deconstruction of self

Okay, one hour after my last post and I'm already described as being overly-negative about everything. That people younger than me posting violent videos of their helpless victims being repeatedly kicked in the head, or that demented souls who are inclined to blow themselves up into smithereens at crowded places, or that we are consuming non-renewable energy at an exponential rate and giving back the Earth nothing but mountains of waste and tons of carbon dioxide pollution every single day, or that two billion people living in the 21st century are constantly a pocketful of change away from utter indigence, shouldn't affect me because they don't affect me in any direct way.

Well, I can't apologize for always seeing the bigger picture because it's not my fault. And I think these things should affect me in some way, or I'll be living in my own world of indulgence and obscene luxury -- and looking at that from the outside, it just seems unthinkable. Selfish. Depraved. It's just plain wrong.

And really, it's not my fault. Blame it on the chemicals in my head sloshing around and telling me what to think. What, you think I can control my right brain to work less and let my left brain be the dominant side? In fact, my male brain has a diminished corpus callosum compared to, say, most of the readers of this blog (whom I like to think are mostly female). Which means I can't switch between being moody and analytical as quickly.

And I can't help it if the left inferior gyrus of my frontal lobe cortex -- better known as Broca's area to the initiated -- is just itching to say something when confronted with such horrors of the world. Better than keeping quiet, I should think (I'm not sure which part of my brain is telling me that).

And them chemicals, them neurotransmitters, there's never enough of what I need, and there's always more of what I don't. For instance, where's the dopamine when I'm upset and depressed about my life? And where's the serotonin when I need to relax and curb my reflexes before I do something stupid?

And my pituitary gland, always so over-active at all the wrong times. Too much myelin around my neurons, and there's no way of knowing whether there's a shortcut between those two, making me susceptible to increasingly morbid bouts of depression. I'm like a 16-year-old again! Where everything is working the wrong way! Makes me feel young.

Okay, I will deconstruct myself more next time (read: blaming everything but myself), because right now someone else needs to use the laptop. Boo-yah!

fun and murder

Here's the fun part: Spider-Man 3 is coming out in two days; Manchester United is creeping closer towards the Premiership crown; I think I'm starting to get the hang of my new camp and it's not so bad after all; Manchester United is also in the semi-finals of the Champions League; and I'm actually moving on from my previous hang-ups. Yippee-kay-yay. Oh yeah, and that's a line from Die Hard, which has yet another sequel coming up, so that's another fun thing among other fun stuff.

Here's the murder part: Kids are brutally beating each other up and putting up their videos on YouTube; the war in Iraq doesn't seem to be letting up on its vicious cycle of death and destruction; global warming is still a big issue, but it seems only now that there is a concerted effort, which begs the question: is it never too late?; suicide bombers don't seem to want to stop, and it still doesn't make any sense where they're going with this; and yeah, basically there's a lot of murder in the world of suck.

I think the murder overwhelms the fun this week, so I'll be going back to my shell.

23

I saw the new Jim Carrey flick and it's not that bad, although it pretty much becomes just another psychological thriller towards the end. The parts are definitely better than the whole, with a very interesting turn for Jim Carrey trying to look intense, lost and crazy all at the same time. He does the "I'm totally lost here" shtick really well (as he always does) and we've always known him to be somewhat unhinged, so the crazy part was convincing enough. It's the intensity that is... well, not really quite there. I think he mistook 'intense' for 'lost and crazy'.

The storyline is rather humdrum, with the reveals not really shocking you so much as giving you a hardly-emphatic "oh, so that's what it is" reaction. The fun is in watching Carrey's mind (and, as a consequence, his life) unravelling as we delve further into his shattered psyche. And also in his determination to convince the audience that he can actually act (not really there yet).

Virginia Madsen, as the wife to Carrey's Walter Sparrow, is also fascinating to watch as she straddles (no pun intended) the dual role of wholesome housewife and vamped-up man-eater. Just watch the movie and you'll understand. She pulls it off really well, although personally I do think there was not enough scenes of her in black lingerie.

I thought the idea of a book taking over your life with numbers was pretty funny; just one of those silly, 'suspension of belief' moments that we all have to bear with when watching a movie or reading a book because without it, there wouldn't be a story. But then halfway through the film, while laughing at the idea, I started making my own calculations...

I was born on the 26th of March, right? That's like 26/3.

And 26 - 3 = 23.

OK, at this point I was still laughing at the silliness of it. But wait, I'm also 23 this year...

And I was born in 1984. That's... hmm... 1 + 9 + 8 + 4 = 22.

Just add one, and you get... 22 + 1 = 23.

And then, starting to freak out now, I looked at the time on my watch and it read 00:23.

Ha ha, funny, right? I wasn't sweating yet, but I felt like I needed a cigarette. I had two packs with me, one opened and one unopened. I was carelessly counting the leftover in the opened pack, and there were three left. Cursing at my chain-smoking ways, I suddenly realised how many cigarettes I had with me.

No. of cigarettes = 20 + 3 = 23.

At this point, I stopped having anything to do with numbers and just concentrated on watching the movie until it ended. I don't believe there's any significance in such minor coincidences, but hey, when you're all alone in a building and it's past midnight and there's a cemetery just across the road, you don't mess with these things. Whatever it is.

I was laughing at myself the next morning for being so easily freaked out, though. It was funny, wasn't it? Should I have tempted fate and just kept on going? I would've missed the film. This side story is just a 'just so you know'.

Anyway, back to The Number 23. Without a doubt the most violent Jim Carrey movie you'll ever see, unless he tries to outdo himself in his next flick. A collaboration with Quentin Tarantino will do the trick. Although I hope he doesn't, because honestly there's just something very unsettling when you see the nonchalant look on Jim Carrey's face as he slits a girl's throat.

PLAYLIST

Man In Black -- Johnny Cash

At The Hop -- Devendra Banhart

The Hardest Button To Button -- The White Stripes

Only This Moment -- Röyksopp

We March As Millions -- Nas

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forest for the trees

I'm at a loss, because it feels like I'm talking to myself (and God knows I do enough of that in my free time). And even after little to zero creative output of any kind from yours truly for the past several weeks, I'm still at a lost. The human brain is an interesting thing; too bad it's not made use of most of the time.

My fortunate escape from the prison they call an army camp yields nothing except a desire to watch more soccer on TV and a propensity to smoke until my throat is parched. Behind bars, I alternate between hibernating and watching American Idol and Desperate Housewives. And taking smoke breaks, of course. Nothing doing here.

My only opiate left -- cigarettes. There I go again, lighting another cigarette. No love. No life. Anti-social tendencies begin to accumulate. I can no longer sleep with someone else in the same room. I try to limit conversations with others to a bare minimum. I'm starting to dislike everyone I meet. I have nothing much to say to anyone, and even if I do, I don't feel the need to start a conversation. I decline offers to meet new people. I'm not even trying to find something to look forward to. I sometimes forget that eating is a required daily activity.

There I go again, lighting another cigarette. I feel like a child again, sans innocence, energy, and a sense of wonder. We live in a beautiful world, but I can't see past whatever mess I've made of everything. I know I'm going to hell; I just wish they'd make the processing faster. Can someone please take me away?

Or at least do something. Make it all a vanishing act, or a stage. Make me remember things I've never experienced. There I go again, lighting another cigarette. Make it interesting, because life is boring me to death. Or I'm boring myself to death. But then I can't escape myself, can I? I'm really losing it, and at this point I don't really care. Let you entertain me for a change.

Okay, maybe I just need more sleep.

PLAYLIST

The Nobodies -- Marilyn Manson

Use It -- The New Pornographers

Little House Of Savages -- The Walkmen

The Rescue Blues -- Ryan Adams

Cross Bones Style -- Cat Power

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