Nightendday.

Since everything in my life tastes amazing, and nothing is bad, I guess I don't have much to talk about. School is a fantastic diversion to everyday life, and my time with friends is better than it ever has been, not to mention a new season of LOST... everything is just good. Though, I will talk about something that I have been thinking about recently if only through others: people in general. Not just people though, but past friends, or even just someone(s) you knew. At least for me, as I have gotten older and experienced more out of life, I have become increasingly disillusioned by those around me, almost like they have lost whatever it was that made them interesting to me in the first place. I don't honestly think that people change as time goes on, they just adjust to their settings or become more in tune with themselves. A change would require soemone to completely reverse something about themselves, and as beings in constant progression, I don't know if that word really fits all too well. I do have people that I know that really mesh with me, and in this case, it's different- they seem to understand themselves more or something. I'll try to explain better- someone I know got a girl pregnant. He and this girl had been dating for years, and lived with one another, and she wanted to keep the baby. Well, this guy I know breaks up with the girl and refuses to talk to her. This is the sort of thing I am talking about, people you used to feel good around, or at least civil with, no longer hold the same bearing today. I 'small-chat' to so many people in my life who I could easily just do without, not because they're bad people (or maybe they are in some instances), but because there's nothing there- nothing lasting or worthwhile. A lot of my old friendships just don't hold up anymore, and that is how it is, it's not anyone's fault in particular, I'm just moving in a different direction. It's harder to explain than it is to live it out, but I'm sure others have felt the same exact way. Relationships I once felt were meaningful no longer hold true, and it's not like I've done anything out of the ordinary, I just don't feel the same about them as I used to.

So, apparently the Academy felt that having five best picture nominations was just not enough, so now there are ten.. oh wait, no, now it's only nine. Seriously, even Cannes is getting more and more ridiculous as the years go on. A movie like 'Blow-Up' would never win the Palm d'or these days. Now we just give it to things like 'The Wind That Shakes The Barley'. So, where do I look to for a correct movie insight if none of the prestigious award shows are even trying anymore? With 'Avatar' winning Best Picture and Director at the Golden Globes, and 'District 9' receiving a Best Picture nod at the Oscars this year, where am I supposed to look? All the reviewers for the most part have not a clue about the very thing they specialize in, and just give four stars and A's to whatever they thought would resonate with their daughter's preschool field trip the most. It's just a disgusting franchise of money these days, even independent cinema is just getting worse and worse because of this inflammation of glorifying terrible tripe day after day. Something has to change with the current atmosphere of ALL media, because we're letting what was once known as 'bad' into 'a seminal work by Zemeckis'. It's just infuriating, honestly. If it's not the newest Chuck Palahniuk book, or the newest Owl City album, or the new movie by Michael Bay, it's bound to be the new fashion on the cover of Nylon Magazine. DO NOT get me started on current fashion trends, please. I will say this though, there is a difference between thinking the 80's had good fashion ideas and dressing like you are in the 1980's.

Today is the Super Bowl. I think I'll do everything a good American boy should, and watch '2046' or something instead. I don't care about anything but Basketball, and that's the way it will stay forever. Football is boring. BORING. Ten minutes of commercials and two minutes of playing before another set of commercials. Sorry, it's just not my cup of tea.

Speaking of tea, I bought down tea leaves and a tea ball... the tea ball was from Asia somewhere, and there is most certainly some sort of, as Dan called it, 'lead shit' on it in places. It was promptly thrown in the garbage, because I don't want any part of that.

Today, I feel like every word is written for me, in well spaced calligraphy, her hands outstretched and wrote simply, "No, not today and not ever."

-Brandon

Midnight in a Perfect World.

I've been writing more and more often, even outside of this blog I carry around a small pocket Moleskine that I am constantly writing in, and even more so I have to write for reports and notes while I'm doing this whole school thing. When I write often, it's a lot like what people normally get out of exercise in the morning, or a cup of coffee. When I write any amount, I feel like I have started my day well. I like how things are progressing, I like how my movements feel their own. I work tonight, but this doesn't bother me, because it's only until nine. I have school in the morning to look forward to, and I do look forward to it. Nothing seems out of touch, everything seems alright, good even. I have school and work to keep me busy, I have time alone, and I can also have time for friends. Everything just works.

Untitled.

Things do get better. Times will pass, and moments will seem like a memory you once had but can't remember fully. All wounds heal, and what is really important is how you really feel, no matter what anyone else has to say.

I feel good. I feel resolved. These are things no person should feel guilty about. So, I won't.

-Brandon

Heavy Water/I'd Rather Be Sleeping.

I haven't told many people this, in fact, only one person. For the last three years or so I had been writing a book. It was about a lot of things really, but mostly about loving someone only to lose them. Lost due to time, due to circumstance, and ultimately due to death. I kept it on a flash drive, and I would drag it onto my computer and delete it from the flash drive while I was writing it, and then when I was finished for the moment, I would drag it onto the flash drive and delete it from my computer. I kept this red flash drive on me at all times, in a pocket, in my wallet, wherever. It never left my sight. I had gotten nearly six hundred pages written, and it was almost done honestly, when a couple weeks ago I deleted it for good. Yes, it was a lot of work seemingly wasted, but I had reason. It paralleled my life way too closely, and it ultimately made me depressed to write more and more of it. The pessimism and sadness that was being written was pretty intense, and it just kept spiraling into something completely sinister in tone- too dark even for me. Around the time I deleted it, I began thinking more and more about my life. What was really important, if I was happy where I was, if I could continue on the route I had set for myself. All of the answers were fairly obvious, and something had to change.

You Know I Should Be Leaving Soon.

"In August 2009, the week during my birthday, New York happened".



-Brandon

Love Cry.

I have school in around four and a half hours- but I do have things to do right now, and I am going early to return books (my teacher lists a book, but then wants us to read a different version, and somehow I am the only one in class without a clue). I have not gone to bed. I drove around a lot tonight, first with Joe, and then later on with Dan. Things turned for the worse, but I didn't say anything; my check engine light came on with Joe, and my headlights got very dim, and I had to drive with the brights on in order to see anything at all, and even then it didn't help me out so much. I stopped late on red lights, ran through a stop sign, and literally almost drove over a curb onto a cement slab. In my defense, I still think the cement was just a pile of snow. Pennsington is just sitting in his cage. My lights been on for a long time while it's not supposed to be on so he can sleep- regardless, he's cute. I have to take out the garbage. I don't want to.

-Brandon

Bros.

I'm going to try to do things.

Motion Picture Soundtrack.

I start at Kent State tomorrow.

I've been posting less because people have eased the need to post on this site. I also have other means to journal my everyday life. On top of that I always thought that this site was just for me, and I feel it a little hypocritical to continue thinking that if it's not set to private posting, then it's just for me. Everyone seems pretty miserable to me lately, myself included. I know my reasons, even some of those of the people around me, but there's definitely tension building.

"When it comes to the end, all these things in these cabinets are just things. It's just stuff... What you have left is memories, and these things are important because of the memories that I had with them. It's all really just memories."

-Brandon

Antenna Atama.

Talking to the people you see day-to-day, seeing them, knowing that they are real- something about it makes me feel uneasy. I always seem to have these reoccurring thoughts that I just simply lack the care that others do, that I'm in reality so incredibly selfish that it's become hard to function. I find it too easy to listen to other people and just stop two minutes in and stare right past them. I just, for some reason, don't care. I'm an atheist, I'm a thinker, I don't buy into the schemes set up for me to believe in- not in some act of teen rebellion, but because I understand the reasons not to. I know what it is I want, and I am used to the status quo and my not being anywhere near it. I mean, seriously, I don't really even care for half of the incredibly boring things I have to present myself with to strike up a conversation- I feel some things just don't need to be mentioned or even talked about. I'm smarter than I let on, much much smarter. Sometimes I feel like I'm just sort of stuck here, in a place that cannot possibly give me the things I need to be... whole? I tend to repeat myself a lot, I've talked about this before somewhere I'm sure, but there lies the issue. I watch complex films, read intelligent books, listen to thoughtful music. It's all escapism at it's finest, as it is with anyone else, but I feed off of it, I need it to survive. I used to be so immersed in these things, that I would defend them as if they were something only I could have- a lot of religious zealots treat their beliefs like this as well. I stopped, or at least I'm trying more and more to do so. It's not because of how I could cause others to feel less for me or anything like that, it was more due to me just not liking myself when I got like that. Everyone is entitled to something, I don't have the power to choose what it is they enjoy or think about. Everyone is different, and everyone feels uniquely. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's easier to not be a jerk about something, when you care less and less about the people who share these interests with you.

I'm not depressed. I'm not distant. I just stopped caring so much.

Swimmers.

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

-From 'On Seeing The 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning' by Haruki Murakami.

Rewatching 'LOST' is... incredible, to say the least.

-Brandon