Starfish With Its Arms Out in a Daze

My summer has been anarchic. It has not been chaotic by any means, but rather lacking order. I am adrift in an ocean haze staring at the stars of mundanity, and oh, how dimly they shine. Since I am going straight out of college to graduate school, I decided to take the summer off from academics, thus making this the first time since summer 2004 that I have not been taking courses during the summer semester. Needless to say, it has not been incredibly interesting, but I’ve found it quite enjoyable.

I’ve been reading a lot to pass the time. First I read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which was a completely different experience than I what I expected going into it. I was surprised that I felt sympathy for both Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, but the most rewarding facet of the novel was the way in which the monster understands the complexity of human nature yet chooses to reduce it to “abhorrence to anything imperfect” in the blind rage of his own misery. I’m also reading In the Spirit of Crazy Horse about the FBI’s renewed assault on Native Americans in the 1970’s when huge uranium deposits were discovered on reservation land. It is difficult for me to read too much in one sitting because I feel myself getting angry, and I am not an angry person, and I will leave it at that because I must resist turning this humdrum post into a rant against the white man with their white-man religion and white-man false treaties.

I bid this post adieu because it is unreservedly aimless and an arrant stain on the good name of the Internet.

Time Is Fluid, Much Like Water Is Fluid

I am writing my first blog post since July. One might wonder why there is such a large gap between my posts. Then again, one might also wonder how they ended up reading some obscure blog on the Internet. I myself wonder if Rod Serling smelled like cigarettes and plot twists. If all of this wondering was in the form of a question, the answer would almost certainly be that Jesse Doctor is an important man with a bustling social life and many tasks that need doing, and he alone can accomplish them, for he is magnificent. That entire sentence, however, is false, but I enjoyed writing it.

That’s right: I have had a great deal of spare time, and my only friends are exclusively people who think too much about the various scents of Rod Serling, namely myself and my cat. I have spent these past months inching towards college graduation, writing about the urination schedule of the imprisoned Toussaint L’Ouverture, and staring at a wall. The wall I speak of is blank and white, and I often think I hear voices coming from it or figures moving within it. My cat, Skywalker, sometimes stares at it with me until he calmly states, “Enough wall-staring; there is little time for you to enact my vengeance upon the framing section of Hobby Lobby,” but the violent acts which my cat commands me to do are another blog post entirely.

So, I leave this post knowing that I may not write another for quite awhile, and also knowing that it is entirely possible that I may soon write another. I originally planned to write about something important, such as Israel using a fistful of Ginsu knives to unnecessarily slap an obnoxious child, or Barack Obama moving into a house which an obnoxious child formerly used as a fort from which he shot spitballs of disaster at everyone, or how my poorly conceived metaphors for current events reflect my disdain for obnoxious children and proper metaphor construction.

But do those things have anything to do with nostrils whiffing Rod Serling?

I think not.

Me vs. Blog

There are times when I think that maintaining a blog on the internet is a frivolous, futile project due to the fact that I rarely have anything interesting to write down. Those precious, fleeting moments when I do write something, it’s usually in my paper journal, which is tucked in my desk, (and made from paper that doesn’t come from trees, because I tend to be a pretentious environmentalist at times).

But those thoughts are usually personal and need not be read by anybody, as they are not very engaging thoughts, nor are they tidbits of wisdom. However, I often think such things as, “Wow, what I just wrote with this terrible ink pen, in my journal made of paper derived from banana leaves whilst sitting on a plane, concerning the habits of first-class airline passengers whose only special treatment is a dish of candy, slightly more comfortable seats, and a separation from us lowly coach flyers by a flimsy blue curtain, is something that maybe someone else might find interesting, especially people who read extremely long run-on sentences.” 

So, here I sit, writing a blog entry which I may or may not write about in my non-tree-paper journal later on tonight when detailing my uneventful Sunday. There is really no point to this entry, no point at all, other than the fact that it may or may not constitute an interesting thought which whoever is reading this may or may not enjoy.

A Smudge On My Wall

There is a smudge on my wall, and I do not know how it got there. Sitting here staring at the smudge, I wonder where it came from, and how it affects my life. My answer is the following:

The smudge arrived by bus not three weeks ago, seeking work after being fired by his boss in Houston (for discovering an embezzlement scheme), and ended up in the suburbs, somehow. Cold, desperate, and alone, the smudge broke into my home and rested on my wall, where it soon starved to death considering it had not eaten in quite some time, nor realized its hunger in its depressive state. Its body is slowly decaying into a permanent, frivolous stain on my wall. It does not affect me in any way, shape, or form, as it has no way, shape, or form of its own. It simply remains a smudge on my wall, forever.

I May Be Missing My Mind, Montana

I returned from my weeklong vacation in Montana on Monday evening. Montana is a fantastic state full of (mostly) uninhibited wilderness and so much fresh air that I thought my nostrils were going to die from the lack of air pollution that I am accustomed to. I read six books while I was there, since there was not much to do besides doing absolutely nothing (with the occasional hike thrown in) and simply enjoying the peaceful mountain I was residing on.

Since I’ve been back, I haven’t done much besides getting back to work and taking it easy. I was glad to see my cat after the week I was gone, since he was apparently horribly depressed in my absence. (My cat, Skywalker, follows me around wherever I go when I am at home.) I am trying to lose the five pounds I gained in Montana, due to lack of exercise and watching what I eat, by getting back into my running/exercise routine. The monotony of my day-to-day life will surely destroy my sanity by the time the summer break is over.

It’s That Day Again

I am 21 years old today.

That Fastidious Fyodor

I’ve been tirelessly working my way through Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, at about 50 pages a day. Even for me, it is hard to comprehend everything that is going on. The book itself is 800 pages long, in small print. The last book I read of his, The Idiot, was around 625 pages, and Crime & Punishment was about 550 if I recall correctly.

I’m trying to finish it before the 30th, when I leave for Montana. I have bought several books to read there, which will probably be my only vacation activity. (Una semana de vacaciones con mi familia). I have bought a journal to write in while I’m there in the mountains.

Things I have remembered today that I should not forget: My sister has borrowed several movies from me (All of the X-Men movies, The Machinist, Mirrormask, and she still owes me a new Equilibrium DVD). I will most likely never see them again, as she can be forgetful and utterly irresponsible about 95% of the time.

My public speaking class only has four days left. But what a four days it will be. Two speeches to give and a panel discussion. Throw in a final exam, (which takes place on my birthday), and you have a week of weeks.

Reading Clerk

The Reading Clerk currently reading the Kucinich Resolution (the 35 articles detailing impeachable offenses committed by George W. Bush) on C-SPAN is fantastic. I could never do that job. When Kucinich himself read the whole thing yesterday it took five hours. You have to admire the man for writing up something of that magnitude. And yet, his only confirmed supporter is Congressman Robert Wexler.

But back to my point, this reading clerk is on a level of greatness I cannot even begin to express. I have never even seen her on C-SPAN before. Yes, I watch C-SPAN.