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| Nothing else of note. From this perverse mockery of honesty I leave for the inane truth. My writing will continue, without inhibition and evasion, from pained poetry to somewhat less thrilling tales.
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| To recap - the original Lore-weaving.
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4 April 2009
"How this last bridge gloriously
Burns under a furious, shameful haze.
Bidding farewell the unwanted,
Unloved, unrequited, undermined
Gilded affection never laid bare.
"What then, I dare, (Oh, I dare!)
Has your lilac vision wrought?
Pale royalty, ambitious folly is
This zero-sum, dogmatic prerogative.
Cheers to the freed plaything."
=-=-=-=-=
I'm done with you. Despite whatever I may have thought before, I have been terribly wrong. You have been a waste of my time, a waste of my attention. I don't even know if I want to bother being friends. So much for noble persistence. My existence isn't even validated by the most basic of acknowledgments. God, this is as hostile as it gets.
Have a good fucking life.
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| Let it be known by all that this brainstorm is perhaps the most important thing that has happened to me thus far in 2009. It truly has the potential to define the entirety of my future academic (and political, if that ever happens) career. Oh yeah, I did this all while I was in the hospital, bahahaha.
Without further ado, I present to you what may become my life's work
 (click to enlarge, just in case that wasn't already obvious) Clearly, it's going to take tons of research to validate (or repudiate) the arguments I've outlined here. Libraries, censuses, geopolitical trends, interviews with scholars, commoners, sociologists, demographers, every resource available will have to be tapped to make this happen ... if it'll ever happen.
Likely the question most people will ask is "Why?" It appears that there's room in my heart for real sympathy towards the motherland despite my often derogatory language regarding certain Filipinos, both raised in the United States and the Philippines. (The processed, American brand of Filipino patriotism that they tout is so subtly laced with a toxic contempt for the undesirable yet essential components of their native culture. I hate them for it.)
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| As someone who has grand plans to dissect and study the lives of others, tales of nations, stories of civilizations, I find it wholly ironic that the vast majority of my writings have a subject so singular and counterintuitive to my planned field of expertise. Although I've been writing here for around six or so years, the breadth of issues I have touched upon is disappointingly narrow; instead the primary focus of my thoughts and reflections have been about none other than yours truly.
A student of history is someone who, as most people would generally accept, breaks down the goings-on in the world (and just about everywhere else) and determines the effect of those said goings-on in the present (or other such time period). A student of history looks at then to more clearly see now, their canvas of today is painted with a palette of yesterdays. In a very true sense, historians work from the outside in, the outside being events and situations we can no longer control. From this base fact stems the irony of my condition - my methodology is the polar opposite.
On a daily basis I struggle with myself, my mental and psychological workings, and with such a ridiculously small set of data attempt to make sense of the world - a stark contrast to the process of gleaning insight from a large sample of information. Curiously, I toil over my countless faults, shortcomings, and failed promises only to realize that doing certain things differently then could have made a significant and positive change in the now. From my disturbed (yet equally lucid) point of view, the modus operandi of my analysis is regret and hindsight as opposed to a historian's natural sense of hopefulness and foresight. Hell, even this piece itself is still about me and how lame I am for only thinking about me!
So why is this the case? Why do I have trouble writing about issues more pertinent to a historian while slaving over my twisted sense of self is second nature? I find the answer to be three-fold (although there may be real issues that I am blind to):
- This is a manifestation of my overbearing narcissism. If I cannot be the center of anything elsewhere- at work, play, or someone else's life - then this is where I will be lord of all.
- The saying that we are our own worst critic makes extremely good sense as I find virtually no difficulty in flogging myself for even the slightest of faults.
- Perhaps the saddest reason is that I am a man with no peer. And, by God, I mean that in the strictest and the most demeaning way possible for myself. With no proper and thriving intellectual outlet, no source of apt feedback, no set of colleagues with which to discuss and debate, no mentor, my talent is sown on rock and sand. There is no ferment, nowhere for my burgeoning, developing, "promising" mind to grow. This squandering of talent is further exacerbated by my academic stagnation. Without a steady flow of fresh concepts and ideas, a young mind is hard-pressed to develop any original content. While books and the internet provide a nearly inexhaustible wealth of information, that kind of data is soulles and cold. A teacher, a guiding hand, a master is required to truly give such volumes any significant meaning, something a student may find worth their while to give them a passion so intense. Seeing that I lack the support base necessary to cultivate my ideas, any investment in further historical writing and otherwise appear completely futile.
In the end, only going back to school can really get me out of this funk. The structure and networking that such an institution provide will undoubtedly help mark a return to more scholarly reflections instead of the selfish angst-ridden melancholic emo-ish crap and the ocassional hopelessly romantic pursuit.
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| I believe that I've finally found the perfect fictional character that wholly and summarily represents me: Doctor Percival "Perry" Cox.
No, really, it works. And the more I watch his story unfold (interest in him surely eclipses that of the main character played by Zach Braff), the more I'm convinced that his nature is the most palatable and enjoyable manner through which any normal person might view my twisted life.
We are both very intelligent and brilliant men (gahaha, see below).
We are also both narcissistic loners.
We are both most poetically eloquent with our sarcasm.
We both have best friends (that have attractive sisters).
We both have a tendency to impart upon others a shred of decency, although under great duress.
We both have plenty of anger that manifests itself in ways that repulses people.
We are both afraid of letting people into our lives.
We both know nothing but to hate and sabotage because our every effort to practice their perfect ideal opposites have been met with nothing but hate and sabotage.
... among many other such similarities.
= = = = =
My God, why am I trying so hard to find someone - SOMETHING - to empathize with?
That's easy, Terence, you just don't want to be alone.
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