  On that day, I could have shown those palms to almost any practicing Catholic in the world, and they would probably have given me a similar amount of trust.  So, which model is better? I don't know.

July 6, 2000 : "I'm tired," I said.  "All of my energy is used on this battle.  I have nothing left for others."
"The others would have you destroyed.  And replaced.  When this is all over, you will still stand."
"Is standing all I have?"
"Perhaps.  For now."
"I'll still have myself when it's all over.  My culture will still be intact!"
"Indeed."
"Damn these fortress walls.  Building one wall to get away from another.  Isn't this an impractical human failing.  At least it means I'm still human."
"A human that seeks not to destroy."
"I seek to protect.  It's military either way you look at it."
"To protect is necessary.  To attack is cowardice."
"And are your comforting words just more walls of protection?"
"And if they are?"
"Then it becomes a question of the nobility of these walls.  I think they are noble."
"It is you who seeks validation.  Not these walls."
"Where else can I seek validation, other than these walls?  I've tried elsewhere."
"Wait for it.  This temporal rut is another human problem.
"Open a window.  I want to check the climate."
"You're alone.  It's safe."
"Your marvelous ability to recite the obvious presents itself once again.  I am always alone."
"Better alone than dead."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Do we have any new research for the day?  I am bored."
"Yet more from Mr. Pachelbel.  This time in relation to architecture."
"Not enough time.  The bell for this class will ring soon."
"More temporal roadblocks?"
"Always."

July 5, 2000 : As I seek more to understand myself, I become more intimate with this person that I am.  And in doing so, I crave such levels of intimacy with everyone I meet.  Yet, I know it's not possible to be one with others so fully.  Not on this planet, not in this culture, perhaps not in this body.  I am also beginning to realize a plight of the introvert--to exist as someone who understands extraordinary levels of intimacy, but to simultaneously fear a connection with others.  So often I criticize people for being unwilling to embrace others of differing ideals.  But in so many ways I am a hypocrite, in that I never seek to understand how others find intimacy.  Instead, I sit here, dreaming of ideal levels of connection with other people that I know could never be possible outside of myself.  And while I continue to put effort toward increasing communication both inside and out, I deal with blocks so differently.  When I have a problem inside, I hold myself responsible, and quickly remedy it.  When I face a problem in communicating with others, I become discouraged at how inefficient verbal language is, and reluctantly try to deal with it.  I become much like a NASA engineer told to design a new shuttle given only a ruler and a sheet of graph paper.

But on this early dawn after my country's celebration of independence, I choose to celebrate as well.  I live in a culture that, compared to the rest of the world, seeks to judge very little, and communicates fairly well.  This is the United States, third largest in both population and geography.  I go to bed every night with the comfort of knowing that a government taking me from my bed and destroying what little communication I have achieved is far from likely.  I can relate well to this country.  It is a benevolent predator that absorbs cultures.  It has an awkward relationship with its much older counterparts.  It is multifaceted and superficial.  I values its independence and freedom above all else.  Yep, sounds like me all right.

So how did I get from there to here you might ask?  Where does intimacy come into the whole proud-to-be-an-American soapbox?  Damn the irony, but on this celebratory night of the fourth, the Russians have bestowed upon me too much vodka to describe the concept in words.  Maybe another journal entry will tell, when I can hold that ruler and paper steady.

June 26, 2000 : Sometimes I wonder if people like me have a right to complain about their lives.  I can just see a parody of my journal entries looking something like this:

"One time.... when I was very young.... I had these marbles.  And one day... one of them cracked... but to a boy, so isolated from the world, a marble can mean so much.  One day, my mother threw the marble out....  it's amazing how little respect children get in our society.  I mean, she never asked what that marble meant to me, she never stopped to ask if I wanted to be judged by rules not in her culture.  Granted, there are thousands of children who die every day from starvation, or who are sold into sexual slavery by their parents, or who are beaten by their mother's live-in boyfriend, but did she not realize how fearful I would be of her taking the rest of my marbles?  What would I do with all my marbles lost?"

But I remember these four lesser known words from Captain Kirk:  "I need my pain."  Sometimes I think I should stop thinking about anything bad that's happened in my life because it's nothing compared to most of the lives in this world.  And then I think... why should I deny myself the opportunity?  Is it really hurting anyone?  I don't think so.

My fish seems to have adjusted to his aquarium white nicely.  But his two plants are dying.

I went swimming again today.  But there were no beautiful people.  In fact, I was the only person in the pool.

June 23, 2000 : "I see skin that radiates purity and light, and is fitting of the god that you are.  I see hair of black fire, glowing with passion for all the universe to see.  I see deep, caring eyes that let your soul be known.  I see a face that, in all its glory and strength, is still benevolent and humble.  I see a body that stands firm and strong, agile and unhindered by excess.  I see a human.  I see a god."

Someone who knew me very well said those words of me some years ago.  I was about 16 I think.  I try every day to be a little less worried about how I look, but it's very difficult.  I remember, I never once directly looked at myself in the mirror for 2-3 years when I was in lower high school.  In the morning, I would get ready for school in darkness, judging how my hair looked by feeling it.  I would trust that I shaved well, although I wouldn't feel my skin for the risk of feeling a blemish.  When I was getting my hair cut, I always looked down and away from the mirror.  When riding in the back seat of a car, I would always sit on the passenger side so I couldn't accidentally see myself in the rear view mirror.  I couldn't stand to look at myself.  I was ugly.  Unworthy.  Unlovable.  I was a niche human, not necessarily hated by society, but something that should remain unseen, exerting influence only from behind closed doors.  Until, one day, this individual forced me to look at myself in the mirror, and said those words.

"Do you realize what I have said is true?"
"No," I said, "It's not true."
"But all humans are gods, by your own decree.  Are not all gods beautiful, if for no other reason than being a god?"
"Maybe I am beautiful.  But the other gods don't think so."
"What does that matter to a god?"
"I hate being human.  If I am human.  Sometimes I feel like something less."

The conversation continued for the next few seconds.  But that was a critical point in that chapter of my life.  Yesterday, I found myself reflecting on that.  I actually got up the courage to swim with the beautiful people.  I have seen them out by the apartment pool before, and I was never able to actually get up the courage to go out there and take my shirt off in front of them.  I'm just so pale and thin.  But I went out, and got it the pool.  Nobody really seemed to mind.  Nobody snickered at me, nobody talked about me.  Then I put on some sporty shorts and jogged/walked for several miles, white skinny legs and all.  I walked to Footlocker and bought some white running shoes.  This was a pretty big deal for me, considering I have gotten nothing but black shoes for years.  I left my black shoes there for them to throw away--I didn't want the temptation of using them again.  I ran to eat, then walked back to my apartment.  And then I got in the pool again to cool off.  Nobody stared or laughed at me the whole trip.  This was a good sign, because there's no telling what I would have done if they did.  I probably would have gone home and spent another 7 years waiting to get brave again.  I don't know what has made me so self-conscious, so obsessed.  I've wanted to do excessive workouts and body-building suppliments before, but my internal regulations prevent me from going to extremes for the sake of vanity.

I walked and ran again today.  Maybe I can make it a regular thing.  Maybe I can make the pool a regular thing.  I'm trying to get better, but it takes so much energy.  Why am I so weak that I am affected by the images I see on TV and in magazines?  I'm usually so strong.  I don't understand this sickness, but if I don't work to stop it, it will destroy me.  At some point, internal regulations are tossed aside in favor of pain-killing processes.  I must stop it now, but I don't know what to do.  For now, I'll keep on running... and keep trying to take my shirt off, no matter how many people it blinds.

June 2, 2000 : From reading my journal, historians would probably never know what kind of life I led.  Not that historians would be interested, but I mean just the concept of it all.  You could read for a long time before you ever found out I work for the ISDS department at the same school I attend, LSU.  And that I live at this cool apartment complex which completely surrounds its courtyard that used to actually be indoors under a retractable glass ceiling four floors up.  But that was like before I was born or something.  That ever since I came to LSU, I've scheduled classes across campus that force me to walk a lot every day so that I get the exercise.  In fact, freshman year, I had to walk half a mile to eat, and then half a mile back, twice a day.  Granted, it's not to much, but considering there was another cafeteria right across the street from my dorm, people thought I was crazy.  So I just wanted to mention a few things for the historical record.

Sanjay is gone now.  My good friend and coworker got a job with Fannie Mae in Washington, DC, and moved away.  As a going away present, I gave him a bouquet of peacock feathers, the official bird of India.  It has a lot of cultural significance to him that I don't have the words to describe, so you'll just have to trust me.  It's not the same thing as an Indian handing an American a collection of Bald Eagle feathers.  We had our last dinner together at "The Great Wall Chinese Restaurant."  During dinner, a little alarm went off in my head that I put in place a long time ago.  It was the alarm that said, "Now is the time you're supposed to say something that you otherwise would have regretted not saying years from now."  I held out my chopsticks as an extension of my fingers, and picked up a piece of fried banana.  I stared down at it and declared out loud, "I'm a better person for knowing you."  He was looking at my hands, trying to match the hold I had on my chopsticks.  And then he offered similar words back to me.  I wished him well on his new life just before the fortune cookies came.  My fortune said,  "Your heart will always make itself known through your words."  His said, "You'll advance far with your abilities."  I saved both fortunes and have them in front of me right now.

In other news, Windows 2000 turned my brand new, $14,000 server at work into a 100 pound paperweight.  I TOLD them not to install until after the first service pack was out.  But does anybody listen to me?  Noooooo.  Oh, and I've watched the movie "Go" about 5 times since I bought it a few nights ago.  It keeps reaffirming my believe that Katie Holmes is a goddess who I am not worthy to look at.  Yet, I can't help myself.

I'm also coming to the increased realization that I have major body image issues that I need to resolve.  If I were female, I'd probably be anorexic.  I hope to write more about it in a later entry.... but I have more reflecting to do before I can boil it down to words.

May 10, 2000 : Last night I had a powerful dream.  Of course, I can't remember much other than a few crucial moments.  But I do remember some stuff.  I saw a black, average-sized man dressed in a white suit and a white hat.  And he was God.  Or at least, something analogous to God that I could only define in a book-sized translation of my meaning of the word.  And I followed him... he was very friendly and personable.  At one point, we were in a truck--he was driving.  I was asking him all these questions that I would ask if I were ever in the position to have a private audience with God.  And the main one I remember is, "Is all this stuff that I do... all of this self-improving and system building and seeking... is it all worth it?"  Before I could finish the question, he began nodding his head in affirmation.  I enjoyed the luxury of being able to ask him questions without having to clarify what I meant.  After all, he knew exactly what I was trying to ask--the verbal intercourse was for my benefit.  I remember being very satisfied when he left... I didn't ask any questions like, "Where did we come from?  Why are we here?  What's our purpose?"  I'm not really interested in all that stuff.  And I got the idea that he kind of appreciated that--that I accepted I should fulfill my nature simply because it is my nature, and not needing to know why it is my nature.  He knew that whether he existed or not, I would live my life the way I do.  He knew that while I was delighted to have the chance to talk to him, his existence or lack thereof would have made no real difference in the way I live.  I could be wrong, but I think that's why he liked talking to me.  At least, that's why he liked talking to me in *my* dream.  Later in the dream, I remember my mom was there, and we were in a crowded room, and I was trying to explain about meeting God.  She didn't believe me, and even hung her head down in shame that I would say such things.  Then I saw one of the people from Heaven (keep in mind that "Heaven" here has a veeeeeeeery distant meaning to most people than what it meant in my mind), and pointed him out to her.  He was another average-sized black man, but I don't recall what he was wearing.  As he passed, I explained to him that my mother didn't believe me, and asked what I could do.  He gave me two pills and told me to give them to her, and that they will help her believe.  I kind of grinned and said, "Isn't that taking the easy way out?"  And when I looked back up, he had turned into a tall black woman in a colorful party dress.  She replied to me like she didn't understand the morality behind that statement and said, "I don't know.  Maybe you can find them cheaper somewhere else."  And then she walked off.  I remember feeling very disappointed... and feeling like maybe the people from this place weren't all people I could trust after all.  I remember feeling like I had been purposely tempted, and I didn't appreciate it very much.  And perhaps the scariest question to realize here is.... what was I paying for those pills?  I don't recall what I did with the pills, but I'm pretty sure I never used them.  I think maybe the dream ended after that.

I woke up feeling like I had talked directly to God.  Many people might find this a life-changing experience.  I find myself thinking that while I loved the experience, and would like to do it again sometime, it doesn't really change anything.  This could possibly mean one of two things:  (1) I'm living my life in very close alignment with what I know to be morally right, and God (or at least my internal translation of the word) is really happy with me; or (2) I've completely twisted God's image to be just like I want so I can get through all my grubby little meaningless endeavors guilt-free, and I will burn in hell for all eternity.  Don't you just love the terminal nature of Christianity?  Sweet dreams.

May 6, 2000 : Today I found myself praying over a Mexican Pizza at Taco Bell.  Got your attention?  I was tired.  Not just today, but in general.  I'm tired.  Recently, at a time in high stress in my life, I find myself feeling attacked.  I find someone questioning if my image of myself is in alignment with the real me.  And that is a question I pay much attention to, but I don't know how to answer this person's concerns.  I'm tired... just so tired.  To the world I apologize... I apologize that I never naturally knew when I was supposed to laugh like you must have learned.  I apologize that I've found it so hard to learn these social customs and rituals.  I'm sorry I can't always be what you want me to be.  I have tried.  And I've come a long way... I used to be unable to spend more than an hour with a group of people before I was totally exhausted.  I used to be unable to walk down a crowded hallway.  I've worked hard to be where I am today.... I've worked hard to understand and to integrate into your culture.  And it's scary, when I don't even know if you understand your culture.  Don't let my growth fool you... this journey hasn't gotten much easier.  I'm also trying to understand myself at the same time.  I'm trying to get through this lifetime having fulfilled my nature.  I am trying to be a part of this infinite system, because it is my nature.  That is one of the few things I feel I understand about life.  I'm trying to understand how to express this to people.  Where I live, there isn't an associated ritual for this... you just reach out to hold someone.  As near as I can tell, to express this to people where you live, you have to go through convoluted relationship-producing rituals which may take months or years and perform all kinds of amazing acts of trust to earn the right to express your pain to someone.  And that's fine... that's your culture.  I have other ways of dealing with my pain, too.  I don't attack your methods--please don't attack mine.  I'm trying.  So, I ran away to Taco Bell.  For the first time in a long time, I truly ate alone.  Nobody wanted anything from me.  Nobody wanted any explanations or justifications or emotions.  I simply told the nice lady what I wanted to eat, and gave her money for it.  My debt for that food was promptly paid with no complicated rituals to learn.  I sat in a corner alone and nobody talked to me.  I slowly unwrapped my spork with trembling hands, sitting in silence.  I finally began to rebuild my reserve energy, not fulfilling any requests.  And I took a few moments in silence to be thankful for Taco Bell.  To be thankful that I could just take a few moments out to stop learning, to stop adapting, to stop trying.  And to be thankful that I was experiencing the human condition.  We are all so lonely... and in a perfect world, we could all drop our guard, and hug and kiss each other, and tell each other what we were always afraid to before.  But realistically, we all know that wouldn't work.  And we don't know what would.  So we continue to build these absurd human infrastructures, and continue to pile ritual upon ritual as our culture ages, like an old man hiding further and further behind years of bureaucracy.  I'm so tired of trying to solve that problem.  So then, just for a few moments, I cleared my mind of everything except for my thanks for my Mexican Pizza.  I was finally alone.  What a peculiar race this is, that alienates people so intensely that they wish to be alone.  But where was I?  Oh yeah, I was apologizing.  I'm sorry I don't understand these human institutions as well as I should.  I'm sorry I feel like we should never stop evolving into something else.  I'm sorry that I define my humanity by growing instead of by achieving a certain level of growth.  I'm sorry I don't understand.... and I am thankful for the people who have tried to understand me.  I'm sorry I ran out of energy.  Accepting human limitations, especially after looking from the outside in for so long, has been difficult.  Maybe it was easier for you.  Maybe walking down a crowded hallway was easier for you.... if it wasn't, I don't know how you pull this whole human thing off so well.  You're a better person than I.  I'm so sorry I don't understand so much of what you must take for granted.

Let me reflect on what happened today.  Might as well make this look like a "normal" journal for once.  I woke up late because I hadn't slept at all the previous night, and there supposedly wasn't any real class material since it was the last class before finals.  I went to my computer and spoke to someone online about some work that needed to be done before Monday.  I showered and dressed in my traditional black and red.  Then I went to work and sat down to answer e-mail.  James wanted me to pick up some writable CD's before I left Baton Rouge, so I decided to go to CompUSA.  On my way out, I ran into Bhupathy, one of our local graduate students (and a member of my dance class).  I asked him if he needed anything from CompUSA, or wanted to go eat lunch with me.  He said no he didn't need anything, but he would come along to offer company.  We went to McDonald's (it was really a lazy fast food day), where Amy (also from the dance class) saw us in passing.  She stopped to talk, and explained she probably wouldn't make it to the final function for the class that night.  Bhupathy and I went on to CompUSA, and talked about several topics on the way, like the differences between the university culture of the U.S. and Botswana, and about the DeBeers corporation.  When we got to CompUSA, I went to the CD-R rack, and tried to find the best choice for a 50-pack spindle of writables.  A lady also looking asked what brand I usually got, and I told her Imation.  She said that she's had much better luck with Sony, and they were on sale.  She seemed more experienced than I, so I went with Sony.  Bhupathy and I went back to the ISDS department.  I answered more e-mail and did some paperwork, and then headed over to the dance function in the pouring rain.  In addition to the ballroom dance class, there was also the International Folk Dance class, and a small delegation from a local 19th-century ballroom dance class.  I talked with one of them from the delegation about different facets of the Waltz from various periods, particularly the Victorian styles which I am most familiar with.  He tried to convince me to join their class and gave me a business card.  They seemed like a nice, laid-back group... but I don't think they had very much passion for the dance.  Perhaps the worst thing about the dance was that I'm short and all the girls wore high heels.  It was like Junior High all over again.  Whenever it was a "Lady's Choice" dance, the instructor seemed real miffed when any of the women didn't want to take initiative to ask a guy to dance.  Since nobody asked me, I was standing by the snacks, eating strawberries and cream, while watching two gorgeous 18-year-old girls in extremely tight mini-skirts dancing close to each other.  I didn't see anything wrong with this situation, but apparently, the instructor did.  So she pulled me away and forced the absolute tallest girl in the class (of course) to dance with me.  Dancing eye-to-breast has its advantages, but come on....   ANYWAY, eventually, one of the friendlier of the females in the class came in extremely late.  She's a beautiful graphic design major who has the modern look down pat.  She looks like someone you should see in a Sony commercial.  I told her that once when I was dancing with her several weeks before, and she thanked me... I think it was the look she was going for.  Anyway, I asked her to dance the Fox Trot and she accepted.  While dancing, I asked if she had anything on display at the design building that I could go see, and she said she didn't.  We got on the subject of what she wanted to do when she got out of school, and she said she she hoped to get into urban landscapes.  I told her I had written a paper of that very subject when I was in my Landscape Architecture class because it fascinated me as well.  And I told her about how IBM designed their new headquarters, and she talked about how much she admired that type of architecture.  She said she liked architecture that merged nature with more human forms (who doesn't?), so I blurted out, "Oh, you must really like Frank Lloyd Wright then."  Just as the words came out of my mouth, I realized my mistake in saying that.  But it was too late.  She smiled and said, "Yes, but he's what everybody studies."  The Fox Trot ended.  Soon thereafter, the instructor called out, "Waltz.  Ladies choice."  The graphic design girl looked slightly confused.  I said, "That means you have to pick a guy and ask him to dance."  Then I let my eyes wander off and I gave the most innocent little expression I could muster.  She smiled and extended her right hand out to me.  I began, "I know he's overstudied.  But you have to remember, I'm not a graphic design major or anything like that."  And she completely understood and talked about how much she really did like him and how she'd like to see some of his work in person.  I asked her if she had a job since she was graduating soon.  She had a possible one with a web design company, but she really wanted to do urban landscape stuff.  I can understand that.  Web design is a young science that all the "successful" people completely suck at.  But I decided I had been nerdy enough with her for one night, so I didn't go into that.  As the evening came to a close, the instructor asked if there were any requests.  Bhupathy, in his infinite wisdom, requested a disco.  Surprisingly, she fulfilled his request.  You know, I hang around some really delightful people.  I went home alone, and talked to someone I know online... which is when the stress really started.  And I realized how little energy I had left.  And I ran to Taco Bell.  And that, my friends, is how I got to this journal entry.  If I had done what the university wanted today, I would have studied for finals.  But look how much education I would have missed out on.  I learned about a foreign university system and foreign foods and foreign cultures... I watched international dance and participated in truly American dance.... I learned about graphic design and urban landscapes, and about a certain beautiful woman who appreciates Fallingwater... I learned some things don't change from Junior High.  I learned some people don't change from Junior High.  I learned more about the world diamond market, and about how the culture of a small country reacts to being so rich with the precious stones.  I learned humility as I bowed my head to a Mexican Pizza in a cold fast food joint.  This is a realistic look at my life.  And as a final apology, if it is not in alignment with my view of myself, I'm sorry.

May 3, 2000 : Intellectual assholes are like people who have owned a computer for six months; they know enough to be annoying, but not enough to realize how little they know.  This entry involves trying to figure out how far I have to go.  Probably the greatest contribution from the Big Brother fractal research arm was the development of my version of systems theory.  It's not terribly innovative (many philosophers, theologians, and economists have come up with parts of it before, even if they didn't realize it).  But it's me--and as always, that's what's truly important.  I'm beginning to come to the end of the Big Brother research.... I estimated that after I account for the decreased analytical efficiency of leaving an institutional structure, it should take 3-6 years to finish analyzing all of the collected information I hadn't yet grown to understand.  It's been nearly five.  And now I'm searching for new ways to research and new methods of pulling information from my environment.  I guess I haven't really been too concerned with it until now, because the new information from increased freedom since I left for college kept me occupied.  But I find that I've nearly exhausted the pool of blatant, in-your-face information that I've enjoyed for the past couple of years.  I remember when I first developed my system theory, I took a whole new outlook on life.  I began to look at all of us more like I was watching ants from a standing distance.  I started trying to exist in that moment where a photographer finds that perfect shot--the moment where you see the world from the outside looking in.  But I wanted to take it one step further and try to zoom in and out much further than the photographer's lens could ever reach.  And you know, once you see the world like that, you see how absurd so many of our human organizations are.  But the fact that I'm still so focused on on human organizations is indicative of my holding on to the precedents set by my society.  My past efforts to expel these corruptions instilled by my culture have helped, but it's not nearly enough.  In any case, it's been difficult to determine how far in and out I can "zoom" in this vast system.  If it's truly infinite as I theorize, then any measurement is irrelevant to everyone except people.  Unfortunately, I exist on the "person" level of this system, so let's establish some measurements.  I'm using the level on which human consciousness exists as the absolute point of reference.  So with everything measured from that point, I am setting reasonable lower and upper limits of what I can conceive in this system.  The lower limit is a simple fractal, such as a tree or sea shell.  The upper limit is at the macro level--where humans normally get into "religion".  Now the first obvious flaw in this seems to be that the latter takes time into account, and the former typically does not (at least not as I would naturally perceive it).  I'm still working on that... I can just change my perception of the lower limit if needed, but that doesn't seem like a very elegant solution.  Right now, I and most of the human population can see certain areas of the system with huge gaps in between (actually, infinite gaps, but let's try to keep the confusion to a minimum).  Most people can see what is right around absolute zero--they can see society, they can see cities, they can feel personal relationships.  An information systems or economics professor could spend years telling you about this level, but they would probably only be able to fully comprehend it so long as it exists in a vacuum which consists of only this level.  People can also see what's right around the lower and upper reasonable limits.  They can see the patterns in a sea shell--in fact, their brains record the image of the sea shell as a fractal pattern, as it takes up much less space in the brain.  It's native to them.  A mathematics professor might claim to be able to tell you about all the levels, but the truth is he could probably only really tell you about this lower one.  Much like a toddler who knows all about circles but nothing about spheres, he would boil everything down to what he understands--complex societies become sea shells, and spheres become circles.  OK, so math professors gave me fractal geometry, and I probably shouldn't rag on them like I do. Give them their friggin' cookie.  At the upper limit, people can see religion.  In fact, religion seems to be a way to express parts of the system that lie beyond our native comprehension.  A priest or nun could tell you more than you ever wanted to know about this level (try 12 years of Catholic school), but I'm not sure if they'd be very willing to entertain the thought that their religion is an expression of higher levels of a system, because they wouldn't realize that nothing I've said disagrees with anything about their religion.  Many people can see the relationship between their religion and their daily activities, but many don't bother to seek out that relationship and just instead say, "Because God says so, that's why it's good for us."  I'm going to pretend those people don't exist for a moment.  Religion has too many benefits that hover around the system absolute center to dismiss.  But moving on... I'm not yet trying to concentrate on finding what's beyond these limits.  The most elegant and delightful idea is that once I find a magical point and fully see the system (can you say "enlightenment," little Siddhartha?), distance would no longer be an issue, and those limits would be insignificant.  But I'm not planning on being that lucky.  Now, of course, my evil twin says, "You know, Van, as you see more of this system, you can learn to manipulate it higher and higher macro levels."  At this point, barring a magical moment, I'm mostly leaving that pursuit to another lifetime.  If you ever see me sitting Indian-style and floating in mid-air, you'll know I got further than expected.  That's a joke, you can laugh.  Now pause and take a breath.  OK....

So what was the point of the opening line to this entry?  I don't know where I am in what I know.  Chances are, I'm right around that asshole stage, if that far.  Any math professor who just read this will probably back me up on that.  To them, I say, go eat your cookie.  The point I'm really trying to make here is that we're all searching for the same thing.  Some call it math, some call it religion, and I call in the system theory.  I respect physicists and priests alike, as they have both dedicate their lives to answering the ultimate question for the rest of us lazy slobs.

May 2, 2000 :I haven't slept in.... I don't know.  I stopped counting the hours.  Feels like it's been roughly a couple of days.  I just spent literally umm.... 30 hours straight working on group projects for classes.  And I just took a shower... by the light of a single, small bulb just bright enough to cast shadows on the walls.  As the steam circled around my body, I caught my shadow out of the corner of my eye.  But it didn't look like me... it looked like a larger, alien figure.  It scared me.  So naturally, I decided to play with it.  I looked away and got that eerie feeling that someone was behind me, and that they were about to reach out and grab me.  And then I quickly turned my head back and caught the figure looking over my shoulder, examining my profile.  I stretched my arm out to the side.  And in the figure on the wall, instead of a hand, I saw this long, dark claw.  I gasped and held my breath.   I saw the gentle, subtle slopes of the creatures muscles, and he was much bigger than I.  Had he desired, he surely could have sliced my delicate flesh with a powerful swipe of his arm.  But I didn't want to stop the game.... and I slowly turned my head front so I could no longer see him.  I closed my eyes... and my heart stood still.  I don't know what made me do it, but I inched backwards... as if telling him I surrendered to his arms.  And in my mind I could feel his claw gently rest on my shoulder.  It was long and slender and hard, and covered in scales.  And when I looked down, I saw it was as black as night.  My heart raced faster now, and I could no longer distinguish the steam clinging to my skin from the sweat rising from it.  I backed up some more.  His claw ran down my chest, nearly hard enough to draw my blood, and with a precision that matched the contours of every muscle I had given to the moment.  The claw dragged over my stomach until it hit my hip.  And then it started to travel slowly down the "v" made by my joining legs.  I tensed up and raised my head as I felt his scales against my skin. And to my surprise, his left claw rose up and grabbed my left shoulder.  I let out a little murmur of fear, until his claw pressed into my throat as if he was about to puncture in.  And before I could get over the shock, his right claw swiftly continued down, grazing my cock, and piercing directly into my anus.  I realized I was totally at his mercy.  And, I was scared; not so much because I was afraid of what he may do to me, but rather of what I wanted him to do to me.  I leaped out of this fantasy.  My eyelids flung open, and I gasped for air as if I had been submersed within inches of my life.  I slowly turned around.  I saw a claw.  I continued to turn.  Now I trembled.  And I saw the figure staring back at me.  I raised my arms, and his claws reached towards the sky.  And slowly, I brought my hands in to feel his rigid scales.  He brought his arms down towards me to underscore the tenderness of my skin.  But when we met..... all I felt was the shower wall.  And I looked back at his arms, and saw a very human, very tense bicep.  I looked down at my own arm and saw the same.

I am glad I took the time to experience this monster in my life.

April 5, 2000 : You know, I really take issue with the way so many people look down upon just plain sex.  I have no problem with "just sex" and I'm not ashamed to admit it.  It doesn't make me a pig, it doesn't make me bad, it doesn't mean a view women as objects.  If you want to go play tennis with a woman, nobody says, "You just want her for a racket holder.  How insensitive."  Sure sure, sex can be an expression of love and feelings and blah blah blah blah blah... but it doesn't have to be.  Maybe it's better when it's an expression of love.  And certainly, it's better when you have trust involved.  But it doesn't negate the meaningless sex that two people can have.  I want lots of women just for their bodies.  Is that wrong?  I don't think so.  It's wrong if you lie about it and say, "I like your sense of humor," when you actually just like their butt.  But if you say, "I think you're gorgeous.  Wanna go out for coffee?"  There's nothing wrong with that.  Except for the fact that I don't like coffee, so it would have to be like a movie or something instead.  And of course, there's nothing wrong with saying, "I want to have sex with you because I  like your body."  It might get you slapped, but I really don't think there's anything wrong with it.  I'd never say it, but... to each his own.  Have I made this journal entry before?  Feels like I have.  But it's a recurring thought of mine.  I just think people should be honest about what they really want.

March 26, 2000 : I guess what made me really want to write this down was a moment during my lunch with Sanjay and Sharath last Friday.  We went to lunch, and while we were still in line, Sharath made a remark about being strictly vegetarian because of tradition, not necessarily because of nutrition.  I think he said it in a somewhat justifying manner, which I can understand, since vegetarians are rarer than snowflakes in the southern Louisiana.  I wanted to reassure him so I said, "Tradition is important to a society.  They help keep it stable."  Sanjay nodded and agreed with me.  And at that point, I realized how glad I was to not need a defense.  I was glad I knew tradition so intimately.  I was glad to not be so white-bred.  And as we sat down to eat, Sharath sat beside me with his Veggie Whopper (I never even knew there was such a thing).  And I think it was only then that I was finally sure.... my defenses were worth it.  All of the time and energy I spent kept me from losing so much of myself.  And really, the defenses served their purpose... because I was secure that I could defend, I was secure to be myself.  I never lost sight of who I was.

This must be what some generals felt like in the U.S. Military after the U.S.S.R. collapsed.  They had spent so much time and so many resources building against a threat that died on its own.  It's a sigh of relief... but at the same time you have to wonder, when do I get to fight?  When do I get to show the world that I was prepared?  When do I get to show the people that the resources were not wasted?  I spent years building a massive defense network against my enemies.  Insecure high schoolers and misguided adults alike.  What happened to them all?  About my junior year in high school, people started liking me slowly.  And then we all graduated and they left my life.  The adult friends in passing either lost contact with me or stopped telling me how wrong I was (I hope those two states were not mutually exclusive).  And my family more or less backed off finally.  And now I'm asking myself why they'll never know I was prepared for them.  I was ready for the whole school to reject me.  I was ready for society to finish shutting me out.  I was ready to leave the house and had made arrangements to survive on my own.  Now I guess they'll never know the kind of arsenal I have.  That shouldn't disappoint me.  Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I never had to bring out my guns.  I was the only one fighting a cold war anyway, and I knew it.  But it was the only way I knew to take hold of my life.  What was Big Brother's quote?  "If no man can be an island.... then he must become a continent."  This continent had so many defenses.... so much protection.  It was steeped in tradition to provide stability.  To some, the traditions were quirks; to me, they were sacred events that the other cultures couldn't steal.  Call me egotistical... I thought I had a rich personality that was worth protecting.  I thought I had something that I could give to the world after the world would quit trying to destroy it.  It's easy to fight a holy war when you have a noble excuse like that.  I could have done the cigarette thing, but it wasn't what I wanted.  I could have done the workout thing, but I wasn't interested.  I could have done the sports thing, or the spitting thing, or the pissing contest thing.  I could have participated in the jack-off contests with the same guys who accused me of being gay.  I could have forgotten about my bulletin board, or my conferences, or my group meetings.  I could have cut down my vocabulary and put more effort into school.  I could have not gotten dangerously close to women 30 years my senior, and I could have hung out on the playground instead of the library.  Then my defenses wouldn't have been necessary.  The generals protected their democracy... I protected my humanity.  Here's to all the generals.

March 17, 2000 : First off, let me say that as of this date, I am now functioning on Greenwich Mean Time instead of my local time zone.  In an effort to globalize my mindset, I'm switching all of my clocks to GMT, and not changing them as I travel to other time zones.  I did have a GMT offset of -0600 in my Central Standard time zone.  So now that's out of the way.... lemme see what I got to say.  In the middle of next month, I'm traveling to Cambridge with Dr. Walsh to meet with some people at ArsDigita.  This is very exciting, and hopefully I'll get to meet Philip Greenspun, who's work I've followed for years.  I'd love to work for ArsDigita one day, but I don't know that they could use someone like me who's neither a world-class programmer, nor an MBA.  Anyhoot, I should enjoy just seeing the place.  If nothing else, I'll try to make sure they remember me in case I ever do have even the remote possibility of getting a job there.  Ohoh, I went ahead and got a straight razor recently, and am making an effort to abandon my electric.  It's so much fun once you get the hang of it.  I've been shaving everything in site.  Pause.  Don't worry, I won't make you endure an elaboration on that remark.  And while we're on the subject of hair, Katy says she thinks she may be able to get mine straight with a perm.  I tried several years ago with some really strong relaxer.... the kind black women supposedly use to get their hair straight.  I figured that if it works on them, it's GOT to work on me.  I was wrong.  I'm at a loss for words now, so I'll end here.

February 25, 2000 : I still remember the waltz well.  The most recent dance class I went to with Amy was teaching the waltz and it brought back memories of cotillion.  I still remember how it felt the first time I did it, in sixth grade.  Some love the tango... but to them I say the waltz is far more sensual.  Its refined gestures communicate such undying mutual respect, and its irrefutable purity brings tears to my eyes as I type this entry.  I wanted to cry the first time I danced it in my eleventh year.  I never did.  I never let a partner see me cry.  When I danced with with any one of those girls, I wanted to tell her she was so beautiful.  I wanted to tell her how I felt about us exploring the dance together.  I wanted to express what unadulterated humanity I felt in those few precious moments that we were learning together.  I wanted to tell her how I held my breath behind my stone cold face at that very instant our bodies found the rhythm in unison.  I wanted to hold her close and tell her I didn't want it to end.  And the kicker here is that this wasn't about one girl... I felt this way with most all of  them.  But I was too afraid to think for a second that maybe, just maybe, she felt the same.  I had no one to tell in my two little worlds of children and adults; one would reject these emotions and the other would deny my ability to have them.  What's a boy to do with emotions that nobody wants?  Just keep the face up... concentrate on the rhythm.... and never let her know you understand the unspoken word of the waltz.  Never expect her to hear the unspoken words you send her in the way you caress the silk of her glove or gently press the contour of her shoulder blade with a single index finger.  Never let her know that in the four minutes of music which just transpired, you understood your own humanity... and you also understood that she doesn't desire it.  Never let her know how much you hurt when you know she wants to dance with someone more popular.  For if you do any of this, she may ruin the purity of the memory of that one waltz that you can take to bed with you at night to keep your mind off your life.  Never let her ruin that memory that you can cherish and use to delude yourself when you're feeling weak.  Stay behind the mask... and they never have to know.  It's the one thing that the two worlds can never steal from you.

February 21, 2000 : Let me tell you about my generation.  I'm not friggin' gen-X, or Gen-Y, or the now popular "Gen-i".  I am a quintessential member of Generation Geek.  I was outcast at school.  I had no control at home.  Except for my computer.  I spent every spare moment online.  I spent my every spare dime (and quite a large chunk of my mom's spare dimes) on computer equipment.  My last journal entry outlined a dilemma that so many members of Generation Geek had to go through.  We spent years gaining unprecedented knowledge about the world.  Nobody could understand how we had access to more information than anybody else in history.  Or if they could understand, their egos were not ready to accept it.  I had read, analyzed, critiqued and conquered the Kama Sutra by the time I was 13.  Now Gen-Geekers are doing it younger.... and I couldn't be happier for them.  For everyone who said it would hurt me, I want to tell them to read it.  The Kama Sutra seems to have been written by a virgin who's far more innocent than anybody in this culture, and while it has lots of good general technique and overall mood-setting information, you need to go to a better source to get real advice.  Like the more recent alt.sex FAQ, which I also picked apart in my first teenage year.  But anyway, back to the subject.  My generation was sick and tired of being protected.  We listened to adults rant and rave about rules and we couldn't believe how childish they sounded.  I remember I would get home from heading up a computer meeting when I was the President (and youngest member) of the local computer group, after several hard hours of trying to mediate a meeting with so many vastly contrasting personalities, arranging schedules, settling disputes, making contacts, and learning amazing facts of humanity that my parents' generation was too closed off to understand.  And then, when I got home, I wasn't allowed to drink Coca Cola because my mom was afraid it would keep me up all night.  I remember I had set up my own bulletin board and become one of the primary "free tech support" people in the city.  But when I went to school, I was literally not allowed to touch the computers because I wasn't in a high enough grade yet.  On a few occasions, I solved problems for them via proxy because I had to tell someone else what to type since I wasn't old enough to touch.  Throughout all of high school, I maintained a balance of at least $1,000 of emergency money which I had accumulated through some allowances, a few birthday gifts, and even a job or two.  I had spent years gaining respect for my sense of responsibility from people all over the world, from across many opposing cultures, and from a dozen religions.  And then, when a grandparent finally gave me a rather large sum of money to put towards my college education (after I was already in college), I was told that I shouldn't be allowed to keep the money in my own account because I would just blow it on computer stuff.  At least I didn't let that one get to me too bad... I had the intelligence to know that if I could get an atheist Thai business man who buys a prostitute a week to respect me just as much as an extreme-right-wing-born-again-southern-U.S. Christian, I was a versatile and responsible enough person to get past a little money.  I remember, when I was about fifteen, giving advice to a married couple on safe bondage practices for the bedroom, and then having to get an adult to accompany me to an R-rated movie.  I remember feeling a world of open trust just a few keystrokes away, and a patronizing, unenlightened community just down the hall.  I remember being so thankful of the funds my family poured into the computer habit, and so baffled at why they rejected the tastiest fruits of their investments.  I remember coming to the realization that information hurts nobody.  People hurt people.  Protecting children from information only hurts them in the long run.  And I also remember realizing that I'd probably never live to see the day that society, en masse, would mature to accept that.  I remember realizing that while I should always conform to the stately laws that protect us from information, I never had to accept them in my heart.  And I would not accept any rules saying that I shouldn't know.  I won't make decisions about what others should know.... but I decided that I should know everything.  I've never been hurt by information.  And I still feel wounded over the fact that I'm having to recover from being deprived of so much information about humanity for so long, until I forced it from the world.

This, my peers, is Generation Geek.  We are too smart to reject you, and now we're too valuable for you to reject.  While you were dreaming of second base, I could have pointed out the most sensitive regions of your girlfriend's clitoris and demonstrated 101 ways to stimulate them.  When you first began to question your religion, I was defending mine against dozens of debaters from places on Earth you didn't know existed and places in life you will probably never find.  By the time you found out that religions other than Christianity actually existed in this world, I had already accepted them all.  Perhaps all that sounds pretty geeky.  Perhaps I'm better in bed.  So nyah.  Perhaps you're finally learning maturity.  Perhaps, you see, I've already learned how to let it go.  In ten years, you'll be about as mature as I was in junior high.  In those same ten years, I'll evolve into something you might find as immature as a junior high student.  Don't you dare tell me I need to grow up.  I already did that while you were playing football and fucking cheerleaders.  I didn't piss on your parade, so don't piss on mine.  Perhaps that sort of eye-for-an-eye logic is something you can understand.

Perhaps with this journal entry I should register Redstroke.com with a few parental control agencies for web content.  Isn't that ironic?

Fabruary 13, 2000 : Age.  It's a common motif throughout our lives.  And has always been a common cause to fight for in mine.  There's very little that will set me off, but ageism has a really sore spot in my heart.  I've felt abused and neglected and downtrodden because of it.  But only now is some of that anger finally coming out.  Years ago, I found that my environment rejected facets of my personality because I was "too young".  If I let anyone know what I thought, I ran a serious risk of being labeled naive.  Sometimes my ideas would be called "smart" or "mature", but more often than not they were called naive.  And never, ever, were they called wise.  So, against the demands of the establishment, I maintained development at full force, coming out with new ideas and innovations, finding new secrets to life, and finding my peace.  I tried to determine what I would have to change about my environment to get it to accept me.  I would have to move through space or time.  And while I was trying to figure out what to do, I apparently moved through time.  Isn't that the way life works?  And so now the distance between the present and my birthdate is finally sufficiently large for people to start accepting.  In all my endeavors to grow and change, and in all the knowledge I have ever gained, I've never understood the human need to hold on to such a superficial measurement.  I keep asking, why couldn't the world just accept me?  If people didn't agree with me, why couldn't they just said, "I disagree" instead of "You'll change your mind when you get older," or, "When you're my age, you'll understand," or even the, "You're too young to understand."  Those phrases hurt.  They're so final.  What they really feel like is, "You're just this blob who can't adapt, and nothing you can ever do will change that.  You've just gotta wait until you're assigned the next number, and then you will be allowed to understand.  So don't try."  Nobody ever tried to help me understand their concepts.  In part, I should be glad, because most adult concepts suck.  Most adults have sold their morals to satan in exchange for a hiding place.  But they could have at least given me the courtesy of an explanation.  It's really scary that these are the same people taking care of the future leaders of the world.  So anyway, here I am today.  And now I'm pissed.  I spent so much time trying to defend myself against other peoples fears that not only did I corrupt myself, but I probably added to corruption in the world.  And now I have to spend a lifetime reaccepting what I knew as a toddler.  That's why I'm so pissed.  Because if people would be just a little more understanding from the start, we wouldn't have to spend a lifetime recapturing youth.  We could keep it.  Sure, we lose the body.  But what really matters we can only give up by choice.  I'll never give up what I have.  Never.  I said it ten years ago, and I say it again today.  I will never get old.  Ten years ago, people would tell me "I never thought I would grow old either."  And I'm sure many would still say the same.  And just as ten years ago, they don't understand what I mean.  And I still pity them.  What I mean is that I'll never give up.  I won't sacrifice my soul and write it off as experience.  Have you ever noticed when someone starts to really, really look old?  Pay close attention.  Think of the people you know.  It's all the ones who have given up on life.  It's all the ones who accept their fate.  It's all the ones who stop determining their own fate.  They are the ones who really look old.  I will never become that.  Never.  Please... just look into their eyes.  I've seen many 25-year-olds who are older than many 90-year-olds. That is age.  It's not the number.  It's not the distance between now and the date on your birth certificate.  And if anybody tries to tell you differently, then know they are the ones who have given up.  And you should never be like them.

February 1, 2000 : OK, so I'm like trying to cut back on the amount of beef in my diet.  And someone asks me why I'm eating a chicken sandwich instead of a hamburger.  And I'm afraid to tell them.  Because if you tell someone you're trying to cut back on the amount of beef in your diet, they're gonna go ahead and label you as a vegetarian.  At least around here.  Next thing you know, they label you as a yankee health nut and won't invite you to a Bar-B-Q because while you're not looking, they'll be whispering, "Don't tell him about the ribs.  Vegetarians are offended by that sort of thing.  They don't like killing things."  Meanwhile, I'll be wondering why everybody is watching themselves so closely around me, being very careful not to even mention something remotely resembling an animal, for fear that I may throw up or something.  So here I am, trying to make a general trend towards cutting the red meat intake by about 70%, and everybody else is running around spreading the word about the yankee health nut who's lobbying congress to outlaw "the brutal killing and consumption of our animal brothers."  Soon I won't be invited to any crawfish boils because they're afraid I'll protest the boiling of our brothers and sisters from the sea.  And eventually, I'll be a total outcast of society, accepted only in small left-extremist vegetarian groups that live on a strict diet of seaweed.  All because I ate a few less hamburgers.

January 31, 2000 : I would like to quote a recent article from CNN about a guy from Norway who cracked the DVD encryption scheme.  "Even though the accused is only 16 years old, he seems to be aware of what he has done," (CNN website, January 25, 2000).  That's all.

January 29, 2000 : We will create genetically engineered descendants of humans.  We will create intelligent computers.  And both will be more advanced than us.  And either one or both is quite possibly the next evolutionary step.  That's just the way it is.  Maybe we don't like it, maybe it scares us, and I could very well live to see it.  But it's inevitable, and most likely ultimately for the better.  I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life, and how I'm really not supposed to take it seriously.  Humanity has only been around for one millionth of one blink of an eye in the lifetime of the universe.  And I will only be around for a millionth of that.  This is not to say that I can't have an impact.  Much as a single reaction for only a fraction of a second can start the explosion of a nuclear warhead, so can my fraction of a second in this universe have a dramatic impact.  And in a recent audit, I've tried to chart exactly where I am in life.  I went through the initial stages where I was a loving individual who became somewhat suicidal because he was so screwed up.  Then was the Big Brother era, where I institutionalized and departmentalized myself to achieve maximum control.  That era brought on enormous strength and stability and organization.  Then in the later stages of the Big Brother era came a golden age of learning and understanding the world, and rediscovering the basic truths of humanity that I knew in my younger years.  Then came the self-termination of the Big Brother era, and about a year or so of disorganization, with my personality coming into its own without the backing of an institution.  And then came this stage I think I'm still in, and am currently trying to pinpoint.  I know it's marked by reinstalling some of the institutional advantages of the Big Brother era, but the rejection of its defensive measures.  And the definite marker of this era becoming pervasive was the creation of redstroke.com, which aimed to do a complete 180 of the former Big Brother's policy of isolation.  Instead of building up massive defenses to protect information about me, this new era sought to expose everything about me.  It sought to put this information out for everyone to see, even if I never knew they were looking.  It's also been marked by anger over what I had to do only to come back to what I used to know.  And this era has now led to a new revelation....  I've accomplished all the basics I want to accomplish in life.  Everything else is just icing on the cake.  What a glorious time to live.

January 17, 2000 : I realize I complain a lot in my journal, but that's what it's for.  I don't normally need to talk about aspects of my life I'm satisfied with.  But you know, I really am very fortunate.  Granted, I was a pretty fucked up little kid with emotional problems, but everything ended up OK.  First I somehow stumbled into liking the field of information systems before I even knew it was a real field.  Then I was in a position where my family could send me to a university to learn about it.  And by an amazing coincidence, the same area that I like and am good at is also very profitable.  Most people have to eventually choose between money and doing what makes them happy.  And I never did... what makes me happy also makes good money.  Also, my family was really well-versed in finances and expert in managing money.  And on top of it all, I was born in this set of circumstances during a slice in the human timeline in a particular culture where money is one of the most important things to have.  Think about what an amazing set of circumstances I'm in.  I was born in the richest country in the world, during a time in human history where riches are so important, with the natural ability and interest in a field which makes money, out of a family that knows how to manage it.  I mean, I would have to try pretty hard to screw this one up.  If you took every human that ever has existed and ever will exist, I would probably rank in the top 0.01% in terms of luck relative to the society.  So I really don't mean to act like I'm some kind of downtrodden, neglected, one-man-against-society.  It's just that to continue to grow and be all I want, I have to find methods to deal with those parts of my life I'm not satisfied with.  My privileged existence has helped to breed intolerance of imperfection in my life.  So I have a lot I want to take care of.

Yesterday I went to see Alex, who is leaving for the military on the 24th.  Who would have thought?  Hopefully he will send back some updated pictures.  The one currently posted on the site doesn't look very military-like.  And classes start again tomorrow.  This is really gonna suck.

January 14, 2000 : I remember Cotillion, years ago.  I was in sixth grade, dressed in a coat and tie, learning how to dance.  I loved the learning to dance in and of itself.  I loved the way my hard-souled shoes would tap out the beat of the music, I loved the feel of holding delicate white gloves on another's hand, and I loved trying to achieve symbiosis among the music, myself, and the girl.  It always seemed like only the friendlier girls had high-quality gloves.  Not sure why that is.  Maybe it was just me... because it was so much