Today I've failed. I let my guard down and the devil took me in my sleep. I've lost the strength I need to stand up against this desperate time and the only honorable thing to do is to die like a soldier. I'm disgusted with myself and I'd be a fraud if I attempted to live on and forget it. Please take care of my dog and remember me for my righteousness. This I do in the name of Love, love which I tried to hold out for, love which never came and left me cold. Farewell.

The sensation of my life repeating is beginning to fade into the background. It was present for a few months and seemed to reach its climax when I introduced Zhanar into my world. Everything seemed familiar: the room inside the humane society where I looked at the dogs, the dogs themselves, my observation that they have dreams while they sleep; then there was the night after I brought her home, when we both moved through an anxious sleep while Pink Floyd played in the background, mimicking the dream I had had two nights before which inspired me to go out and bring her home.

She is beginning to learn that there is only one Jeremiah in the world. Sometimes he takes out his bass and plays until his fingers and ears are numb. Sometimes I stays in bed until the afternoon and she's forced to take extended naps. Sometimes I'm uptight and react harshly to her insolence. But I take her out and she gets to see everyone around me, and there's so many people downtown that she's quickly exhausted by the experience of taking in so many faces and smells. She's like a small child; she gets bored with something after a while. That's why I'm intent on not leashing her. She hates the leash, refuses to follow me outside with it on; just stares at me with eyes that say "don't you know me well enough by now that we don't have to play this charade?", and I submit. I have faith that after a while she'll get tired of running after strangers, tired of hearing me shout "no" whenever she does something she's not supposed to. She will grow up to be a very smart dog; I can already see her personality developing. I'm hard on her like I am with everything I do, and she's learning quickly my temperament and the difference between when I'm bluffing and when I mean business. I have to stay creative, find new ways to challenge her and maintain my authority; repetition hardly works; often I have to rely on ingenuity to outwit her or get a point across.

Our closest genetic relatives in the animal kingdom may be the primate family, but it is surely the canines who are closest to us in disposition. She reminds me so much like a person that it makes it hurt even more when she behaves in ways that I don't understand, however most of the time I feel as if she's a person just like myself; her constant presence has seeped into my subconscious and there are often times when I'm outside and the behavior of people seems dog-like underneath the surface.

I don't know if she loves me or even likes being around me; it's possible she may simply tolerate me, as I suspect most people do. That's why I take her outside as much as possible and introduce her to everyone I can. I never want her to feel like I'm lording over her and keeping her from others. I want her to know that I'm simply her guardian and that the whole world is at her disposal when she needs it.

If anything, she's attached to me, which is also similar to my relationship with people: one where they can't live with me but can't live without me. No matter how badly we get into it over her bad behavior, at the end of the day she sleeps with me and follows me everywhere I go. I feel it's my duty to keep from abusing that. I do not see her as a pet; I see her as a friend. Like all friends, she needs her space, and I don't feel jealousy when she's more interested in strangers than myself, and I wouldn't be surprised or hurt if a few years down the road she doesn't need my constant attention. Honestly, it would be a relief; I need my space, too.

Old King J was a merry old soul and a merry old soul was he; he called for his Poppenkast and he called for his Cactus and he called for his women three: Mary, Mother, and Missus.

Dub is mighty. Perry is good.

He talks a lot about righteousness. This used to bother me because it almost sounds like Christian music. But he smokes weed, and he's Rastafarian, so I give it a chance.

Despite how I keep going on about the movie Idiocracy, it is actually the book Neuromancer that feels most like the future: cold and brutal. When I read Neuromancer, I said, if that's the future of things, I'd rather be up there in Zion Cluster smoking ganja than working for Babylon. It made my skin crawl to imagine living like Case, taking all that speed. I tried speed, too, while I was reading it; I didn't like it. I knew then I had to quit my job; my job represented Babylon, everything I knew was unlike my character. I couldn't be myself, got mocked for it. Now I'm free and I can be myself, listen to Perry and feel everything he says, never have to see a day where I walk into that office and become my nemesis.

I'd like to give a shout out at this time to Yen for standing fast in the face of mediocrity. Yen, I think your Dreamgirls posters are all really awesome. I'm not trying to put anyone down, and Gaye is a close second place, but Yen seems to be the only person really letting her artistic side show and it reminds me of poster designs from Poland.

While I'm at it, I'd also like to say hey to Carla and Aiyana from the courtyard; thanks for being cool with my dog; she appreciates it. She's being good tonight. I want her to feel like the world belongs to her and that people are good. I know for sure that when she's a big dog she'll be gentle and kind, and she'll know who her friends are when it comes time to have to protect them.

I'm kinda glad that I was forced to go looking for a job in such a desperate situation because I've gotten yet another glimpse at how the world is changing. Unskilled hiring is becoming totally automated; yet another similarity to the world of Idiocracy. A manager doesn't invite you sit down and talk; you're rarely even asked to fill out a paper application. You're either told to visit the website and do it online or there's a computer station which does something that paper applications never did: administer a short psychological evaluation that only a moron would fail. I'm glad things have turned out the way I have; each push into scary situations makes me stronger. If I'd stayed at my old job, I'd have been unprepared for the rest of my life.

I spent all day job-hunting. It started out pretty good; I'm glad I had the burst of energy to carry me through because it was emotionally draining. Zhanar was good company and I made sure to park in the shade, leave the windows cracked, and bring her water. She had fun at the beginning of the day when I woke up this afternoon and took her over to the GSU courtyard and let her run around. I met a couple of people from before and we hung out for a few minutes; I had them watch her while I went into the library to return some movies. She pooped in the sculpture garden about a foot from Mono II, so I see she's already taking after me as an art critic (good dog!)

But, man, after a while I felt so drained, so alone, so empty. I'm grateful for my dog to get me through this period, but it still hurts so bad to not have someone in my life. My emotions keep switching between exhileration from living so much on the edge than I ever have before and fatal depression. I woke up this afternoon and took inventory of my money situation. I have negative dollars in the bank and two maxed out credit cards with about $50 left, and unless I get work immediately I could face starvation and have to start pawning shit off. It's scary and exciting all mixed up in one. If I needed some real love at any time in my life, it would be right now.

If I find out Jeff is spreading rumors about me, justice will be swift.

A quick addendum on why I think music is a higher art-form than drawing and painting.

First, it doesn't require eyes. I think we take seeing for granted. We rely on it for almost everything, but I consider that a weakness. I think it's the most expendable sense. If you lose your eyes, forget making pictures, but you can still make music.

Second, music is less filtered by the ego. Music can be appreciated more broadly than paintings. The emotional response to music is more universal. There's never any telling how a person will read a picture. That's one of the great challenges of painting and designing, but if your goal is to express the truth, I believe music should be your vehicle of expression.

Third, music is more miraculous in the way of finding its way into the hands of the self-taught. Musical skill is undeniable, whereas painting skill is always under scrutiny as fashions change and from one viewer to the next. I'm grateful to American blues for proving that a person can be a musical genius without ever having to learn to read music. It totally denies the authority of academic institutions. You can codify music, but it lives in the soul; there's no question of which comes first.

Finally, music is a great equalizer. Painters and designers enjoy the status of being unique for what they do, which I think is bullshit. The thing I loathe most about college is the way people consider themselves special because of what they major in. You mean you need to be an English major to write? Damn, I guess you'd better tell that to almost every famous writer in history. Some had degrees, but University for them was different from how it is today than there's little merit in an English degree from a city college. Are you seriously going to compare a modern education from GSU with a traditional education at an Ivy League school during the 1920s? Music tears all that down because it's an impressive skill that's accessible to everyone, and the only reason why people here don't believe that is because it's not part of the standard public curriculum. In Germany, everyone learns music; you're not special for being able to play an instrument; you have to work extra hard to distinguish yourself. It's too easy to claim to be an artist, which often implies painting or, if you're particularly daring, design, and receive distinction without having to prove much.

My dog is awesome.

I dislike non-confrontational people. This is why I really like Edgar; when he has an idea, he just says it, even if it's harsh. It stresses me out sometimes, but I like being forced to think on my feet; sparring with words sharpens my wit and there's no other opportunity like it to test myself against verbal challenges outside of real-world situations where how quick I think can be a matter of survival. Even if it puts me on guard, it's fun for me; as long as I laugh every once in a while, especially if I crack up, everything is cool. It's no different than playing a physical sport; you expect to get roughed up a little bit, but it's a game, and it trains you to think and move.

I've found growing up in the South very dull because people down here are very non-confrontational. They never challenge you up front; they keep it inside and talk behind your back. You don't get a chance to defend yourself; it offends me when people doubt my ability to handle the situation, and I often ask myself: is this for my sake or is it because the other person is afraid of hurting me and clouding his conscience. I'm not a New York person, but something I like about that area is that people are the opposite. They don't give a shit how something makes you feel; it's your problem. Maybe I've been living in the city too long, but I can appreciate that kind of personality. There's just too much bullshit to get caught up worrying about every person's feelings. It should only be an issue when a person shows serious hurt or it seems like someone is going out of his way to abuse someone else. I like a society where adults are expected to be able to stand up for themselves.

I was at Rudy's a couple weeks ago---my whole reason for writing this post is to get this off my chest---and I took my bass with me. I tried to chill and have a good time, I played around on it, then I let him check it out and played on his six-string guitar. I don't claim to be an expert at music, but I heard second-hand criticisms about my abilities that don't feel fair. One of them was that all I do is play the strings and need to learn scales. That's only half-true. I've studied the major and minor scales, played them on my keyboard numerous times, and I know a little bit about augmented and diminished chords. I'm not trying to play by the book; I want to let the skill come naturally by playing by ear, and I believe I have made a lot of progress for someone who's only started.

A lot of people talk about how it's such a shame that I've given up visual art like it's the only thing I'm suited for; despite how plainly I'm putting my feelings down right now, I'm still getting phone calls from concerned people as if I'm acting out of character. What these people don't understand is that moving from one thing to another and taking a lot of risks has always been in my personality. Other people out there may not share my feelings, but I believe that it's the greatest shame if I fail to apply my talent to music, which is in my opinion a higher art than painting or drawing.

That's why it gets to me that I have to write about this on my blog. I could sense that Rudy was harboring criticism about my skill, but instead of letting it out and allowing me to work with or against it, grow as an artist, I have no choice but to receive a second-hand review from another friend who he talked to; a friend who wasn't there and can't make a sound judgment of whether I'm any good.

I have my reasons for learning music the way I am; it's not something I'm rigidly attached to, but I would like to follow a less technical and more natural approach. That's the same way I've approached drawing and painting, and it would be difficult to find someone who would say that my talent in those areas are weak; graphic designers, in particular, are notorious for being bad at the technical side of drawing, yet success doesn't elude those dedicated to their artistic voice. That's what I'm looking for in music, and anyone who says I've got a natural talent in visual art that shouldn't go to waste but shakes his or her head at my attempts to play music is encouraging me to sell myself short. I'm a fast learner in every field and I've always managed to carve out a special niche; do people in the program even know I'm good at math and biology? There was a time when my biggest dream was to become a famous physicist. I believe I will be good at anything I apply myself to, and right now I'm applying myself to music.

People around here need to get out of the habit of being non-confrontational. It arrests the development of a well-rounded character. Someone behind the scenes is watching me closely and this time it isn't paranoia; that person needs to start confronting me directly. It's a similar situation to what I illustrated with Rudy. If a professor talks about me in front of his class when I'm not there, I feel, well... I feel a lot of things. For one, I'm not there to make my own case; that's the biggest problem. Those who have been reading my blog hopefully have a better idea of who I am and how my life is a struggle right now that I can't easily shake, but it's taken me a lot of work to get to this point where I feel comfortable in knowing I've put everything out for people to understand. In that respect, I'm kind of glad things have come to this, but it's still unprofessional. Other than that, I feel it's an invasion of privacy; I'm given a presence without being present, and all of a sudden people who I don't consider close friends know way too much about me, and that really, really ticks me off. That shouldn't have happened.

A lot of people are still worried about me, and I got another phone call today, this time from Liz. As much as I appreciate her concern, I don't like being checked on to see if I'm seeing a therapist. That's a very touchy subject for me because I've been seeing a therapist and I've slowly lost faith in the practice as impersonal and ineffective. Some people might have the opposite to say about therapy, however, depending on who it is, I might have to be insulting and say that those people have trouble thinking for themselves, which is, in my opinion, precisely the sort of person therapy works for.

I don't feel there should be too much of a mystery what's going on in my head at this point if you've been reading my blog, and if you don't have the time or desire to read it, then you're clearly not someone with the right to meddle in my personal life. I don't think it's Liz whose most worried; I think it's Jeff, and that's what brings me back to my original subject: non-confrontational people. He goes through people to find out about me or get in contact with me. I don't understand his methodology. It's questionable and unnerving, and it offends me when I go to such lengths to write about my feelings so that anyone concerned at least knows what's up. I can't help it if I have bad days and pull reckless shit sometimes; I won't apologize for anything I do. The only person who has the right to find my occasional stunts troubling are my mother and father, and they don't have Internet access. By denying me my dangerous side, you're trying to deprive me of who I am. If I do things that bother you, then you probably don't want to read my blog.

School is no replacement for genuine experience, and I don't see a complete distinction between maneuvering a car and wielding a paintbrush. Professors can't force creativity out of me; sometimes I need raw material to work with and the only way to tap into that is to do things that some might consider dangerous. I won't apologize for that. You can force me to stay in a classroom, but as long as you keep me there you'll never get any work out of me; I'm a dried-up well and I need to go digging somewhere else. Therapy might be the answer for some, but it doesn't work for me, so when I got that call from Liz I really wanted to say "Thanks for nothing", because that's how I feel. I don't have faith in it like Liz and Jeff and Stan, so if that's all you three have to offer, then you're not giving me much and it makes the statement that I deserve better seem empty; it does more harm than good.

I've been encouraged to do whatever it is I need to do get myself in a better situation. Going to Rudy's to play music is something that would make me happy, but it doesn't happen because he's non-confrontational and I'm not welcomed there even though I see myself as a pretty easy-going guy who doesn't sit around and complain like his other friends. This is something I want, but no one else can give it to me besides him. How is going to a therapist going to change this? If I tell my therapist about it, what can she do? She can't force him to have me over. She can try to help me look into alternatives, but that's cognitive therapy and I don't believe in training yourself like an animal; in my opinion, that nurtures weakness. Another thing she might try is to help me come up with strategies to change his mind, but I don't go for that either; that's dishonest, covert. I don't use strategies on friends; that's not my way. So what else can she do? Unless I've left something out, I would say nothing, so stop pushing therapy on me. What's bugging me is right here in this blog.

You'll have to accept that some things aren't working out and it's making me blue, and many of these things can't be forced. Rudy will just have to stop being a non-confrontational b*tch and lay it on me when he thinks my playing sucks; then things wouldn't get awkward and he wouldn't be afraid to have me over in the future. That's just one example, but most of what's troubling me is like that: situations that can't be forced, only dealt with.

I might end up in a bad spot; I'm already in one; but I have my dignity and confidence. I wish Liz and Jeff could understand this. Maybe it's scary for people who care about me to hear I'm treating my life so carelessly. Fine---give me some real options, try to help me if you can and really want to. Do you have any idea what I'm supposed to do? I certainly don't, and it's my life, so you might imagine that I spend a lot of time thinking about it. We could go on forever about how it would be nice if I just finished my design degree; some people have accepted it, but apparently some people still don't understand that the picture factory inside me is suspended indefinitely. A lot of things would nice but aren't going to happen.

I'm getting touchier and toucher, feeling like I'm more and more required to defend myself as an individual. Liz suggested that I should go through the proper channels; I won't. If anything, I'm curious why choosing to write about my problems on my blog is an issue for some; are some people afraid that this unmoderated, online soap box might allow me to say things which some would hope would have been expressed behind closed doors? You shouldn't give me any ideas; I'll just keep going like this. Whoever it is that's kindling the concernedness hearth needs to come out and start dealing with me directly because I'm just going to keep blogging about how I feel and what I suspect. If you've read all this and still think I'm in so much danger that I need immediate help, you're mad. Humor me at least; what have you got to hide? If I'm the one with the problem, why side-step me? If you think you can't handle the situation, you shouldn't be trying to. If you think working with me one-on-one will do more harm than good, you might be right, but I believe it's unfounded.

The worst thing I'm guilty of is driving sometimes like a bastard out of hell, but I enjoy it; I can't help it if you're a timid driver and don't appreciate driving fast. Silas had to go through the same song-and-dance I'm being subject to because he drew some guns in his sketchbook---perfectly normal for a lot of young men---and I don't even do that. I'm a sensitive, inquisitive mug; anyone granted the opportunity to look through my sketchbooks, which unfortunately no one can since Jeff has them locked up against my wishes, would find nothing but neutral emotional territory. I don't have secret collections of violent writings and drawings; I don't exhibit dangerous, hidden tendencies that come out in my work. Goddamit, as much I'd love to be, I'm not a Case.

In fact, if you had the chance to look through all my work, you'd learn so much about how I tick that you'd be relieved. You'd see dozens of stages of artistic development, and if you picked up certain parts you'd see the time when Zhanar came into my life and you might start to see one of the things that's got me messed up. No mysteries; I've given it all to everyone to study and draw conclusions from. It has me pissed that instead of my body of work to speak for me, it's my word against Jeff's, he being able to say whatever he wants without me there to defend myself. That's why I scribbled lyrics from The Wall around the place and on the television screen. Like Joseph K, I feel like I'm on Trial, and, because I've acquainted myself with the one story The Door Before The Law. Instead of fighting it like Pink does, I've chosen to accept the sentence of being exposed before my peers enthusiastically, and that's why I believe whoever continues to stay in the background and slander me will eventually be seen as a fool, and I look forward to this day that I know approaches.

My dog really responds to noises and facial expressions. It's very effective. It's the only thing I've discovered that I can use to make her quit biting me. Sometimes I growl at her, sometimes I make loud, grumbling, gobbledey-goo sounds, and sometimes I hiss like a cat and scratch at the air in a threatening manner. She turns tail if I do it convincingly. Before, if I'd say "No" when she was doing something bad, she might stand her ground, get down on her belly, and start barking at me. I never realized all I have to do is just walk up to her looking slightly menacing to get her to retreat. The more she sees her growling and barking is ineffective, the less she tries it, and I hope soon my "No" will carry more weight than before. I couldn't believe it when a firm "No" got her to stop biting me tonight; that's never worked before. In the past, she's been relentless when she's in the mood and she's made my bed her domain. I've tried the nice guy approach; went as far as hiding under my covers and yelping, but she just keeps coming and coming. Scaring her works like a charm, though. Sometimes she growls back and we get into a growling match, but I always win because I think of so many different noises and facial expressions to make that I always find one that catches her off guard. I know I'm making progress when I see her hesitate before lunging at me, losing her faith in her ability to stand her ground. Sometimes, and this really cracks me up when it happens, I can just see the thought pop into her head to do something bad, and all I have to do is look at her a certain way and she acts guilty and runs off. I'm really grateful I found something that works because she's getting really wild, trying to grab everything in sight and carry it off.

I just finished a long, sloppy post that I barely had the patience to revise.

Since my blog is being watched by the Powers-That-Be, I've decided to make things interesting, and from now on I'm going to try to make my posts longer so if you want to keep tabs you'll at least have to spend some energy doing some reading. Who knows, the good bits might be near the end, eh?

And now, an observation about my dog.

First of all, we're friends again. I spoke with some people this weekend who persuaded me to stick it out. Apparently teething really takes over a puppy's brain and causes a lot of destructive behavior, so I shouldn't take it personally if she makes my arms and legs look like Frankenstein's Monster. Thank god she can't get at my gall bladder or else I'd really be in trouble.

I got some special ear-cleaning wipes for her today and cleaned out her right ear. Man, that was gross, but I'm so glad I did it sooner than later. I had no idea it got so bad in there.

More on my dog later.

I don't like computers anymore.

I chose my words very carefully just there; my first thought was to say "I hate computers", but that would misrepresent me. I grew up on computers; I'd be denying myself a huge chunk of who I am by declaring that I hate them. I have many happy memories playing computer games, even recently, and I admire a lot of programs. There was even a time when I enjoyed programming.

The reason I don't like them anymore is because as I've grown older I've started to need things besides entertainment and hobbies; i.e. a social life. The Internet has become a very popular form of communication, and even though computers are second nature to me, human interaction is a primitive art that outdates technology, which I believe makes my skills mostly useless, and therefore irrelevant.

Computers have a way of concluding the meaningfulness of existence. I feel the same way about commercials and television, but it hurts me the most when it happens on a computer because it's random and often on personal level. I can't remember the number of times I've been interrupted in the middle of expressing something I considered important; the computer coldly punching a hole in my enthusiasm, making me feel stupid and insignificant for even bothering. It happens in such a number of ways; there's no method to it. Sometimes it is really the person who doesn't desire the communication, but it is the computer that makes it possible to forgo tactfully ending a conversation. I've developed a very thick skin, learning from experience. Somehow I've reached a point where I don't care if anyone listens to what I have to say because I've found too many ways to do it.

I believe that anyone who finds talking to people over the Internet, unless that person owns or has access to the latest, cutting edge technology that adds voice and video, and even then I doubt I could be satisfied and I don't care if I'm picky; or that person has managed to create a subculture, based around his or her own private personality cult, which does happen and which I've dabbled in to my own abhorrence; this person does not have a concrete personality and cannot be called sane. Personal interaction should always involve things like visual cues and voice inflection, and include everything else that comes with setting: smells, tastes, surroundings, the sound of cars driving past or the feeling of the hot sun at an outdoor cafe, birds chirping in the bushes. The Internet makes accurate communication a guessing game that relies solely on context.

When I start to take it personally enough to speak out against it is when the illegitimately coined Digital Age begins to encroach upon the world of art, which is dear to me even if I treat it like a bastard son.

There are a lot of computer programs I think are fun to play with, but I won't lie---I say this with my tongue in cheek because a part of me wants you, the reader, to know how painful the past few years have been trying to cope---I need some nice drugs to spend a whole day doing nothing but sitting on the computer. It's a mixed compliment. It's better than nothing, but if that's all society's got for me, then I'm being suffocated of what I think I deserve as a living, breathing animal; why claim these things the rights of just humans? A green bag, an Internet connection, and a few programs like Illustrator and Photoshop, plus iTunes or some way to play music, and it's bearable for me; but I've come across people who are addicted to it sober, and that's what gets me---why anyone would actually choose to use time that way, stuck inside. For me, that would be a last resort.

This post has relevance because probably no one knows that this has been a major reason for why I dropped out of Graphic Design. Jeff flat-out worships technology. Would anyone like to disagree or accuse me of exaggeration? Everything is going digital. I could accuse other professors of this, too. If I had no choice but to stay indoors, a joint, some whiskey, or a pot of coffee, plus a computer, would probably keep me from going insane, but it's not like think of that an ideal way to spend my time, and I don't believe the computer is going to reveal some way of making art that couldn't have eventually been discovered by anyone trying to be an artist. Experimentation across mediums is outdated. Francis Bacon was painting on the backs of canvases and proving you could paint without ever using a brush half a century ago, Malevich declared painting dead a hundred years ago. Art made on the computer is just one type of art.

What has me in such a panic is seeing academia training students to abandon all the traditional forms of making art. I've met a lot of colleagues who couldn't live without drawing and painting, so it would be wrong to them to argue that there's no one being crushed by a move towards digital, and, in fact, it's probably a majority of students, but one professor is beginning to require digital-only portfolios, and there's too much emphasis placed on how things look on screen and on the web.

I lost respect for Jeff for this reason, and he's not the only professor who has disappointed me. An argument against mine might be that it's still difficult for some to see how asking for digital-only portfolios is a bad thing or why it's bad to gear your work for the web at a time when the Internet is still quite possible.

First of all, I consider the Internet to be a fad, and the American Dollar is not looking good although I don't know if anyone cares to dispute this, but with a crappy economy, people won't be spending freely to make online commerce viable. I consider the Internet to be an ephemeral market, the first to go in the state of panic. Screens display art using an advanced form of technology that combines back-lighting and fine resolution to display images. The difference to the average person between art on a screen and art on a canvas may seem unapparent or negligible, however I believe that a seasoned artist or someone who frequents galleries and museums will agree that seeing a famous painting on screen is nothing like seeing it in person. To that I will add, seeing Van Goghs, Picassos, Ernsts, the list goes on and on, in person, is like shaking a rock star's hand. We lose this quality of art when it's digital. Also, painting on canvas is a very particular niche that we take for granted; it's a development of Western Civilization and not the only way to paint. An artist can paint on bowls, ornaments, cars, vehicles, masks, people, buildings, just about anything, and each surface introduces a new challenge of figuring out how to make it paintable. Concentrating on computers, and, more importantly, holding digital art in higher regard than old fashioned ways of making art, is, in my mind, a threat to the broad practice of art. The question that keeps me up at night is: if we train an entire generation to give up paintbrushes and pens and the Internet-based economy finally does collapse or fade into obscurity, will we be prepared to go back to other forms of art?

I hope so, and I hope it happens sooner than later. I consider a course that relies on computers a boring waste of time. It all goes back to whether I'd rather stay inside making art at all. Again, I'll always stick to my former statement---only if you gave me a lot of drugs so it's bearable. I'd rather not even be making art, although that statement is a misnomer; what I really mean is that perhaps I'd rather be out having experiences which will later become art in the form of words or pictures, but unfortunately I have to put this all into terms that academics can understand. Those who haven't been going through the college run-around would be unable to appreciate how college-minded people suffer from narrow minds. I think this has rubbed off on the population because unfortunately it is also the average view that art is a painting on a canvas. To me, art is easily also a piece of writing, and there's not much to write about when you've spent the whole day in from of a computer.

Out of all the professors, it was hardest to accept that Jeff was this way, too. An argument against mine might be that he's cool because putting everything on a compact disc and turning it in is easier and cheaper than having to turn in boards, so it seems like he's saving people time and money. I agree with that. It's not the convenience I have a problem with; it's his motivation, which I believe is pure laziness. He's painfully bad with computers Yet again, I've chosen special words and avoided labeling him computer illiterate; that's an overused cliché loaded with connotations which will steer this argument way off course. I'm not picking on his age. I've seen people much older than he is pick up computers. He doesn't speak their language and he makes no attempt to, and that's why he maintains a constant frustration with them. This upsets my artistic sensibilities because I consider part of the artistic mind the soul of the pioneer, one who looks for new, unexplored territory. Instead, he wants the real world to fit his mold, and it makes me feel claustrophobic. He offends me as a designer because he refuses to discover the elegance of HTML and, dare I suggest, programming in general, and that's why I have made up my mind to find an education in the works of my favorite artists and musicians, many known for juggling being an artist, a writer, a technician, a programmer, and even a scientist, and, most importantly, simply a person, without a college degree to speak of; and this is why I consider a Graphic Design education degree at Georgia State University a waste of my time as long as it continues to go in this direction, which puts me off wanting to be an artist or a designer for the rest of my life.

Now I recognize this strange feeling I've been sensing. It's my dog learning.

People talk a lot about hell freezing over. A lot of people don't know this, but in Dante's Inferno, the deepest level of hell, reserved for the worst traitors to humanity, is covered in ice. The money I made at my old job was the coldest money I'd ever earned. Death, like cashing out, the card pops out from the slot and it's over, now it's someone else's turn. Your whole life stuck in the bread line, the rations getting more meager every year.

Alright, I've got a new nickname for Jeff... Uncle Monte.

Those who know what I'm talking about know what I'm talking about; those who don't should see the movie Withnail & I.

Ha-ha... man... gotta shake my head.

On a more serious side, I've seen craziness tonight that makes me put into question whether we haven't surpassed animals in our capacity for behaving like beasts. I feel like the most irresponsible master in existence; whatever's wrong with my hound on a account of this evening will be on my conscience forever. The spatters of mud on my car are truly nothing to freak out over; a good wash should set it straight; but when I look at them it's a painful reminder of how careless I was last night with my poor dog who trusts me unconditionally. Call me overprotective, but we've only got one life, and I've got no right taking the beast into my care if I'm going to put her in danger. I'm stamped with sin and I'm forsaken; we all are.

Things have turned sour with my companion. She's become relentless in biting me and my arms and legs are covered in scratches, welts, and wounds. It's impossible to get dressed or perform any chores. I know puppies have to chew on things constantly during their teething stage, but it hurts my feelings nonetheless that she won't stop attacking me no matter how much I plead with her. Last night I even started crying and she still wouldn't stop.

I was supposed to pick up my car today but I never made it out of bed. Today was the last day to get my parking tag for this month and I didn't bother to do that either. For all I know, the rental has been towed or put on a boot. Rent's due; perhaps I won't even get around to paying. I really feel like this is the end; no job, no future, no love... I really don't care what happens to me anymore. I've got enough to pay for this month and then I have no idea how I'll make it after that. Now I'm stuck with this animal who doesn't cease tormenting me. I think this is really the end.

Today I said farewell to the sixth floor of Library South. It happened so quickly I'm still reeling; I've gotten so bold that I don't wait anymore. I guess it's either a new life or the gutter for me because at this rate I'm soon going to be homeless.

I had a dream last night where I was trapped on the top floor of an abandoned building, and for some reason I desperately needed to escape. There were lots of gloomy windows covered in grime, and I broke a hole in one, but instead of leading to the outside, it was actually opening up into an interior; the view of the outside was just an illusion. I had stumbled upon one of the entrances to a separate world owned by Hindus, which was hidden and accessible from unusual portals. They were upset that I'd torn a hole in the entrance and attacked me, so I jumped inside and found myself in a strange restaurant with a high ceiling and floating African masks which chased me. My left hand turned into a boot and my right hand turned into the head of a dog, and I fought with a giant dog on their side. My dog hand tore at its neck and it started to get bloody. I don't remember what happened after that; neither of us seemed to be truly winning, but I felt like I was able to hold my ground.

We went to Sidebar; not only did they allow us to stay, but the barmaid served Zhanar a glass of water. I had a couple of beers and some chicken fingers. Zhanar switched between exhausted, barely able to hold her head up and alerted to all the noises and smells. I fed her bits of french fries and let her lick the sauce from my fingers, which I'm sure she found unexpectedly spicy. She is, without a doubt, taking lead in the story of my life, and I'm grateful that it's finally happening once and for all.

Zhanar is snoring loudly; she's had quite a day today.

I have to be one hundred percent around this formidable beast, haha. I never thought it would be a dog who would set me straight, but I can't complain; at least it's a matter of survival and not the result of being lectured. For once it feels good to be myself, and she seems to agree. She needs a firm, confident hand to keep her in check. I can't believe they're practically giving girls like her away at the pound; if it were up to me, I'd require a background check and a license.

Man, I don't think I can get high anymore; my personality changes, she notices, and her personality changes. I get too nice, lose confidence; she gets vicious, more prone to biting. It's absolutely imperative that I keep a clear head. I almost lost an arm trying to take a sock away that she became attached to. She misjudges her strength and I have to stay on top of her to make sure she knows when she's going too far. I appreciate the challenge, so it shouldn't be too much to ask of myself. I'm too attached to her; it scares the hell out of me to see my confidence slipping and watch her not pay me respect. I don't think I really need it anymore; she makes me less restless; I have to generate calm for the both of us; I feel like I'm approaching a point where I can concentrate at work, but I still have no desire to draw or paint.

To calm her down (and myself, because her behavior had set me on edge), we went up to the roof. She's getting good at climbing stairs. She's very afraid of heights; perhaps that's a common trait amongst dogs; I think they lack good depth perception but I could be wrong. What I know is that she stubbornly refuses to get on an elevator or stairwell and I either have to persistently coax her to succeed or pick her up.

The roof is actually a shitty place to take a puppy. There are planks missing in one side of the veranda that she could crawl through, and the wooden planks underneath are moldy and peeling paint. She was obsessed with what I imagine are hundreds of smells from parties still lingering in invisible traces that only a dog would notice. At one point I had to wrestle a paint chip she peeled loose from her mouth; I literally had to open her mouth and pull it off her tongue; I'm still paranoid that she managed to swallow something. I all happened so quickly, gave me some white hairs.

It was cold and I wasn't in the mood to play my bass, so I let her climb into my lap and she fell asleep inside my coat. I got bored and talked to myself with more gusto than ever before. I talk to get her used to the sound of my voice and because it puts her to sleep, but I must admit I used it as an excuse to think to myself out loud, and with my head a little whacked, I went into a strange, open-ended soliloquy about Atlanta and the future, and I imagined broken fragments of it echoing around the city, caught by passers-by and homeless. Despite the worrying fact that I was essentially talking to myself, I felt comfort that she was fast asleep, and I was able to laugh at myself and how weird it would have been for anyone witness to my numerous philosophical tangents which wandered unsteadily between wistful and angst-filled.

I take her everywhere because I enjoy it and the more she experiences the calmer she gets; her personality has changed so drastically in so few days, it's startling. I don't do it to attract girls, but a puppy does seem to be a girl magnet; I don't take advantage of it; as usual, I'm a gentleman. I can't help it, they just come up to me. But today there was one girl I met in Saxby's I'm stuck on. She was beautiful. When the server said animals weren't allowed, I negotiated a compromise. I agreed to take her outside if I could first order my cappuccino. The girl who had taken to Zhanar, her name was L_, was so sweet; she brought me my coffee. What I wouldn't give to meet her again. I don't regret not trying to get her number or give her mine; as I said, I take Zhanar everywhere for fun and I wouldn't want to exploit that for selfish reasons. I can only hope that we'll run into each other again, and, if not, it will kindle my heart and give me fuel for daydreams.

Marvelous! No wires chewed through; none of my clothes have been dragged from the laundry basket and torn up; she was asleep the whole time... I left Pink Floyd playing.

As much as I love my parents, I must confess that they're really sort of quite awful people and I'm really glad that my family wrecked itself to such a degree that they have no control over me. It's given me the freedom to break away and follow my heart, for better or worse, and I know for certain if they weren't so poor and destitute, my mother especially would have never relinquished control. As much as my mother loves animals, she doesn't really get the dog, and my dad is afraid of it. I grew up in a house full of cats, cold, ungrateful creatures they are, and my mother and her sister had a neurotic obsession with the worthless beasts.

I don't hate cats, in fact I once had a cat when I was little that lived with me up until it died and I was very attached, but they're so insensitive and lack any real personality or capacity to learn. They just run on autopilot and attend to their instincts; in the wild, I have respect for them, but the common house cat tends to be the enabler to neuroses and it sickens me when I see someone holding up a checkout counter to pay for dozens of cans of cat food in a variety of flavors, just wasting everyone's time and contributing to the continued isolation of an individual.

My dog is full of personality and she's very smart. I've never had such an animal before. The closest I've come is my tarantula. As surprising as it sounds, tarantulas are expressive creatures. They're very sensitive and responsive to touch, vibration, and temperature. They're pensive and if left alone, they move carefully, pausing every now and then to recalculate. They scare easily and they like to hide, but they can learn to enjoy being handled and stroked; they develop a sense of trust. It feels good to fill my home with an assortment of warm, compassionate animals. I once kept rats when I was dating my first girlfriend. It was her idea and I took somewhat of a liking to them, but they're extremely self-centered. They interact with humans, but they never stop searching for food and trinkets, their noses never stop working. You think they're bonding with you, but the moment they spot something worth making off with, they're gone; they incapable of trusting; it's instinctual to them; you can't make friends with them. We tried a couple of guinea pigs, but they're not even worth mentioning; horrible creatures. They're unbelievably stupid and squeamish. They fight with each other and whine over even imaginary hurts. Finally, we tried a rabbit. They're cute, but extremely wild and difficult to tame; we had to give it away because it made a mess of anything it could get its hands on and could not be trusted outside of its cage.

Zhanar is the first animal I feel really knows me. In this short time I've grown so attached that she seems more human than dog, and every now and then people briefly seem like dogs rather than humans. I'm not surprised my mother doesn't really take to her; she's never known how to really feel for something. I've always suspected that's why she's so overprotective---her guilt dictates that she be concerned, but there's a distance. Cats allow a person to remain in denial; dogs test it.

Up until now, my dad and I had been getting closer for the first time in my life. It was always hard for me; the experiences I've had recently have made it easier to confront people and I'm not uncomfortable around him like I used to be. But the dog, which he met for the first time this weekend and was totally unaware of it until I showed up, scared him, which hurt a little because I can see that there's a little bit emptiness in his affection; but I always knew it. In the end, we're opposites; he's mean and distrustful; I'm compassionate and guarded. He has a strong character, and I find spending time with him much more bearable than with my mother, who is incapable of suspending her vitriol, but it's really quite superficial, and with the introduction of a real, living animal into the picture, I can see him making a retreat, and the incompatibility between us is more obvious. My mother tells me he's afraid of dogs; whether or not I choose to believe her, Israelis are not dog-people and are in fact not fond of any kind of animal. This only furthers my dislike of Israelis and I'm stunned to consider that the people who have chosen that land, which they claim is given to them by G_d, have no love for G_d's creatures.

I had to take Zhanar back home on my lunch break. This is the first time we've been apart since I got her. I hope I come back and find she's just been sleeping the whole time and not tearing the place up.

Hehehe, I've brought her with me to my cubicle; we got coffee at Saxby's. I take her everywhere unless someone stops me, which hasn't happened yet...

Damn, busted.

It seems I've traded design for a dog, and I'm infinitely grateful. Is it really so one-or-the-other? I believe so. It was only by completely abandoning cares and exploring myself and listening to my instincts that I arrived here with my companion; and in the end, I'm a better artist for it; taming a dog like this takes talent and dedication, if you consider taming an animal an art, which I do.

This morning I dreamed about an underground scene in an abandoned bus. It was like Club Berlin in After Hours, but cooler; thank god I didn't bastardize that movie like I was assigned to. Everyone was in make-up, wild, rough, dancing strange jigs to the music being played inside. I could hardly stay inside, it was so crowded, so I climbed on the shoulders of the people lined up outside and got on the top and looked down inside from the opening in the roof.

I had other strange dreams last night. There was a scientist who turned a sea monster into a woman and an episode of Friends that turned into a commercial for Paxil.

The sensation has become stronger. She feels like an extension of my soul. I feel like I've experienced this life millions of times. Should I be worried or comforted? The idea of eternity has always given me the chills. Every time I catch a glimpse of it in a dream or on drugs it scares the hell out of me, like my part in reality is no more than a wind-up toy. So many of my dreams for as long as I can remember were showing me this place, and now that I'm here I feel like I'm on the edge of a chasm, facing the void of unpredictable futures. When I get high I feel like I understand her too well, like I'm looking into a mirror; it doesn't freak me out too much; I could get used it; but sometimes I look too deep and it startles me. When she's restless and I don't feel like taking her out, I play my bass and she falls asleep; I was playing Dogs earlier and after a while she started snoring heavily like a person. I feel so calm when she's in such a deep sleep. Dogs must be capable of vivid dreams because when I was at the pound, half of them were fast asleep, and some of them were moving and talking in their sleep. I don't wonder what they're dreaming; I doubt I could guess or comprehend them; it just comforts me to know they have them.

For a while now I've had the strangest sensation that my life has already been lived and that I'm just passing through a re-run. I suspect it's probably the anti-depressants and it's just an illusion, but it's uncanny. Last night; the visit to the pound... I feel like I've been there before and things happened the same way the last time; like I saw it all played out in a dream before it happened.

I took my dog out today. She's so well-behaved I don't even have to put a leash on her. She's gotten used to car rides and she listens to the music I play. She fell asleep while I drove through the rain and Joy Division played; such comforting music produced out of pain.

I've named her Zhanar. It's more of a tribute to Bulgakov than a dig at my ex-wife; Zhanar is also a beautiful name. Bulgakov's most famous novel, The Master and Margarita, has always had significance in my life ever since I first read it eleven years ago. Zhanar was my Margarita; a dream come true. Having grown up in a post-Soviet country, she was naturally familiar with the novel; it's one of the most important Russian novels. Despite the language barrier, it was a bridge between us, something we both could relate to. Unfortunately our romance was doomed just like the characters in the novel.

My dog looks like a Zhanar; the name fits her well.

Who needs antidepressants when you have a dog? Like the title of one of Bulgakov's novels, I have the heart of a dog. They're so sensitive to music; it's so easy to relate because they feel so many of the emotions that I do. Pink Floyd makes her melancholy, anxious; Interpol calms her down; just as I would expect, because that's the same way those songs make me feel as well. There are no mysteries, it's almost too real. Frightening and comforting. I don't feel so alone anymore.

I'm on the 6th floor again of library south in my cubicle. I've decided to milk it while it lasts, since, realistically, I desperately need the money if I expect to make it through this year. Maybe I'll do some actual work; who cares? I suppose they don't have any alternatives, so they can go at my pace, which is slow. All this deadline stuff is bullshit anyway; it's not like a website for the women's studies section of the special collections is an urgent project. I don't feel guilty anymore wasting time. I'm so glad I got out from under the professors who hold their own reputation in higher regard than the sanity of the students under them. One week to design and program an entire site in Flash? Nuts to that. They already moved the target date to the middle of April after accepting how unrealistic that is; watch it not be launched until summer! The funny thing is that it's so hard for them to set a realistic target date because this project is totally extraneous. It could be launched tomorrow or never and it would affect nothing. It's just the passing fancy of an archivist in the offices above, pointless and a waste of time.

It's been a nice day today, despite the overcast sky. I just got back from lunch; didn't even go to eat lunch. I went up to the roof of my building and played my bass for a while, felt damn alright. I got a red bull from the store on Walton and made my way back, ran into three of the seniors from GRD: Ben, Candy, and that other hispanic girl whose name I always forget. Such snobbery... I had to make the effort to greet them because they were pretending not to notice me. I said "Hi seniors" and kept waving until one of them finally waved back. I can't believe this treatment; you'd think I had killed someone or done something truly disgraceful. It hurts immensely when all I've been doing is following my heart. In my personal life I'm clean and honest; I'm a good person; I don't deserve this. My only faults, which I'm not afraid to confess to, are paranoia and eccentricity; being ostracized makes me bitter, and it's madness to expect me to feel inspired in an environment where I'm constantly scrutinized by spoiled college students who hardly have any semblance of humanity, who are encouraged in their behavior by ignorant, impotent, ineffectual professors who are nothing more than academic snobs who failed to distinguish themselves in life. To me, it's a circus, everyone filling a role; I feel better out of it, but I'm at the mercy of the gnawing at my heart that plagues me, and if these people who were once my colleagues had any compassion, they'd at least be civil rather than treat me as if God Himself had cast me out of Heaven and turn away. We're talking about Jeff, for god's sake; a grown man who has an EZ-Bake Oven, who spends his free time visiting thrift stores trying to collect pieces of his past in some futile attempt to escape the present.

I hope someday you learn to make a sacrifice or two for what you believe in instead of letting every clown with a little bit of power lord over you. I know what it means to make sacrifices; it's tough, there's no reward and in fact you usually end up punished, but you earn a piece of yourself; you walk away with a stronger character, less afraid of people who try to push you around. I gave up my old job because it went against what I believe in, and unlike my former colleagues, I don't have anything to fall back on in the form of savings or parents, but respect for myself was more important than the money and I've never regretted my decision. My friends come first, and I would always choose them over an asshole, regardless of the consequences. If Edgar had thrown up all over my work, I wouldn't have cared, because he's my friend, and he can't be replaced; they're just a bunch of stupid drawings; it's just a stupid career; it's just some stupid money. I never believed that graphic design was the path to selling out and I still don't. I consider design in some ways a truer art than what's taught in fine art and more important. If people with no souls become graphic designers, then that is what graphic design will become. It is up to you all to fight for what you believe in and make design into what you want it to be. See these professors for the assholes they are and stand up to them. They need you as much as you need them and you have more on your side to bargain with than you realize.

Zhanar, if you're out there reading this... I don't know what else I can do to win you back. I've flayed my soul until there's nothing left but my true self; I've given up the obsession with becoming an artist that came between us; I've found a reason to live in each day so that I'm no longer empty and sour, and I've brought music into my life so that in some fantasy I can imagine us together, you with your dombra and me with my bass. You're my salvation in the land of the lost, my anchor, my buoy; I am drawn to you; you are my beacon. I need you to restore me; without you, there is no hope that anything in this life is loyal, and without some place to call home, whether it be in someone's heart or in a great, big house full of memories, there is no reason to thrive, and I'm reduced to an animal forced to survive.

I slept the day away; I can't describe how lonely that makes me feel. I'm full of anguish. I feel like Muhamed in Dante's Inferno, who is forced to tear at his bowels for eternity, and when meeting Dante says, "See how I rend me!"

On Saturday I'm going to pick out a dog. He won't be a pet; he will be my friend, and he will follow me everywhere like a son. He won't need a leash because we will be inseparable. When we go into a place that doesn't allow pets, I will say "this is no pet", and he will follow my cue and behave more like a person than an animal. I won't buy him dog food; I'll cook for him. He will learn to use the toilet inside not through training but out of respect and understanding. I will name him Lazarus.

But now, I'm going to go have sushi. I can hide there for a while and feel a little less alone.

Is anyone even reading this shit or am I just talking to myself?

I can't believe it; television programming has gotten dumber than my wildest nightmares. Imagine a cable network which proclaims itself "The History Channel" and brandishes a golden, beveled 'H' crowned with regal serifs as its logo, which shows nothing but alien and conspiracy theory documentaries, and pseudoscience programs which become advertisements for NASCAR and polymer industries. We're on the brink of something brutal, lying dormant in our collective consciousness that is about to become unleashed. If there are others like myself suffering inside from the total breakdown in communications and collapse of reason that's approaching, then I know for certain we're suffering just like people my age were forced to suffer in World War One, one hundred years ago. Every day is a struggle against the toll its taking on my sanity, but I fight it and hope either it will fade away or reveal itself so that my final transformation can take place.

Another day, another pill; a cruel way to be forced to measure my time.

I dreamed of a dog that was very close to me; I think a new animal may enter my life soon.

Some day there will be monuments to Dick and Gibson alongside Milton and Homer, and William Blake will be held in the same regard as Yeshua ha-Nozri. Our dreams will be safely suspended above the memory of Kepler, and Plato will become irrelevant and obsolete. We will colonize every niche of the solar system; we will master every atmosphere and stratosphere. We will find ways to travel and live, in, around, and under every surface, solid and fluid, and in the vacuums all around.

Some of us will know the cold dawn of Mars, tempered by familiar Sol. The dark, swirling clouds of Jupiter will be pregnant with our craft, navigating the nebulous tempest, a calm communion with Ba'al over Flies. We will bleed Venus until she is dried up, and settle down on her crusty shores. We will hold Mercury in our artificial hands like a burning token and plant earrings in the rings of Saturn. With the thumb of industry and the forefinger of technology, we will flick old Hades into the Void and kiss the sisters Uranus and Neptune.

We will be, forevermore, the human race.

I love the word frequency; it describes so many things: visible and invisible light, sound-waves; waves can be real or abstract, the vibration that heats a rock or the pulse of light that makes your eyes work. The ranges are constant. Like a road-map, a compass that points in foreign directions.

I want to see liquid ozone and frozen ozone; it changes color, gets darker, I wonder if it's beautiful.

This night has gone nowhere. Will I carry on normally tomorrow or has my mind spent too long in isolation? I need rest but the sun is about to come out. I know this feeling well, discarding tomorrow for the sake of a night of fantasy, living in reverse, choosing to experience the reward followed by the punishment. I feel like a mess. Is it my mind or is there something wrong with my body? All I can do is cling to hope that in a few days things will return to normal.

I play now without giving it much thought; the fingers on my left hand are becoming hellish, cracked landscapes, going numb; it's strange to think I was once timid with the strings. The keyboard continues to evade my attempts to get a hold of it, to get both hands playing in concert with each other; instead I return to the bass, which feels more natural to me. I feel trapped in a nightmare, trying to shake the walls apart with harmony and melody. It comes, but slowly and through trial and error; some instruments seem too technical to master by wit alone. The keyboard is the most unnatural instrument I own; a synthesizer. The keys act more like pedals. A naturalistic approach is almost impossible; the footholds of reality are digitally reproduced. Something analog would at least allow me to play with shape, and intensity, along with normal pitch. I feel like a Fauvist who's been given nothing but cardboard boxes to paint when I try to play the keyboard I have; it's very disconcerting a sensation. Is there any way out of this?

I'm settled; I'm not working on this project. There has to be something else I can do. My simple retirement check cleared, so I've got another two months to look for work. I feel like this job is the mirror image of my last job. It's trading overbearing chauvinism for overbearing feminism. I quit my old job because looking at porn sites and their domain names made me ashamed to be alive. I support women's rights and I'm pro-choice, but sorting through hundreds of images relating to abortion, contraception, and protests make me want to crawl into a hole and die. There has to be some middle ground.

All I can say is, at least I'm eating and not in bed starving. On a day like this, knowing I'm about to duck out of an obligation that's questionable and not worth my time, in the past, I would punish myself by not eating, which was easy because in the morning, and even more so if I've slept in, I'm so hungry that it takes effort to get out of bed. Combined with the guilt of avoiding responsibility, it would be impossible to get out of bed, and the rest of the day would be a descent into hungry-fueled depression that would only get worse until some glimmer of hope would get me on my feet, I'd eat something, and I'd spend the rest of the day feeling a little bit of regret but glad I'd at least seen how good it feels to live, regardless of failure or success.

Today was different; I just said "fuck them and their god-awful project I wouldn't assign a dog", got out of bed, made a snack, considered my promising bank balance, and now I already feel okay; not the best, but okay. There are so many simple jobs I could get; why should I subject myself to something infinitely painful just for a few extra dollars an hour when I'm talented enough to earn twice that much? I can't function in this job, so I'm going to listen to the pain inside which is urging me to seek deeper water. I'm concerned that I can't function anymore; I'd rather it be the job than myself to blame. Wouldn't you? For me, it is better to fall instead of find support through denial, just drift away in the ocean of time, let myself decay, become forgotten, rejoin the cosmos; it's only a lifetime; nothing to panic over if it doesn't work out. Why let guilt and self-loathing tear me apart when all I need to do is take it easy for a few days and figure out a new course of action? If anything, at least I can enjoy my freedom for a little while longer and cherish the small pleasures like eating and sleeping with a clear conscience.

In fact, fuck it; I'm not even going back to bed. I'm gonna make coffee and play my guitar. That's how it should be done.

I watched Blade Runner again tonight. So far I've watched it three times since renting it, mostly for the background noise. The soundtrack is okay and the visuals are very striking. There are some similarities between the futuristic world of this movie with other movies like Brazil and Idiocracy. For example, if you pay close attention to the architecture, it's very modular, but, unlike the sloppy use of modular design in Idiocracy, or the boring redundancy in Brazil, it's stylish and one hardly notices that it's composed of repeating patterns.

Unfortunately, the Director's Cut is a hideously mangled piece of editing, however a keen eye can pick out the plot by sorting through awkward cuts, such as the introduction of the character of Roy Batty, two scenes, one clearly from the end of the movie, spliced together, and dubs, used in such a way that only a clever ear listening to the story could catch them, are used to sweep over the deeper elements of the plot to make it more theater-friendly. The rest of the plot elements, which I'm only aware of because I'm familiar with the genre and the novel in particular that this movie was inspired by, are packaged into richly embedded visuals that only careful study can unravel combined with previous knowledge of the kinds of ideas Philip K Dick was trying to express through his novels.

In this world, which is similar to the world of Asimov, animals are mostly all endangered, and humanity is pushed to the edge and kept alive by technology. Gene-splicing is used to bridge cells and machinery; experts live in a fantasy where they design automatons that remind them of themselves; tech-savvy corporate salary-men work on individual parts, like eyes and kidneys; and peddlers with skill design pets, which are popular amongst the low classes of people, who live in the billions, under heavy security that has a hint of the old corruption people have known in ancient empires. Because only individuals with extra cash can afford a pet, and because no one sees real animals in the wild, or there is no wild, animals attain a spiritual status, like tattoos. Asimov's world is more shiny and vague; this world, perhaps because of how it's portrayed in the movie, is lost and gritty. In the novel '...Sheep', it's definitely lost. Dick's worlds were always more lost than gritty because he didn't know being a hard-boiled detective; he could only imagine. He writes about how the dregs of society will live in the future. The trailer park people don't take over; instead, they get taken over by the cunning races who have been working their way into rich society.

The movie Blade Runner is limited because it relies heavily on stereotypes; it's very sex-rich. The scene inside Eyeworks is completely gratuitous for me; I'm more interested in the scene that shows the Eyeworks shop-front, one of the few places where you see English, laid in a very distinctive face. All of the faces are distinctive and there's a sparing few. Similar to Idiocracy, the Police brandish and sport serial numbers in Arabic numerals reminiscent of ocr, except that in Idiocracy, it really is ocr, and everything is written in ocr, whereas in Blade Runner, it looks like ocr, is more suitable for reading than ocr, and used only for numbers and handles. Finally, I spotted the phone company using something that looked Bauhaus, which seemed appropriate.

But all these clever details are ruined by a plot which is patched together and the dialogue is often a mess. I'm left suspecting a lot of things, intentional meanings, lost because the movie was edited to cover them up, feeling like the story hasn't been done justice. Why does Hassan panic when Deckard shows him the Snake scale? He recognizes his own work; does it belong to a species of snake that is rarely requested by customers? Something's been dubbed out if you watch Ford's lips and follow the soundtrack.

Other stereotypes include nauseating sexism. In '...Sheep', the characters are more flawed and mediocre.

In my opinion, the best thing about the movie is the fashion. Deckard and Holden wear beautiful clothes for men. Somewhere in that is the subtle link with Dick's world where designing and selling animals takes advantage of the human need to identify one's self. If I want to be anyone from the movie, it's Holden, even though he's killed a few minutes into the movie. To me, that's what makes it a movie and not worthy of being called a film. There's more story behind this character; it's nothing more than uneven casting ruining the part of the story with him in it. It makes Deckard's character too unrealistic to be sustainable as an icon, and there are scenes where it becomes difficult to determine whether the content is being filled in by the script or drifting into the actor's own personal alcoholism. It's annoying; dishonest. There are parts of the romance in the story that I approach getting into, but I'm often left cold by the woodenness of the roles that rely too heavily on make-up and edge.

What really appeals to me is searching for all the hints that prove there's a layer underneath the terrible scripting. It took viewing the movie several times, but I finally noticed the strange asian women in the adverts are taking pills and smiling; are they drugs or are they mints? It's left unclear, but it reminds me of other movies inspired by Dick, like Minority Report, and it's at that point I can spot the deeper concept and appreciate, if anything, what Dick was trying to convey through his work, even if it's only used as brilliant decoration to sell a movie.

The last time I watched the scene inside Eyeworks, which I decided to fast-forward through, a third into it, because it was unbearable after a while from the nauseating overacting, I wondered: how many times did they force the actors to run through those lines? It seems inhumane. And in the end, all just to produce a single scene which is so impossible to watch and unnecessary to the plot that it should never even have been included. The only thing that made it rewarding was the use of real broken English.

That's another feature unique to the movie; the sense of a dozen different cultures all having evolved into subcultures within the same city, dialects becoming like races. Near the beginning, in the scene where Deckard buys sushi, a sign can be scene for only a second, but long enough to see it's written in Cyrillic. Most of the signs in the poorer quarters are in Chinese or Japanese; there's absolutely no Korean; corporate logos in unique forms of Latin are sparse. Yet again, heavy stereotypes. Racially, it feels Middle Eastern, East European, Chinese, or Japanese; as a movie, Dick's world feels more like Effinger's. I love it, but without a discerning eye it's so hard to fully appreciate; much like how the replicant's are provoked by things they don't understand, I feel like the movie passes too quickly through a world I want to stay in forever. I could stand this future as long as I had an apartment like Deckard's and clothes like Holden. In Idiocracy, all the races turn into a collective mush; in Brazil, there's only one race, the British, but in Blade Runner, they're all still mostly around, in close proximity so that they bleed into each other and mutate, but around; some hint of recognizable humanity.

Finally, the architecture. Everyone lives in incredibly overpopulated urban dwellings. This is almost identical to Asimov's, made very bright and shiny in I, Robot, but not really so pleasant, considering most food would be yeast grown in vats to accommodate the food shortage that results from having to feed all the humans. The only movie to really tackle the problem of over-population directly is Idiocracy, which has left me forever humbled by starkly exposing how common everyone is. The rest jump into the world where it's happened, not as chaotically, but more realistically, so that life continues rationally, rather than degenerating. The architecture in Blade Runner is the most bearable. It's extremely unfriendly and mass-produced, but creative. It's hardly accidental. The tallest buildings slope gently upwards instead of stick straight up, as they currently do. Supports in the common districts are expanded radially in the style of Hindu temples, suggesting that Asian influence has crept into the infrastructure. Deckard's apartment is made of dozens of ornate, replicated cubes; appliances use the cubes as guides; furniture is a mixture of comfortable and threatening; there's a thorny cactus in silohuette in contrast to the square room. The movie is full of strange and fascinating shapes, plenty of colorful lights that go beyond decorating and approach communication. As I watch it, I wonder whether humanity will find technological solutions to sustain an over-populated world facing extinction despite the overwhelming poverty individuals would have to live in or if we've already tipped the ecological balance too far so that we can either look forward to a world like Brazil, where we slowly and painfully die off while betraying each other, or a dormancy like in Idiocracy, where humans barely capable of taking care of themselves are miraculously kept alive through dumbed-down technology that lasts questionable long enough for someone to come along and fix it.

Tonight I had a flashback and I felt like I was fifteen again, clearing tables at a Wendy's; my first job, where I was forced to listen to awful music over the radio system. The best thing I could hope for was to catch a Moody Blues single from the 1980s, which played perhaps twice a day. I had the sensation while playing counterpoint against A Momentary Lapse of Reason; something empty, unstoppable, eating me alive, taking me back to points in my life when I felt almost completely worthless. Always a pioneer, in the end no one cares; in the end, nothing, again, forever. To be trapped in a world of images, to destroy the image before the self is destroyed and live in personal exile; a place that ends before it begins; chained to the instrument like an automaton, playing like a ghost walks, walking through my skin, consuming my my soul, replacing me forever henceforth.

I do have one love in my life who's always been true to me; she'd visit me whenever I ask, but the government won't let her see me. Her name is Mary. She's not perfect, but there's something magical about her. All I can do is pine for her, and light a candle every day.

Call me Bartleby.

I love how when people find out you're good with computers they automatically think that's all you're into and you're willing to devote your life to sitting at a desk and doing work no one else wants to. As much as I need the money, and despite how well it's paying, I'm sitting here on the 6th floor of the library asking myself what I did in life to deserve this. I want to work on this project like I want to put a dremmel through my eyeball. This is worse than what I was being asked to do for Stan.

The funny thing is I'd gladly copy script for two-thirds what I'm being paid now. At least script-copying is something mindless you can do that passes the time. Creative work is impossible when your mind is a blank and you're uninspired. Why is my generation being forced to suffer through these ignorant times? Why am I being punished for being smart? It's been the same theme all throughout my life; the system has always been a joke. When I did well in school, I was praised to the point that I was isolated from my peers and suffered from isolation; when I did badly, people assumed I wasn't being myself and I suffered from the frustration of not being listened to. I've been forced to spend my whole life, watching average people live lives of varying degrees of normalcy, alone and frustrated, constantly craving intimacy and rarely receiving it, considered too smart or innocent to be capable of all the vices everyone else indulges in, admonished for using drugs or choosing love over responsibility; all this, despite the fact that I love smoking pot and playing music more than anything else in the world, that, for me, a life without romance is not worth living; despite the fact that these things are who I am and I know myself better than those who choose to tell me how to live my life. I'm a simple man, and I want the same things out of life as everyone else. I consider my intelligence a tool for survival and a weapon against boredom.

Even my wife put me in this loathed, disrespected category. She said I deserve someone better. This is why I behave so destructively. I'm determined to break out of the mold I don't want. People don't know who they're talking to when they give me advice. When I try to be myself, I get sent to the school counselor, and then I have to talk to more people who don't know me. I'll never stop fighting until I attain a life that makes me feel like a real person. Until then, I'll be a thorn in the side of society as much as I can through any means I can devise as long as it's not violent or wantonly destructive. Even if I don't change much, at least I'll deprive this place of one good mind and move on to the next world knowing I never gave in.

I was once afraid of taking such an antagonistic stance; I doubted myself and asked if I wasn't just lashing out and refusing to listen to people; so I tried getting help, tried anti-depressants. I've seen a counselor, a therapist, two psychiatrists; in the hospital I was interviewed by countless MDs and understudies; and here at school I've seen the assistant to the dean and the school counselor. The more I see, the more phony the whole thing is to me and the more hopeless I become that I'll never get any real help from the system set up to provide help. I've given up on it and I've decided to trust myself and do what I want, live my life the way I want.

I'm regressing because of all this strange treatment. I'm almost thirty and I feel like a troubled teen. I'm starting to panic, become desperate, trying to figure out where the hell I can go to have a real life. The anger just pushes people away, I get used to the isolation, I get worse. It's a terrible cycle. I want help, but asking for help seems to attract the people around me with something weighing on their conscience; and for them, helping strangers, or any form of charity, is a way to make themselves feel better. The system tries to provide help, too, but they're lazy and corrupt. Psychiatrists overmedicate and most therapists lack the creativity to treat people on a personal level, and in the end it all leaves me feeling incredibly empty, used, used up, even more worthless than before. I'd rather save my time and money, not be hooked on four different medications doing who-knows-what to my brain chemistry, which together would easily cost $400 a month without insurance, and suffer a little bit. If I can't function as an artist or a desk jockey, maybe it's because I'm simply not meant to do those things. Yet again, I don't understand why people around me insist that I devote myself to something I hate simply because I display some talent at it. I could go on and on...

don't rock the boat; sink it

Now that I think back a bit, it seems like I knew something was wrong with school the day we were asked to sign a questionable form which, even though it was meant to allow a "videographer" to come in and "video(?)" us, it was worded in such a way that it could only be read that we were signing away all rights to all artwork we create for no pay to ourselves or our heirs. Where was our legal council? We're supposed to just sign and go on with the day of arts and crafts? They want something from us but they're not willing to make an effort to put our minds at rest, and anyone with half an intelligence would lose sleep over signing something like that. They were banking on the majority not questioning it, making the few against it, if any, seem like morons or paranoid lunatics. I remember how Liz spoke with me in low tones, so the conversation would be confidential but seem out in the open, and told me about how a "videographer" was coming in to "video" us. She didn't say anything about a form we'd have to sign, and I thought it was strange she was telling me this in confidence; in fact, I assumed her only concern was whether I was okay because this was the first day I was there after I was in the hospital. Perhaps I was supposed to feel like she was doing me a favor, allowing me back in class, and assumed without question that I'd obligingly sign it.

Maybe I am being paranoid, but I object to the one-way interaction involving something that some of us found alarmingly legal and against our interests. I'm aware of the fact that work we produce as students for our classes belongs to the University, but this contract didn't say anything specific; it plainly referred to our artwork, as if it could mean work produced inside and outside of class, and before, after, or during our membership with the school. They send us the form, say "just sign it", and the professor, who is neither the office who wrote or will process the contract, and who is not a legal expert, nor is she a beneficiary whose interests are ours, brushes off our concerns with what she thinks is most likely what the form is trying to mean and how far it extends.

We're at school to get an education; not sign strange forms that come from strange offices during class hours when we should be doing something productive, or any time at all for that matter. I can't stand strangers making me obligated to do things I'm not obligated to do. If it's that important to them, they should hire an attorney to deliver the form, explain any of our questions, and witness the signatures. It didn't strike me at the time that this would be the right way to do things; there was just something in my gut that said it was bullshit. I'm glad now that I stood my ground.

I slept through the whole evening, my entire collection of Pink Floyd playing in the background. I drifted in and out of sleep as the albums played through in alphabetic order. Despite the countless times I've listened to them all, tonight was special. They worked through my subconscious, played through my dreams, and acted as a cue for different trains of thought. Often I'd awake to sounds that seemed familiar but difficult to place and foreign at the same time. I was woken gently to the clocks at the beginning of Time and I felt at home not just in my own bed, but in time itself. Finally, during the ballad at the end of the Narrow Way on Ummagumma, I started out of bed without thinking and unlatched the case to my guitar, which had been sharing the bed with me the whole time, filling the loneliness, and, as if I had arrived just in time to join in, began to play with all my heart, and ended the evening by becoming a part of Wish You Were Here. I don't feel so alone anymore. Friends come and go, but music will always be close to my heart.

Today I bought Madonna's album "Like a Virgin", something I never thought I'd do because I tend to avoid really big stars like Madonna, Michael Jackson, and so on. It seemed promising... Lately I've been getting into the 80s. I watched Desperately Seeking Susan for Jeff, I started listening to Joy Division, I got the famous New Order album known for the song Blue Monday, and I got U2's Unforgettable Fire, which is alright. I really dig the precise, kicking backbeat of Material Girl, but the rest is unbearable. Her voice is comical; I can't believe it ever got past editing like that. She sounds like a chipmunk, or a little girl; it's creepy and weird, unnaturally squeaky and high-pitched. I'm so depressed, I feel betrayed. I was sure that her most popular album would be great, what with her being such a big star with such a long career. Driving home and listening to it feels like a moment in my life so infamous that I almost feel as if the end is near; like being sucked into a singularity so that you see your life passing before your eyes, over and over again for eternity. I feel so empty.

I still can't get over the fact that my ex-wife Zhanar is going to Georgia State. It's eating me up inside and I feel incredibly fragile. I feel like my life is cursed, like I was born under a bad sign. Anyone who says the world isn't a cruel place is either lying or ignorant, and that's why I hardly give the advice of therapists and counselors any notice. You can fill me full of drugs, train me to think differently using by-the-book mental gymnastics, or teach me to simply live in denial, but nothing will ever take away the way I feel cheated out of a real life. I don't want money or career; I just want to get the hell out of here already, but I don't know where to go. Is any place truly any better? Is there a home waiting for me somewhere? Can someone help me? I feel so lost.

Jesus of Nazareth is attributed to the likening of hypocrites to whited sepulchers, clean and perfect on the outside, but full of dead men's bones on the inside. That is how I feel about the current state of graphic design.

On a totally different note, this may be the coolest gadget I've ever bought:


It's digital, but it feels analog. There's a little microphone that measures any sound it picks up, and the needle swings back and forth in real time. You can even sing into it; tune your voice.

It really bothered me today that I had to see the dean's assistant. People keep saying the same thing, how I'm so talented, like that somehow replaces the need for love and affection that's missing in my life, which is one of the main reasons why I find it impossible these days to care about school or being an artist.. I feel like they deny me my humanity with all this special attention. I don't have to use my talent if I don't want to; I should have the choice to become a common low-life if I want without anyone saying I'm making a mistake. I don't really want things to go that far, but it irritates me how two-dimensional people can be. Just because I'm good at something it doesn't necessarily mean I want to do it, and money is not an incentive for me like it is for other people. I'm more concerned with doing what makes me happy, and I know myself to be the kind of person who can handle a rough situation in exchange for freedom. I get a bit tired of being pressured to strive for something someone else considers a necessity. I've grown to really dislike Stan in particular because the things he wants me to see as my strengths and the things he envisions me doing in life are not at all what I want. I feel like I'm being stereotyped.

I chose to study design because I'm genuinely fond of design in itself, in all its forms, from graphic design to functional design, to fashion, and so on. I'm not interested in nailing a job at a media company and making lots of money or winning contests. To me, that's not why you're in school; I believe in school you're there to do the things you can't get away with in the real world, and I disagree that school should be preparation for the real world. I say: let people figure out the real world for themselves once they get out there. I never realized the program was going to be so job-oriented, and for me that's a serious turn-off. If I can't create freely, there's no passion, and I'd might as well just start working again, which is pretty much what's happening now. I've already had experience doing things I really don't want to do for money; I went to school to get away from that for a while. Grades mean nothing to me, and if I have to purposely get Fs this semester to prove it, then so be it. If school is going to be this painful and unrewarding, then I'm just not going to bother. If I can't make it in this country without a degree, I'll just move to another country. I've decided that I'm going to make the most of my life and accept no limitations, and I'm willing to take as many risks as possible to get to where I want to be. I have faith in myself that no matter where I end up, I'll come through alright; that's how it's been so far. I believe security, as in the security that comes with a steady salary, is a trap that brings numerous obligations and the continual fear of falling from grace. Once you get used to the idea of not having security, you start to see opportunities everywhere, and the world is a vibrant, lively place.

I'm not going to press too much right now about my work, but I hope eventually my desire to see it given away will be fulfilled. Everyone I talk to really wants to have it, and it bothers me that my wishes are being denied. Will Jeff ever accept that this is a clear-minded decision of mine or is he going to cling forever to the idea that he has to save me from myself? One thing for certain is that I'm not going to take it back. It feels so good not having it anymore; I'd never want to go back to the way things were. I appreciate the fact that Jeff is taking care of it as I'd hoped, but now I feel like my own will is not being respected. There are people who will gladly put the pieces up in their homes on display, so what more could I ask for to make me happy? The thought of it returning to my closet is depressing to me. I hope that in a month or two, if I'm still advocating that it is given away, which I will be because that's my true feelings, I will be believed. I can't stand this; it's like I'm being forced to be what people see rather than what I am. Why am I not being listened to? No one can force me to be an artist, and I'm the kind of person where I'll make a point of doing no more art ever again just out of spite if I have to to prove a point.

I made money two different ways. In the morning and afternoon I earned an hourly wage working for the school, but later I made three dollars in paper busking outside the CNN Center. My skill is rough, yet it feels like it's coming back to me, returning like a memory from a world sleeping inside me, like I'm not learning to play but remembering how to play. I couldn't have felt more comfortable in front of all those random faces. All the days I'd spent wandering the town, being a nobody, gave me courage. I look forward to the day when I'll be able to play beautiful songs and give people something to enjoy.

The fingers of my left hand are turning blue and peeling skin. I feel that it takes more than elbow grease to produce brilliance, but it's difficult not to feel proud of the passion flowing through me that causes me to savor the pain of the copper strings biting into the pads of my fingers. They say that a person preparing to kill himself gives away his possessions, but I don't consider artwork a possession. Once you finish a piece, it should leave your hands, either into someone else's or into the garbage can. It's no good otherwise; it loses value the longer it goes unseen. Art is always contemporary one way or another. It expires like food. I don't even remember who I was five years ago, so how can I expect someone else to identify with work completely removed from any kind of context? One can always impress with the show of achievement, but there's such a difference between making an impression and actually grabbing a person's attention and making that person see things from your perspective. Impressing is meaningless to me; I consider artwork a failure unless it provokes a feeling or idea. Pretty sounds, pretty pictures... worthless.

If the day ever comes that I'm found giving away my bass or my keyboard or my car, then you will have reason to worry, because those are my prized possessions. I'm rough on them because I feel the only way to love an inanimate object is with reckless abandon. But if I were to lose them, I would miss them and feel incomplete. I would seek them out and try to reunite with them instinctually. There isn't a single image that I'm attached to in this way, and if there were, then I could draw it a hundred times and throw each drawing away because I wouldn't need the copies to make the feeling real. It would be inside me and reproducing it would feel natural. I'd be able to create it over and over. Until there is such an image, there is no point in hanging on to images which are only fragments of personality over time. They're only valuable as long as they're being seen by other people.

I entrusted my entire body of work to Jeff because I feel he'll take good care of it, however it belongs to everyone who wants a part of it. I hope it gets to breathe every once in a while and that the collection slowly dissipates into nothing as its explored and distributed. Most of the pieces have expired and are not worth asking for money. I only want them to go to people who will find inspiration in them or who simply want them.

I never thought the day would come when I would feel so free from old feelings haunting me day and night. So many old thoughts and memories, lots of confusion. I needed the drawings as proof that I was worth something during a time when I wasn't sure who I was, but now that my personality is stronger and more defined, they're just a hindrance. Let them live a new life. I'm happy to see them gone.

I believe that as long as one's sense of humor is still intact there is hope. Having said that, I present to you the following comparison for your amusement:

There is a new view outside my two tall windows for the first time in five years. In the reflections of the windows of the buildings directly in front of me I can see the damage done by the Tornado. On the left, the windows of the Suntrust building are boarded up in light-brown plywood. The broken windows of the Equitable building are currently sealed by duct-tape and something plastic that ripples in the wind. The city feels like an organism that has taken damage; the whole is able to continue to operate, but less efficiently and in less accommodating conditions. Will they finish fixing all the windows or will people just get used to it? The city never ceases inspiring me.

If I look even deeper into the reflections on the right I can see the Westin Hotel. It has a few holes in it, too. Most of the ground is clean. I can see the metal portable fences in another reflection in ground level, stacked and leaning on something. I feel at one with the creatures around me: pigeons, rats, crickets, tarantula, human.

I start work on Thursday. It was worth giving everything away to feel free for a little while. Anyone still panicking doesn't know me very well. I don't feel so wonderful right now, but I feel alright for the most part. I never needed to sit around and collect pages of ink filled out by myself, like writing a million checks to no one. I hope they go to good homes is all I have to say about it. I hate this computer as much as I'm accustomed to its presence. Computers have become such a bothersome annoyance. I feel obligated to update my existence continually in case people who I hardly know might worry that I'm not feeling well. It's insane. I had no choice but to close my profile. A journal should be enough. If my eloquence isn't enough to satisfy the interrogators in my life, then I will continue to forfeit channels of communication until I'm like a stray dog, friend of the road. Hopefully it will never get that bad.