The subject question is a touch of the realism I experienced today after feeling a emotional push that I don’t get very often these years. Kairi and I were in Selver in Kuressaare, purchasing a few things for our lunch. This event itself (lunch) did not occur for several hours.

This push came when I saw her randomly in the shop after we split upon entrance to find our separate comestibles. She smiled when we bumped into each other and my stomach dipped. I did and did not like the feeling, but definitely acknowledged it for what it was. Were I a mid 20s to mid 30s freakish laddie, as I used to be, I’d be at this moment head over heels. As my mental balance teeters now, I’m not sure it is a good idea.

She’s made no comment on music that I play which plays constantly when we are in the guest house. She doesn’t acknowledge any art standing about the island, or anything particularly man-made at all. Her appreciation of nature is acute, of course, as she is a biologist. The imagination doesn’t seem to be included in the package.

Can you choose your friends? Can you choose your relationships?

I’m not sure if she is taken or not. That’s never really been a problem for me before, however, as we all know.

We have three more days alone. In no way am I assuming anything will happen outside of conversation, but I expect we’ll grow closer. I have always had a way of creating a type of shibboleth with practically anyone I am left alone with for some time.

The lunch consisted of sitting on bench in Kärla (in the laulja place… where choirs sing to hapless recipients of latent information), munching and chatting about hometowns and tiny aspirations. Yesterday’s lunch was more intellectually involved. The great Buddha himself took part.

Meil on selle nii aega will surely remind me of this day.

Whilst riding a bicycle today from Viidu to Kihelkonna and back, I glanced time and again at the simple, three gear shifting mechanism on the right handle bar, trying to shake a pricking notion from my head. It finally came to me exactly what the bothersome twinge was. It was Brynn. After fourteen years, the cunt’s shenanigans still throb in my subconscious.

Her refusal of technology was mind-numbing. It was unfathomable to anyone who didn’t personally encounter her. They sound like a ludicrous and frightful bedtime story for ogre pups. She wouldn’t even shift gears on her bicycle.

What?

She wouldn’t even shift gears on her 20 gear bicycle. She refused to do it. To her, doing so would be giving in to something unnatural, an alien force, a science or technology. And if you called her on it or something similar (there were all to many similar occurrences), you could have been sure that hades would unleash a fantastic array of demons on your unprepared psyche. I hope my reader is aware of the irony in this tale.

I am in Saaremaa, but that is not what I am going to write about today. Or perhaps I shall later today, but not now. The initial subject is my parents.

I have probably written about this previously. I am certain the stabs of insecurity and doubt which riddle me out of the blue time and time again each day are residual growing pains. The Christian life brings a boy up to feel guilty if he feels good. I’m struck by how American this actually is. And how the perception thereof is anything but American. Those pestilent people, for the most part, feel they are part of a country which grants them the greatest freedoms on earth. Yet, they are (again, for the most part) hobbled by the puritan upbringing which echoes in their minds throughout their lives. You are guilty until resolved of your sins. Touched by Jesus, to be sure. I’d probably not be who I am now had I not experienced it, but I regret more and more as this sagging body ages that I have wasted and still waste so many moments dealing with the guilt of being satisfied with life.

Christian and I chatted briefly yesterday about a phenomenon which haunts him. It is similar on an abstract level. He hoards things. He moves from place to place, wanting to be light and free, but simultaneously burdens himself with possessions. He claims it is a hangover from having a mother who pressed into his head from a very young age relentlessly that there are children starving (or who don’t have what we have, etc) in China. We both agree that we are disgusted at the brainwashing parents do to their children. I hope he recalls this and does better with his own, if he ever gets around to popping any out of his inflamed uterine cavity, that is. I’m pretty sure I’ll not pop any out, myself.

My plan is to give her oral sex. Until she comes, of course. I think I’ll listen to that song right now. What have I reduced myself to, anyway? Fulnek.

Again, at Fort Sockton High School. Javier Hernandez (why do I remember his name?) was talking to his friend (Probably Miguel) about this song. And it was within ear-reach of me. He just said that Monsters is a cool song. Or something similar. I had made him a tape of songs I enjoyed. I did curb things on the tape towards metal, so this was on it. But is this song metal?

What is metal?

I recall that 26000 Days by the Moody Blues was on the tape, as well.

This album came a bit late into my consciousness. I believe it was my Junior Year, though I cannot be sure. Perhaps before. Nice song. Bouchard again? I believe so. Albert & Joe always wrote the more intriguing songs.

Sam and I were sitting in Pizza Hut (in Fort Stockton, Texas, of course – our mecca). I had taken David’s jambox and set it on the window sill. Spectres was in the tape deck. This song was playing. He listened intently. Sam was definitely good at that. His comment was that it did not create the mood it was attempting to create well enough. I’ll listen to it again now and give my opinion.

Initally, the guitar does, for sure. Loneliness. Solitude.

Lee also loved this song very much. There was a compilation tape (a mix tape, as peasants call it) on which he included it. There were various other more popular songs from bands we listened to. For example: Tom Sawyer and Dust in the Wind. This was one which he dubbed fantastic. It wasn’t a popular one, however, meaning it got no airplay at the time, of course. Well, it probably did somewhere, but not in West Texas. He was, at the time, rather immune to popularity or obscurity. He just chose what made him wince with emotion. It was one of his positive traits. Yup.

I think the song does create the intended mood. For me. I’m a relative bastard, though.

The next one is the best on the album and I shall listen to it in journalistic silence.

The telephone in my room in Fort Stockton was, like Facebook or Twitter or LiveJournal or whatever, my connection, however vague and arrogant, to the outside world.

I’d call people and force them to listen to Blue Öyster Cult songs over the line. The quality was amazing, as you might imagine. The one victim which was the most pitiful was Sharon Weber. I made her listen to this very song attemping to convince her that BÖC were contemporary enough to be poppy. Well, yeah, this song is a bit poppy. I’m not sure about the quality these days, however. Nostalgia reigns.

In Journalism class at Fort Stockton High School, I was listening to the new Yes album at the time (Big Generator) and she was impressed (maybe that is an absurdly hyberboliscious word) that I was listening to something which was actually played on the radio. Hm! I wonder if she is still single. I’ll probably never know.

Well, this one has the most formiddable memories attached to it.

She spread her wings, and then she was gone.

Blue Öyster Cult is the music for the evening, though I shall run out of albums at some point. As I wrote to Tony earlier, I do wish I had Fire of Unknown Origin. I suppose I should do as I did years ago with The Church (and can be read in this particular journal of mine), and write about each memory each song contains for me. As Searching for Celine just finished from Spectres, it may be a problem.

I say a problem because there are dizzying memories from mostly High School which these songs bring back. They are vague and ultimately unreachable in a form which is tangible.

I do recall Todd Templeton (see Facebook) and his friend whose name I do not recall blasting Godzilla from their TRUCK outside of Fort Stockton High School after school one day. See, I’d loaned Todd Spectres. The funny thing (to me, anyway) is the fact that the cassette I had given him was damaged. Damaged? you ask? Well, my old stereo system had deleted the first 20 or so seconds of the first song (Godzilla), so, it came crashing in after Buck Dharma was already wreaking havoc with the gueetar.

Fireworks is ending at this moment. Perhaps it reminds me of Brandi and our excursions about the town, or maybe about David, who shared much of my musical taste at the time. I’ll listen to it once again.

Most probably, this song should remind me of the endless hours I spent in my room in Fort Stockton (105 S. Everts, if you need know) listening to music. I had most of these albums on LP. The happiness this song exudes is rather disconcerting considering most of the band’s output. The lyrical content, about banishing tradition in the light of immediate needs, I can relate to. It was the antithesis of what I was taught as I was growing up in the hellish atmosphere which was (and probably still is) Fort Stockton. On the other hand, it is a lascivious tale of a man manipulating a woman into sex by some other-worldly spiritual means. Albert Bouchard was a fuckup. Possibly he still is. My kind of fuckup, though.

R U Ready To Rock used photetic letterabilities to represent words long before Prince did, and for sure the trend to use such in our ubiquitous text messages (a practise I eschew). For some reason, this song is supposed to be a part of the third cycle in Imaginos. I can only take the lyric I only live to be born again to make any sense in the context. One day (soon), I shall put together the whole three cycles and listen happily whilst intoxicated on something. Perhaps then I’ll be enlightened to Sandy Pearlman’s young idea which was spread through a multitude of songs.

Enough for now, veverko.

The dark form of the world is hollowed out by each of our beliefs and it is dissonance between such worlds which brings conflict. Multiple worlds. Perhaps only those who lack imagination can perceive without distortion.

I believe I typed this into Eira approximately a year ago. It was inspired by a paragraph from a novel by Cormac McCarthy. His point was that how we perceive the world - our personal beliefs - carve out the substance of existence just as wind or rain.

Reading my quote again, it seems obvious. After all, I was scolded today for stating the obvious. I say fuck criticizing myself, however, because it bludgeons down my will to write. That takes my mind quickly back to so many conversations with Christian about negativity and Energy Vampires and how our lives were better with out either. But that is another story (most likely already told elsewhere).

The idea of the quote does seem obvious. Of course dissonance between humans results from differing sets of beliefs. The views we hold do carve out our perception of reality. This perception directly leads to our expectations of how events should unfold. The dissonance results from these expectations not being met. All this leads to the obvious conclusion that humans with similar belief sets will basically get along better than those with differently shaped carvings.

I disagree with what I said about imagination, however. I believe it takes a large dollop of imagination and creativity, but most of all, sheer intellect, to carve a belief system out of the substance of reality which allows one to accept other belief systems on the surface and in their individual volumes. I’m thinking of a meta-carving. A space which accommodates different carvings and perhaps modifies itself in the process. A learning space. If the stuff of reality is three dimensional, then my meta-space is four dimensional.

Those who lack imagination will, like Roland, be single minded, have a static space carved from reality, frozen long before. Advantages to this mentality abound, and the immediately obvious disadvantage (at least to other humans) is that such a carving is obstinate to an extreme. Plodding onwards, this hollow will swallow none but perfect matches. Others are rudely thrust aside.

I could easily be drawn into thoughts of the brief exchange I had today with Miss Sunshine about proselytizing and continue. It is a natural continuation…

My parents have a tendency to place light switches either exposed and just out of reach, or hidden strangely behind furniture or appliances. My first thought is that it is a result of my father’s insistence that work, no matter how unfulfilling and strenuous, should be the priority of everyone’s life. So, that old fashioned switch, which must be rotated instead of flipped, is placed just out of reach of the edge of the bed. I must, therefore, work to get at it. His unconscious provides these little frustrations for all humans around him. My mother has absorbed the habit over the years of their marriage.

Complete convenience is the contrasting viewpoint. I wasn’t brought up a fucking Catholic, so I don’t have even a residual bias for such bi-chromaticism.

Hall