Monday, October 31, 2005


Yes, this is my new blog. I know, it's a radical change to the normal way of doing things, but look on the bright side.
The Bright Side:
It has the same feel to it. I worked long and hard to give it that same weird, psycho quality as the other one, that you have all come expect and love, and that you deserve.
The Address is easier to remember.
The comments work much smoother. Even too smoothly. I have psychopath robots posting all over my blog now. That's fine, as long as I dredge up some humans too.

So please, please, take the trouble to change your links. I would really love you if you did that. And all updates will be stuck here, although the other place ( will stick around as a static reminder of its birth and childhood as a blog.
And don't forget, I love you to little tiny pieces.


The Opposing Side.

Yes, yes, I do have some fun and games waiting for you. But first let's do the serious stuff.
Here is the reply from the recipient (female, 22) of my strongly worded letter that I, in all fairness, am posting, in a summary. I have to say that I agree with it, almost completely. It is not so much the other side but the same one, presented from a different perspective. Maybe there is only one side.



So, Joe, you are immature, is that what you are trying to say?
Now do think intensely, for a moment, “What is mature?” “What is it to you?” Well, if in all those things you described, I would say that you are indeed very tainted in your belief…obviously. Like you so well put it, a child would shrug it off.
If for nothing else than presenting the divergent side, I write:
If it has so deeply concerned you, it is, to be sure, a disease that you are desperately trying to shake but are terrified that it will encompass you. “A child does not even think of those things.”
I’m not pretending to charm a side. I can’t even be objective about it. I am a victim. The point is that no one is immune to this malady. Not even children. It all depends on experiences and reactions to it, don’t you think?
If you are in search to be “immature” then I would say it first starts in your heart and thoughts, and not in the so-called “free” things as running through the fields, attacking the rain, or any other such colorful acts. That is the manifestation of freedom of the moment. In the idea you present, anyone can be “a child”. Go get drunk. Go get “immature” and “free” if that is the context. Real freedom cannot be sought or achieved. It is a gift. Some have it more than others.
True, age brings a realization that things cannot be fanciful, carefree, and wild. It brings deeper sorrow every now and then. It brings loneliness of a sharper quality. But it also depends…on you.
Are you are free? I don’t know. Enjoying things that God brings to you, that is maturity and life. Immaturity is seeking on your own. “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” Age does instruct and egg you on to respond in diverse ways; nevertheless, the unique thought patterns belong to you and God.
I am in firm belief that this elusive “it” is directly connected to the pure spirit of God. The sole formula used for purifying remains in the heavens. Pride, not immaturity, is the real disease.
I know that it is impossible not to be tempted with bitterness, callousness and the like. But it does not excuse the acceptance of it. I do not claim to be mature. I have feelings. I do not claim to be immature. I do hold them in. Temptations, they make you mature.
Neither do I claim to be more than a human, with feelings of a standard kind, not a philosopher. I am not exceptional. But I was created to love. In love lies strength. “Within the Will of God lies the fountain of youth.”
Now and then acting your way of thinking mars others much more badly than if you would have restrained them. Tangent, yes, but there is more to life than to state your claim in a personally gratifying manner.
Children have to learn. It is a way of becoming mature. Even then, I don’t believe that anyone is truly mature. I think God created patterns for everyone. Why don’t you stay true to yours? The eternal childhood that you try to capture could be hidden. I do believe that curiosity in the things that God created is not immoral. Take advantage of what He has given you, yes, but do not capitalize on the possessions that will go and come, including feelings, self-gratification, and the like, and, yes, even the temptation to try too hard.
Well, anyway, that is my stance, or should I say, “My tangent”. Do not take my word for anything. It could be, dare I say, “immature”. Have a good day.


We had a car crash the other day.
See, we go rollerblading once a month. We had a blast this month. Me and Cheri won second place in their rollerblading contest once again. Kenji and Checko, right behind us, won third. I swear that man has no respect for human life forms, if they come between him and winning. Yes you, Kevin. He would say he is a firm believer in 'any road to winning.' Guess he got lost. (Just kidding Kenji, you're cool.) Anyway, despite the fearsome opposition, through our weakness we were strong and won medium smoothies at the roller restaurant.
But that was a sidenote.
See, as we were leaving, I was taking my merry time. Enjoying my smoothie as I strolled out to the car where everyone was waiting. The driver got the brilliant idea to back the car up, to make me think they were leaving, so I would move faster. The driver has good ideas sometimes. This was not one of them.
I didn't run.
Oh, and there was a car behind them, so they crashed into it.
Oh, let's not call it a crash. Let's call it a... slight recession.
I confess, I giggled a bit.
That is, as I rushed into the fray to pull bodies out of the burning rubble.
Not really. The damage was minimal. We got to see the physics in a fender bender at work, now that we know Who they are.
The interesting thing is that, as each side called up their competing insurances, me and Kenji (I refuse to say 'and I') tapped into our hidden movie directing resources, and cooked up some video productions for you, featuring our traumatic accident. Here they are.
This first one is a documentary documenting the actual damage, interviews with the survivors, etc. We tried to make it fun. (Video lost to posterity, sorry)
If you've downloaded that one, and survived it, this is our dramatized screenplay of the events. This one is fiction, so don't worry. (Video lost, sorry)
I think I like videoing. Expect to see more of this in the days to come. Do I have some treats for you. Much love!!


The Demon Of Maturity.

I do not usually post personal letters. I got permission for this one. It is a rant, but one that is very close to my heart. Thus, I share it with you.


You know, I created a blog for the sole purpose of avoiding writing long letters.
I do have one thing to say though.
I hate a lot of things. Maybe more than I should. Mostly inanimate objects, emoticons, cliches, etc. But there is one thing I hate more than the rest and that is any creature who looks down on what they parochially interpret to be immaturity. Let me be more specific.
I mentioned juvenility. I do not in any way associate that with immaturity. Actually, I consider the humour, the carefree-ness, the innocence, the interest in everything, the playfulness, the awe with which it treats the world, the tenderness, the way it is uncalloused and untarnished, unburned, limitless, free, wild, and untamed, uninhibited, trusting, the sparkle that it has to it that is not found in all the decaying defined "maturity" in the world, I consider all THAT the highest form of maturity that there is. And though I do not pretend to be all those things, I have been tainted by "maturity" some, unfortunately, still I would consider it my goal and the highest success I could achieve to be juvenile for the rest of my life.
I do not want to rot, ever, and I plan not to. I detest adulthood, it is a lukewarm disease that has nothing to do with age. I don't care how old I get, how much I accomplish, if I cannot stay bright eyed for the rest of my days, it is a waste.
The best in love, the best in happiness, the best in courage, the best in forgiveness, even the best in anger, in ferocity, and the best of example of shortlived-ness in them both, is found in the child. A child is not bitter, jealous, malicious to anywhere near the degree that a typical "mature" adult is. With "maturity" comes sarcasm, mistrust, stonehearted-ness, arrogance--all of my own demons stem from the curse of "maturity". It is out of a shred of unwelcome "maturity" that I am writing this, like this. A child would shrug and smile, and forget.
Did you know that romance itself stems from juvenility? Your average "mature" man will not sweep you off your feet, he will buy you a can opener. Do you want a can opener man? "Maturity" shys away from love because it knows the consequences. I have been there. A child does not know, and so jumps off the edge. I have been there too. Juvenility with age, a kind of sustained childhood that springs from knowing both options and choosing to remain a child, choosing to jump anyway, also knows what awaits him, but doesn't care, and so jumps--and this is when you can experience, when you can feel in the rushing wind what you have never felt before. Not the unknown, and not the unwanted, but a known and wanted acceptance and encouragement of the bad that comes inevitably with the good, because splatting at the bottom is worth the beautiful sensory rush of falling.
Get your "mature" man to write you a poem. Get him to run through fields of flowers with you. He won't. Get him to care enough when you cry and run out the door into the rain, to not hesitate to run after you and beg your forgiveness on his knees in a puddle. Get him to trust you again with his heart once you've inevitably broken it for the first time. Get him, I dare say to propose. To bare yourself that much to an inherently evil being could not be the work of a "mature" heart.
The "mature" heart is the first to frustrate, ice over, and grit its teeth. It longs to beat you to throwing in the towel. It looks for opportunities to cut off your legs and blame it on you. It schemes toward its own benefit and disregards all else because it doesn't care. It nails feelings, emotions, and passions to a cross and watches them bleed to death with satisfaction.
Faith is the picture of a child. Salvation is the picture of a child. Grace is the picture of a child. Self-righteousness, hypocrisy, and darkness all come with age.
Pleasure cannot be enjoyed with "maturity" because enjoyment and "maturity" are not congruent. "Maturity" is stifling and afraid and reticent and unwilling, all opposites of pleasure. Pleasure can only be free and pure and uninhibited, or else it is perversion. Pleasure is natural. "Maturity" hates simplicity, instinct, unprocessed anything, and thus is a perversion. "Maturity" is a perversion because it inhibits, binds, and impurifies, and with that comes twisted, misshapen desires, or a lack of any desire at all, a coldness, which is the worst perversion and the most frequent "maturity-induced" one. I should know. Ask anyone who knew me a few years ago.
"Fun" is a word that is not understood by the "mature". Well, let them scowl and fume, and wonder why we laugh, what that light is in our eyes. Let them try to put it out.
To hell with them anyway.

Rant. Tangent. I do. But rant with passion, or not at all.


It was brought to my attention that my rant is incomplete. There is a wonderful side to maturity, which I left unexplored. Maybe I should not have pegged it with the all-encompassing word "maturity". I did so because it is a word you will understand. I hope the quotation marks
clarify the type I am referring to.
So, run in the rain, against the wind! Wear a Burger King crown around for a few days--that will do the trick.
I am talking to myself, not to you.
I love you.

I Spilt Blood On The Floor.

Went singing tonight. No, we were fully dressed, don't get your hopes up.
Anyway, remember that thumb cutting trick I pulled on the guitar, playing live at the camp? You wouldn't think I'd do that twice, right?
Well, not exactly. This time I still had the pick in my hand. But one slight misjudgment and in flesh vs. steel, steel wins.
So one little slice in a finger here or there, dripping blood into a pool at my feet, you think would be fine. But no, I have to keep hitting it. The same spot with the same string, in the middle of a heartfelt song in a crowded restaurant. And every time I hit it, the blood splatters.
I'm not kidding, covering the front of the guitar and halfway up my arm with little red globs. Closest I've ever come to being embarrassed. Not quite, although I couldn't decide whether to look happy about it (S&M) or sad (the show must go on). Chose happy. In fact, I do believe I was glowing.
Imagine the singer girls' surprise when they turn around at the end of the song and find Mr. Resident Evil belting, thank you, thank you, good night, at the top of his lungs.
A little late.
Not even an, "Are you hurt?"
They meant well.
Got cleaned up with one of the dancing scarves and went to the tables like it was the Fourth of July. No one mentioned anything. This cold, unfeeling world.
So, a little bit of nightly trauma for you, to keep you happy with your own life. I hope you enjoyed it. I love you.


It's Nothing.

I have a rare treat for you.
It is a photo of my arm.
Can't you not wait to see it?
But this is not just any photo. This is a photo of my arm after I jumped over a bush on the way to breakfast at the camp. See, food is very important to me, and my entire room felt the same way. That's why we were first in line at every meal, bar few. Of course, we did suffer some casualties...

Now, imagine walking down a hallway with 300 people you've never met before, with an arm looking like that. 200 of those people are going to ask you what happened. "I jumped over a bush" is boring! Here's what I came up with.
See if you can think of any more:

I was attacked by a wild saber toothed tiger. There were women and children present. I had to sacrifice an arm.

This is a manifestation of stigmata. Check out the holes in my feet!

I was out back bush surfing. It's a new extreme sport.

I'm getting everyone to sign my arm. Here, take this pocketknife and...

This? It's a horrible, contagious disease that I just picked up. It's airborne anyway, would you like a hug?

I'm healing people with my stripes.

I'm a suicidal drunk.

Got into a fight. You should see the other guy's arm.

I was attacked by a giant, arm-eating bush.

I jumped over a bush on my way to breakfast. It was too wide for me to clear it, had to lean my legs forward, balanced by sticking one arm behind my head, which consequently was scratched. Guess which arm.

There you have it. I know you could do twice as good, but I'm only human. Well, prove it to me. Leave a comment with your clever answers, for posterity and storage for the next time I do this.


I Need A Shoulder.

I lost a chunk off the icon of myself today.
It's not every day you have to look in the eyes of something you had not known you were afraid of, and admit to yourself that you are scared to death.
I thought that coming Home would be a sort of release. A step back from the unknown into the known, into familiar territory. I was wrong.
It's not every day you have to stifle the terror welling inside of you with a tender, naive exterior (a caring, reaching sort of thing, like putting your finger inside a pencil sharpener, because you knew that if you didn't, your fear has feelings too and would be hurt). To monitor, to handcuff your every movement lest an ill timed fidget should betray the monster inside of you that is screaming to run or cry, or snap.
It's not every day you have to admit to yourself that you have not emerged as much as you purport to have, and that one you considered older is actually newer than you are. It makes you feel like a has been, even at 21, because the yardstick is our freedom and the extent our love is willing to go, not our years. I have fallen short.
It feels bad in a good sort of way to admit it cryptically.
I could steel myself. I could close my eyes and detach and pretend and carry through. Like stepping on the back of a beginner doing his first split. Oh yes, he will go down all the way, like you want him to.
But will he come up?
Fortunately, there is a Will. And where there is a Will, there is a Way. I will ask the Will what He wants, and I will do it His Way.

It always feels better afterward.
The Will told me that it is not in His plan for me to stretch right now. He merely wants to draw my attention to the distance between myself and the floor. It is no good thinking you are at 180 degrees when you're really barely clearing 130.
It is to make me exactly aware of my position, no less no more. And I must keep working toward the goal.
He said maybe I am no gymnast. Perhaps the goal is not the floor. Maybe I'm just warming up to shoot a few hoops and an actual split is not in His plan for me now or ever. Either way, the goal is progress.
And either way, I will have to get my actual reply from Him because--how do you answer this sort of thing? Do you say, I would but...? Do you say, He said...? Do you offer a compromise, and then tell the story years later of how you sat through every heart wrenching second, fearing the worst, fearing the advantage taken? Do you ignore it and try to forget? Would writing a song be inappropriate?
That is what the Will is for.
Thank you for listening. You are special.


Sunday, October 30, 2005

The Life Of Amaranth Continues.

Welcome to my blog. Make yourself at home.