I find it unbelievable that I have been sitting here for this long
merely trying to think of an appropriate opening to this book, which will
probably never be read by anybody but myself.

        Well, how'd I do?  If you are reading this, you probably shouldn't
be; unless, of course, you are me.  So maybe I'll give you a few blank lines
to consider this gross invasion of privacy, and you can put this book back,
and nobody will be the wiser - and I can guarantee that you'll rest easier
knowing that you did the right thing.

Still there?  Good.  I was never one to do the right thing, either.  At any
rate, there seems a certain futility to writing this book if I'm the only one
to ever read it, so go ahead and engross yourself in my private thoughts, but
be forewarned: this book may contain material that, once read, will want to
be unread and forgotten.  Ah, but you can never go back.

Hmm... Today is a Tuesday in July, and my 17th day in Germany.  I'm not sure
of the exact date, but oh well...

It seems to me a bit futile to simply come right out and state the things that
have been on my mind (read: troubling me) the most, so maybe I'll start with
some things that I have been thinking about, but are of no particular
importance.

I have been thinking a lot about art recently.  I think that all art is a
reflection of its creator, and that all things are art - well, sort of.
Right now I'm looking at how my sandals are arranged, on my carpet, and
trying to decide if I think it is art or not.  I think it is, but I think
it's very hard to interpret something like that.  Okay, back to the main
thread.  I guess there are 2 main parts to this; understanding art, and
creating art.  I'll cover them in that order.  I think when you look at a
piece of art; whether it be a painting, a poem, of a chunk of rock lying in a
ditch, the ultimate goal is to learn about its creator.  You are trying to
determine if it is good art - created by someone with a fair amount of
genius; or bad art, created by someone with less.  This can be very difficult
because maybe I decide to paint a picture, and I think, "hey, I'll just paint
this canvas entirely black."  And maybe someone like Van Gogh or something
paints the same picture, but it means a lot more to him, most likely.  I
think this proves it rather difficult for the viewer to determine how good a
piece of art is.

I think there are 2 parts to an artist in terms of creating art - talent, and
genius.  Talent is the skill the artist has with manipulating his tools,
whether they be brushes and paints, a piano, or the English language.  I
think, in general, talent comes with practice, and it is for precisely that
reason that I am not too concerned with talent.  However, I think people with
more talent can do a better job of getting across what is most important -
their genius.  This is a little bit harder to describe.  That and I'm not so
sure what it is.  I guess it's some sort of measure of how much a person can
comprehend.  I think IQ is probably a fairly accurate measure of genius, though
probably not always.  At any rate, I don't think it's something that can be
learned or taught, but that you are born with it.  I think maybe it changes
over time, but I don't have any idea whether or not this can be controlled,
though I imagine massive head injuries can't be good for it.

I have now written for far too long about art (was it about art?), and I will
probably be very bored the next time I read that part.  Maybe I'll continue
of the topic later.

I believe I have figured out what my thoughts consist of.  Ooh, a
cliffhanger.  Are you ready? Here it is: conversations and words to songs.
By conversations I mean I imagine myself talking to someone about a
particular subject.  Sometimes it doesn't matter to whom I am talking (check
out that grammar!)  Sometimes the other person doesn't even say anything.
Other times it is very definite to whom I am talking, and maybe I imagine
what they say in response, too.

Sometimes they are not conversations in the true sense of the word.  I mean,
who am I talking to right now, a book?  True, these are not my exact thoughts
(much is omitted) but everything in this book was at one time or another
thought by me.  Mostly the conversations are ones I wish I could have with
people, but probably never will.  Usually they are along the lines of "This is
what I would say to this person if I had the chance."  Of course, I never get
that chance, and if I did, I probably wouldn't say it anyway.  Yes, usually
the person I imagine I'm talking to is female, and no, the conversations
don't usually have anything to do with sex.  The usual gist of the
conversation is "Yeah, I want to apologize for blank because you probably
think I'm an idiot, and you have every reason to, because what I did was
totally idiotic, and I doubt this apology will make up for it..."  As you can
see, I like to put myself down a lot in my conversations.  I don't know if
I've ever actually had one of those conversations, which is kind of
unfortunate, because I've had more than enough reason to, I think.  Anyway, I
think it's a hard conversation to have so maybe that's why I've never done
it, or maybe I'm just scum that thinks he can't lower himself that far, and
I'm just making up excuses.  I accept all possibilities.  If you are female
and you are reading this (and you shouldn't be), and you know who I am, maybe
I've had one of these conversations with you.  Geez, right now it sounds like
I'm writing this whole thing for Connie to read, seeing as she's the one I
probably have the most to apologize for right now.  I mean, I could have
treated her a lot better when she was in Canada - not that I was cruel to her
or anything, I just ignored her a lot.  I suppose you could say I treated her
like one of the family (except my brother).  Maybe she forgives me because
she knows I'm simply not a very outgoing guy, but whatever, in a lot of ways
it doesn't matter anymore.  She can treat me the same way I treated her, and
I'll feel like shit, of course.  Or she can be great to me, ie. show me a good
time, and then I'll feel just as shitty, because of the guilt.

I wish I was really friends with Connie, because it kind of sucks not having
anyone I can really talk to, rather than just make conversation with.  Maybe
that's why I bought this book...

I think I've been spelling her name wrong, well, I'm sure of it, so maybe
I'll fix that in the future...  Of course, her real name is Cornelia, but I
guess you'd call it wrong if I spell it differently than she.

Once again, the question that runs through my mind whenever I write
anything: should I submit it to mist?  Most of me says yes, because I think
it is quite good, but there is a part that says no, because if I decide to
submit it to mist, then I am writing this for mist, not for myself, and it
loses all value.  I guess the best thing for me to do is leave the question
unresolved, and I know anyways that I can't avoid tailoring this book (or
whatever I should call it) to be read by an audience, simply because of the
futility of writing it for any other reason.  (I believe I already said
something along those lines.)  Strangely, I think the aforementioned,
seemingly innocuous question is very closely linked to my views on
mortality.  I believe death is a final end, so this book, and the entire
universe for that matter, become meaningless once I die.  I also believe
there is no purpose in life.  In a way I guess they are 2 conflicting views;
There's no reason why I'm here, and when I'm no longer here I won't know
anything about it, meaning suicide has no consequences; however, the thing I
fear the most is death.  I forget how that ties in with the mist question,
but no matter.

Today is Wed, July 24, 1996.  I have been thinking a lot about people and
evolution recently. Here are some things I have come up with:
     -Humans are not camouflaged to fit into any surrounding
     -Our skin is such that it does little to protect us from the cold, and
        it gets damaged by the sun.
     -Our senses of smell, sight, and hearing are inadequate for survival.
     -We are slow runners, cannot hide, slow swimmers, but have no natural
        defences (claws, fangs, armored skin, poison, etc...)
     -sunlight is painful for our eyes.
     -Human feet are generally unsuited for walking around unprotected.
     -In short, humans are physically inferior to probably every other animal
        that has ever existed on this planet.  The only thing that keeps us
        alive is our intelligence.

Now, here's the thing: Why is there this balance between physical and mental
attributes?  It seems as though as man evolved and became more intelligent,
he had less need for certain physical abilities, such as natural camouflage,
or claws, or whatever, so those physical characteristics would gradually
disappear.  Among different species, at least, it would seem that physical
inferiority is a sign of mental superiority.  This leads me to a dilemma
which I hesitate to put to paper, but I will anyways.  First, though, I will
state that I am not racist, or sexist.  Now, the dilemma: People with darker
skin, which is more tolerant to sunlight, or with narrower eyes, once again
more tolerant to sunlight, could be thought of, as a race at least, to be
physically superior to a caucasian.  Does this mean that caucasians are
mentally superior to other races?  I can't stress enough how much I hope the
answer to that question is no.  Unfortunately, history seems to back up this
hypothesis.  European civilization throughout most of history has been far
more technologically advanced than other cultures.  That's not to say there
aren't exceptions to this, such as the ancient egyptians, as one example, but
I think if you look at any time period in the last 2000 years (I don't know
that much about ancient history) you'll find that european civilization was
much more advanced than others.  Now does this mean that women, who are
physically weaker and slower than men (on average), are more intelligent than
men (on average)?  Once again, I hope the answer is no.  If we look at
history this time, though, we find that it is men who made the greatest
number of scientific discoveries, men who produced the greatest works of art,
and men who have been the leaders of nations.  Yes, I know there are
exceptions.  Now, I think it almost goes without saying that a major reason
for men being, historically, greater contributors to society is the
diminished status of women.  In other words, they never had the same
opportunities as men to make these discoveries, create these works of art, or
whatever.  I think this is still true, albeit to a lesser extent, today.  Why
is it that women have, and have always had, this diminished status?  I think
it must be because of their physical inferiority to males.  Now, for yet
another interesting question: If the human race can use its intelligence to
rise above all other animals on the food chain, and essentially control all
other animals, despite its unquestionable physical inferiority to most other
species, shouldn't women (as a whole) be able to use their higher intelligence
to gain a higher status than men, despite their own physical inferiority?  I
think they should.  However, the fact that they can't would seem to indicate
that women are not more intelligent that men (on average), though I'm happy
to say that it doesn't prove the opposite to be true, either.  Now, my final
question about evolution: Are people that are smaller, weaker, and paler more
intelligent and more evolved than others?  Once again, I believe the answer
to be no.  I'm not really sure how evolution works, but probably it has
something to do with natural selection.  Probably, the "superior" sub-group
of a species does a better job of attracting members of the opposite sex, and
so this group propagates more than others.  Over time, this causes the
"inferior" sub-group to become smaller, as the "superiors" start to take
over.  Then, as the "superior" sub-group grows larger, it divides again, into
"more superior" and "less superior", and the cycle, which probably takes a
very long time to complete, begins again.  Thus it would seem that the more
attractive members of a species are the more evolved, and therefore more
intelligent, because it can be assumed that a species grows more intelligent
as it evolves, though I do not know this for certain.  Maybe intelligence as
a function of evolvedness(?) (evolution?) has a sine wave pattern, as the
more intelligent a species grows, the less it needs to think, and so it
gradually grows less intelligent, until it finds itself again needing to use
its brain at a higher level.  I think if this is true, the pattern would still
have a slight upward slope, due to the fact that in humans, at least, the
graph of overall physicality as a function of evolvedness has a definite
downward slope.  I wonder if any of this makes any sense at all.  I think
it's understandable, though I think it's pretty unlikely any of this is right,
seeing as I know nothing about evolution.

Well, that's enough about evolution for now.

I'm just going to write down the name of a song here so I don't forget it...
"Breakfast at Tiffany's."  It's awesome.  I think Courtenay will know it.

I still have not decided exactly how to refer to what I'm writing right now;
it seems a bit pompous to call it a "book".  I suppose I could call it a
diary, but that sounds too much like a girl thing, and furthermore, I have
decided that this is not a book simply to write down embarrassing dirt in and
pretend I don't want anybody to find it.  Calling it a journal or a log makes
it sound like a daily report, and I don't expect this to be daily and it
certainly isn't a report.  Oh well, it's not terribly important.

I forgot to mention something about all that evoulution stuff a bit earlier;
I know absolutely nothing about the subject, so probably all of the stuff I
wrote is wrong.  Also, I don't believe that sine-wave stuff to be even faintly
plausable.  I wonder why I wrote it...

Just for bearings, today is Thursday, July 25, 1996.

I've been thinking about poetry recently.  I think my best poem is "About a
Martyr".  This is maybe a bit strange because it was one of the earlier ones
I wrote, and most of those bite. However, I think the later ones I wrote, the
ones that usually rhymed, are not so good either, because they didn't make
you think.  I have decided that that should be the aim of my poetry; to make
you think.  I think writing poetry to elicit (right word?) an emotional
response is all well and good, but I'm not very good at that, and I'm not
really interested in it, either.  I'm not sure, though, if I'll be able to
write a poem of any considerable length that makes you think (About a Martyr
is only 4 lines long.)  I guess that will be my challenge.

I've been thinking about Audrey's poetry, too, and I now have a slightly
lower opinion of it.

Hmm...  I'm not sure exactly how to put this...  Maybe this'll work.  I think
the poetry of Audrey's that I know (maybe she's written more since I last
talked to her) is such that pretty much anybody is capable of writing it.
True, she has a huge vocabulary, and uses it well, but if you use a thesaurus
you could pretty much do the same.  I"m having trouble deciding whether or not
her poetry affects people.  It doesn't really affect me, but I'm not sure if
that's because I don't understand it, or because it's basically empty.  I
think the former is definitely true, but I still think the latter is possible.
Also, just because I don't understand it doesn't mean it is good. I mean, I
could easily write a poem that is completely indecipherable, but not
meaningless.  Is it good?  I'm not really sure about that.  Anyway, this is
all irrelevant.  I'm not trying to Audrey-bash, and I think she's a great
poet.  I think though, that her poems lack something which no amount of tricky
vocabulary and perfect rhythm can make up for; the quintessential kernel of
genius that Audrey possesses, so that when the poem is read, the reader
realizes that he could never have imagined that approach to the theme of the
poem, or whatever.  That is what makes the reader think, and maybe gawk in
awe.  I think "About a Martyr" possesses just a tiny bit of that essence, and
that is why I think it is my best poem.  But I know Audrey has a lot more
potential than I, and is without question a better poet.

I've been thinking a bit about potential, too.  Does it really matter if you
fulfill it?  If you have it, and you know you have it, why bother wasting
your time fulfilling it?  I guess this subject is of particular importance to
me, because I have a lot of potential in a lot of things, but rarely do I
achieve anything.  Hmm, out of simple arrogance (Golding), I'm going to think
of all the things I might do really well in, if I tried.
     -music
     -sports (this is a very large one)
     -math
     -sciences
     -languages
Hmm, less that I thought I could come up with, but I guess that's a good
thing.   I think I would be a very good athlete, if it wasn't for my almost
complete apathy.  I also know I could be a very good musician if I practiced,
but that's just the thing: I practice, and I become a great musician. Not the
best, of course, because I'm no prodigy, and now look at all the time I've
wasted practicing.  I guess if you have the potential to be the best at
something, it's worth fulfilling.  I'm not sure why, but there's something
about being the best that makes it worthwhile.  Maybe it's the superhuman
connotations connected with being the fastest man alive, or the best chess
player, or whatever, that command awe and respect.  Anyway, it seems to be my
goal in life (right now, at least) to discover all the areas I have potential
in, and leave it at that.  Is this a good goal I chose for myself?  I'm not
really sure.  I guess it makes sense, though, while I'm still young, to probe
different areas of interest, and then decide what I want to do when the time
comes.

~
It's now the 1st of August, at some ridiculously early hour (2:30), And I have
not yet fallen asleep.  I've been thinking of words I could form by
rearranging the letters in "Cornelia", and I came up with so many so quickly
that I decided to write them down:
     -Air clone
     -Care lion
     -Oil crane
     -Once liar
     -Rail cone
     -Clear ion
     -Nail core
     -Nice oral
Hmm...  I actually just thought of that last one while I was writing the
list, but I think it's my favorite...
     -Orc Alien (one more)
     -Cain lore (yet another)
     more here:
     -real coin
     -Nile Orca
     -Caroline
     -Rice loan
I think this is probably the best name I've seen for anagrams (is that what
they're called?)

Now, my masterpiece in aesthetic words:

          CERAMIC
          AMERICA

No explanation is necessary.  I thought of it this (last) evening.

[430] I have decided to start using this book as some sort of budget for my
trip, seeing as I still have a month left, but only 430 DM, in the hopes that
it will help me not run out of money.  In the margins, I will write down the
approx. number of DM I have remaining.  Perhaps this will help me curb
spending...
~
[410] It is now 23:20 of August 1st, and I have a headache, so I will not
write very much.  I am done.

No, I'm not.  I do not like that last entry.  It sounds too much like an
entry in a journal or log.  I wrote it so I would have a reference of the
time I wrote 410 down, but I realize now that it was a stupid idea to write
in this book without having something useful to say.  I hope I'm not doing the
same thing right now.  I haven't decided whether writing about the future or
layout of this "book" is useful, or worthwhile, or whatever.   I think I have
figured out what to call it, though; a "book" always in quotation marks.
Well, it's time to stop writing about my "book" because it really isn't very
meaningful.
~
[400] Jetzt, Ich bin sat.  Mein Augen sind ein biáchen r”t.  So, ich werde
auf deutsche schrieben.

Heute ist mein ersten Tag in der Schweiz.  Ich bliebe mit eine M„dchen heiát
Tanya (Vielleicht geschriebt ein anderen weg) Heute ist august 4, und es ist
viertel vor drei (vor mittag).  Ich have viel geglaubt heute (und gestern),
und ich habe zwei Gedichte geschriebt.  Endlich.  Der stadt wo ich bleibe
heiát Biel.  Morgen ich werde nach Bern fahren.  Wenn ich schriebe, mein
Deutsche ist nicht so schlecht, aber wenn ich spreche, mein Deutsche ist sehr
schlecht.  Ich wille gut Deutsche lernen.

Jetzt, meine Gedichte.

=>        What I Think of Her
          
          
          Oblivious
          Impervious

          She doesn't know
          She doesn't care

          and that is how it is
               ~~~

=>        My Half of a Conversation I will never have

          
          Cold and Depressed

          Do you really want to know?

          Because I think too much.

          About the way things are.

          Things are all my fault
               ~~~

Ta da.  And, believe it or not, these were composed before I got stoned, I
just didn't write them down until now.   I don't think I'll try to explain
the poems, because that would be a stupid thing to do.  I think the poems are
OK, not my best, but better than most.  Anyway, enough about poems.

I am, unfortunately, very tired.  I say unfortunately because this is the
first time I've been stoned in over a month, and I'll probably sleep through
most of it.  I think, tonight, I won't do push-ups before I go to bed.
~
[330] Now it is august 5, shortly before midnight.  I have composed another
poem.  I don't like the sound of that last sentence.  It seems to imply that
I sat down and thought: "Okay, time to write a poem."  True, I have done this
before, but this poem (and the previous 2) were composed in my head, and not
really on purpose.  It sounds stupid to say they just came to me, and I'm not
sure if that's how it happened anyway, so I'll just leave it at that and write
the poem down.  It is nameless.

=>


     The more I hate you
     The more I hate myself

     The more I love you
     The more I hate myself.
          ~~~

Well, that's it.  I suppose it is kind of ambiguous (as are the other 2) when
read, but the meaning is clear in my mind.  Hmm, more on this topic later, I
just remembered something...

I was watching a chess match today, and I noticed something I thought was
interesting.  It was one of those really big chess boards, like they have in
Park Royal, and it was on a main pedestrian street here in Bern (Yes, I'm in
Bern) so there were a fair amount of people watching. Now, the interesting
part.  The chess match was between 2 men, and looking around, I counted 34
observers, all but one of whom were also men, and the one woman was very
obviously the girlfriend of one of the male observers, so I don't really
think that counts.  And then I got to thinking...

Why is it that both players and all the observers were men?  Why is it that
every single world champion has been male?  And then, a more personal view:
why do I only know one female chess player (Coco Love Alcorn).  Now, I'm not
trying to say that men are smarter than women because they are better at
chess.  Nor, for that matter, am I trying to say that the opposite is true
because women have no interest in an obviously trivial game.  Yes, I realize
I am stereotyping here, but I think it can safely be said that there are few
enough exceptions to what I am saying that these stereotypes are basically
true.  Anyway, why is it that women have no interest in chess?  It is a
genetic difference, or is it caused purely by upbringing?  I can't really
support this, but it is my opinion that it is genetic.  It just seems to me
that a difference in upbringing cannot explain the almost complete lack of
female interest in the game.  Anyway, this doesn't really lead any further, I
just thought it was interesting, so, enough of that...

Now it is time for more important things related to the original topic
(before the chess stuff).  I have been having some pretty serious
conversations in my head lately, and I thought maybe it would be good to
write them down.  I'm having trouble deciding exactly what to write down
because the conversations always change slightly, and I think the most I
could hope for is some sort of overview.  The next question is how detailed
of an overview I should give; I don't really need any kind of overview at
all, but I am constantly thinking that I should submit this to mist, in which
case I should try and make it somewhat comprehensible.  I think I have decided
to make it slightly understandable, though why I don't know.  I think point
form is good, too.

     -I am here in Europe for 2 months, staying with Conny and family,
        usually.
     -I am depressed all the time.
     -Conny does not know me very well, but she dislikes me, which is my
        fault.
     -I think, if she got to know me, we could maybe become friends.
     -I also think, though, that she is not interested in getting to know me.
     -I do not want to be a burden to her.

That was the history; here is the dilemma.
     
     -It is stupid for me to come to Europe for 2 months, where I am
        depressed all the time, and she doesn't even like me.
     -Therefore, I should try to get to know her, as this is my only hope for
        becoming friends with her.
     -However, as I do not want to be a burden to her, it would make more
        sense to leave her alone, and just be depressed.
     -I cannot compete with the friends she already has, and she has a lot of
        them.

The glimmer of hope:

     -If I don't talk to her, bother her, whatever, maybe she will think it
        is because I am not interested in her.  Thus, her opinion of me would
        worsen, even though I am trying to do it for her.
     -I have difficulty believing in "nobility", ie. keeping your pain to
        yourself.  At any rate, I think my depression is obvious anyway.
     -I have no nobility anyways, as this entire situation is my fault.
     
Now, here is what I intend to do:

I will ask her if she cares what I think about her.  Is she says no, it means
she is not interested in becoming friends with me (you care about what your
friends think about you, right?) So I will leave her alone, stick to shallow,
meaningless conversation, go home september first, and probably never see or
hear from her again.  This is my fault (like I've said before) and I will
accept it.  It she says yes, and I rather doubt she will, or if she answers
indefinitely, then I believe there is hope.  Perhaps then I will get to know
her, and maybe become friends with her.

Well, that is my plan.  There are some problems with its execution, though.
Well, there is one problem; I could never work up the courage to ask her.  I
would wallow in indecisiveness my whole life before I asked her that question.

However, there is also a solution.  It's called alcohol.

This is a terrible thing to admit, but I know I have no hope of asking the
question until I get drunk.

That reminds me...  I should have mentioned that I finally sort of had one of
the conversations that are always running through my head.  I was drunk at the
time, of course.  Anyway, I apologized to Conny for being an asshole to her
when she was in Canada, I did again on the the train the next day, too (when I
was sober.)  Of course, an apology can hardly make up for 3.5 months of
treating her like shit, but I think it probably helps a little, because now
she knows that I really am sorry.
~
Well, it's August 7th now, I'm on a night train to San Sebastian, and I
suppose I have much to say.  Firstly and most importantly, I sort of had that
conversation with Conny.  The conversation was actually fairly different that
I imagined it would be, but I think it was also much better.

I will begin by saying that it happened this morning, and I actually was not
drunk at the time. Needless to say, this made it much, much harder, but I
think also much more meaningful to her, presuming it meant anything to her at
all, and it is possible that it didn't.  Anyway, I found Iwas speaking very,
very slowly, both for lack of words and loss of voice.  Hmm...  I'm going to
pause here to rant about something else...

I think this "book" is becoming far different than what it began as.
Unfortunately, I think it's quality is deteriorating.  I think this is partly
due to the fact that I am right now very sure that this will be submitted to
mist, in its entirety, and partly due to unknown reasons.  I think this "book"
is becoming more involved in the mundane, material world, and less involved
with what is happening in my own mind, which is what I feel it should be
about.  Take the entry I'm writing right now, for example.  It is all about
what I did today.  Sure, I did some very important stuff today (important to
me, that is), but I already know what happened, so the only reason I'm
writing it down is for mist members to read, and that is crap.  I think in
future I will try to stick to concepts I am trying to understand,
philosophical questions, whatever.

Now I am deciding whether or not to finish summing up our conversation...  I
think not, the mist members will have to come up with their own conclusion.

I think I will note that there was a pause of about 5 minutes before I began
writing the present sentence, as I was trying to tink of what has been on my
mind lately.  So maybe this will seem slightly ironic...

I have been thinking about the effects of alcohol and drugs on your mind.  I
don't mean the effects while you're using them (those are clear enough) or
how it affects you the next day, I mean the gradual effects over a long
period of time.  I suppose there have been studies done on this sort of thing,
but I don't currently have access to anything of that sort, and anyways it
would be interesting to see if I'm right at all.

I suppose I am not a model subject, as I am by no means an alcoholic or a
junkie; however, not being able to conduct a survey, I am the only test
subject.  Hmm, perhaps I should make it clear that I'm not interested in how
they affect the brain in terms of addiction, only how they affect memory,
intelligence, and whatnot.

One thing that I think may be the effect of drug abuse (incl. alcohol) is a
worsening of long-term memory.  It seems to me that I have more trouble now
recalling rarely thought of names, words, facts, or whatever.  I think I
should add that I'm not positive my LTM is getting worse, and if it is, it is
not necessarily due to drug abuse.  However, I believe it is a possibility.

Here is the more important question: Do drugs affect intelligence?  All I can
say for sure is that drugs do kill brain cells.  I do not know specifically
which brain cells have anything to do with intelligence, nor do I know which
brain cells are killed when certain drugs are taken.  Perhaps nobody knows
these things.  Anyway, it is my belief that alcohol and pot do not lower
intelligence.  I do not know about harder drugs, but I suppose they probably
do.  I think that acid almost definitely does.  Hmm...  A note.  I believe
pot would lower your intelligence if you smoked it all the time, meaning
probably every day, over a long period of time (months, years). As for
alcohol, it's a tough question.  You see bums walking around the street all
the time downtown that have obviously drank a lot of alcohol in their life,
and are probably not very intelligent.  However, who's to say that their
situation was caused by alcohol?  I'm not trying to say alcohol is okay; I
think it's a terrible drug, due to its addictivity, liver damaging capacity,
and its ability to make me throw up and feel like shit the next morning.
Sorry, that was stupid humour.  Anyway, it is my guess (and only a guess)
that most of the bums you see on the street were not in a particularly good
situation to begin with; maybe they've been on the street their whole lives,
and maybe they've done things much more unhealthy than drinking alcohol (ie.
heroin).  I also remember reading somewhere (I think it was the Sun) that a
large percentage of famous artists (I'm not sure if it was writers, painters,
sculptors, or maybe a mix of everything) suffered from alcoholism.  I wish I
could remember the exact percentage, and who it was for, but I think my LTM
is slipping...

~
Today is the 10th of August.  I am writing with a borrowed pen, which pisses
me off (there's nothing like big red) and it also happens to be my father's
birthday.  I will also note, for posterity, that I am slightly drunk while
writing this, so maybe the reader, like the person I was talking to tonight,
will not take me completely seriously.

Nothing to say, but what a day; how's your boy been?  I meant that to be my
opening sentence, but I forgot.  Anyway, your boy has not been well.  Conny
has said that we will not become friends, in what can only be all honesty.
Yes, this does come as a serious blow, but I, Mr. Positive, only think; "well,
at least she's being honest."  It has an almost calming effect: Now, I know
the truth.  True, the truth is something I have difficulty accepting, but I
like to think of myself as someone who accepts things as they are, even if
they are not what I'd like them to be.

Now, the question running through my mind is "what to do now?"  I still have
over 3 weeks before I return to Canada; in my mind, they are now marked as 3
wasted weeks.  I am not sure if those 3 weeks are more or less of a waste of
time that the 5 I've already spent.  I have to wonder if she is interested in
what I have to say.  Usually, I talk to her about things that are stupid, but
she never talks to me, so maybe I am just filling the silence.  I think that
is a stupid thing to do.  I have believed for a while now that silence is
better than brainless small talk, and yet still I persist, even though I am
not particularly good at brainless small talk.  I honestly have to wonder
though.  She did say that she didn't think we would become friends, but she
did go to the bar with me, and she has told me some things which I think
maybe she wouldn't have told me before, so maybe her opinion of me has
improved slightly.  Maybe that happens when you see someone cry.

~
Hello again.  Today it is really the 10th of August (I received some false
information yesterday) and it also happens to be my father's birthday.
Although I am no longer using a borrowed pen I am writing without an adequate
source of light and without an adequate writing surface, so I will not write
for long.  Perhaps I will continue tomorrow morning.   I will leave the reader
with a taste of what is to come, and a reminder to myself of what to write
about.  I have been thinking about truth.

~
I write on the morning of the 12th of August.  Yesterday, I have composed a
poem.  I have not forgotten about truth, but first, the poem.  It too is
nameless.

=>

          Conny,
          I would have liked it
          if we could have become
          friends.

          Perhaps,
          I will never see
          or hear from you
          again.

          I am sorry.

               Love, 
                    Fraser
                    ~~~

I intend to write this poem in her yearbook shortly before I leave.

Now, for a bit about truth.  I think the truth is something very, very
powerful.  The majority of people realize this, either consciously or
subconsciously, and so they protect themselves from it. Now, it's hard for me
to establish what I am talking about here.  If you are talking to someone, and
you tell them what kind of music you like, or your favorite actor, that is
truth.  However, that is truth about mundane, superficial things.  They do
not matter.  I believe that the only things that do matter in this world are
people and life.  It is the truth about these things that is very powerful.
I am having trouble getting my ideas across, so I will use some examples.
Why do people believe in God?  Because they do not want to accept the truth,
that life is meaningless.  Another example is the poem I just wrote.  I
hesitate to use it as an example because that would involve explaining it.  I
will just say that it is a good example of what I'm trying to say.

Some people must be protected from the truth.  I do not tell my parents that
I have done drugs because they would freak out.  Instead, I lie to them (well,
not really, they've actually never asked...)  This is just one example out of
millions where people lie to each other because they know the person they lie
to does not want to know the truth.

I believe there are some people that can handle the truth, whatever it may be.
With these people, one must always be honest.  To lie to them is an insult.  I
believe that I am one of those people.

~
Only half an hour later, but I have composed another poem, similar to the
last.  Perhaps it will find its way into someone's yearbook next June...

=>

     Teresa,

     This may be 
     the last time
     that I say anything to you
     or see your face;
     so,
     I will tell you 
     the truth.

     Fuck you
     for treating me like shit
     for all these years
     When the only thing I did to you
     was loved you.

     And I still do.

          Love,
               Fraser.
               ~~~

Of course, who's to say that this will be how I feel in almost a year's time?
I think, though, that it will.

~
Audrey once asked me if I would trade sanity for genius.  I thought about it a
bit, and answered that I probably would.   I think I know now what she must
have known then; you have no choice. I'm not saying that I'm some kind of
prodigy or anything, it's just that I've learned a great deal about people
and life this summer, and with this knowledge I am not entirely as sane as I
was before.

Of course, what is sanity?  I'm not completely sure.  Is it the ability to
act like the people around you?  Is it the ability to act in a rational manner?
Maybe both?  Neither?  I think maybe the rational manner definition is a good
one.  But then, what is acting in a rational manner?  I'm beginning to think
that I act in a more rational manner now than before.  Perhaps sanity is
acting how people expect you to act; by people I mean society.  I think if
this is the case then sanity is a very irrational thing.

~
 I think that life is a paradox; it has no meaning, no purpose; and yet, it
is not possible to waste even a single second of it.  There is another
paradox; every person's life is worth the same, but your own life is worth
more than all those other lives combined.  This last one is maybe more
interesting; (I'm going crazy with the semi's today, eh?) If I were going to
die, but to prevent my death I could choose to have the rest of the world's
population die instead, I would.  Seems terribly selfish, doesn't it?  I have
decided that it is not selfish, but I won't bother to explain why. Hopefully,
the reader will understand.

I mentioned before that I am no prodigy.  I believe myself to be quite
intelligent, but I know there are many, many people far more intelligent than
myself.  Hmm... actually, I don't know that, but I assume it to be true.  In
reality, I only know a handful of people I consider smarter than myself.
Anyway, enough of my "arrogance" (Why is it that writing things I believe to
be true is arrogance?  I think arrogance is believing you are better than you
are; of course, I recognize the possibility that I fall into the latter
category, in which case go ahead and call me an arrogant bastard) Where was I?
Oh yeah, my only regret is that I am not more intelligent, that I am not a
prodigy.  I think this is something I regret very, very much.

I mentioned before that the probability of submitting this to mist has become
very, very high.  I hesitate to write what I am about to write, but it has
been bugging me for a while, so I might as well put it down.  Maybe I'll
regret this later...  This is a disclaimer to all people who may read this
"book".  The material in this book is my opinion at the time I wrote it, and
nothing more.  I do not feel that I need to defend these opinions, so if the
reader disagrees with anything here, and probably he will, I don't really give
a damn.  Thank you.  My disclaimer is now finished.

I have said before that my thoughts consist of conversations and words to
songs.  I suppose, then, that it is occasionally appropriate to write down
the words to the songs that are running through my head, seeing as I write
down the conversations (sort of).

WTS: "Do you want to show(tell?) me
     Just how much you love me
     Or, are you saying
     You would rather be alone tonight?"

Keep in mind that the words to a song as they run through my head are not
necessarily the same as the words the composer wrote.

I am currently on a night train to probably the greatest city in the world:
Paris.  It is interesting because I realize now how little this matters.  I
have been thinking a lot about how much things matter, and I have come up
with an order of priority.

1.   Nothing.  This is perhaps the most important thing a person can know.
Nothing matters. Nothing in the entire universe.  The rest of the list does
not matter.  However, I think maybe the duration of your life is a bit more
worthwhile if you consider the rest of the list, so here it is.

2.   Yourself.  You matter more than anybody, any thing.  Remember this, and
try to keep alive as long as possible.

3.   Other people.  Other people matter a lot.  They come second only to
yourself.

4.   Nature.  From here it becomes a little more difficult to decide which
goes where, but I think this is where nature belongs.  By nature I mean all
living organisms not already mentioned, and all things in this universe not
created by man, or other similar beings, I suppose. 

5.   Knowledge.  This means knowledge that the human race possesses as a whole
(ie. science).  Your own knowledge is, of course, much more important (it goes
under 2.)

6.   Achievements.  Whether they are your own achievements or those of the
human race is not important.  Either way, achievements do not matter much.

7.   Personal wealth and possessions.  These matter the least of all.  Funny
then that people value them so much.

I was thinking about where to put survival of the human race.  I think it
sort of goes between 3 & 4.  I think the human race is not as important as the
individual people you know, but it is more important than nature.

Hmm...  Maybe 4 and 5 should be switched.  Probably.

I think one's own physical appearance is an interesting case.  As a mundane
aspect of life, it should be grouped with 7.  However, I think how someone
looks is usually a very good reflection of how he is, which would mean it
goes under 2.  I think I would place it somewhere after 3, because I believe
other people to be more important than phys. appearance, but not nature.

I think I have a revised list.

1.  Nothing
2.  Yourself
3.  Other People
4.  The Human Race (in general)
5.  Knowledge (in general)
6.  Physical Appearances
7.  Nature
8.  Achievements
9.  Individual Wealth and Possessions.

Hmm...  I realize I left art off this list.  That's okay, though, because I
have no idea where to put is.  Maybe it changes depending on the art.

I have been thinking about enjoyment of life.  I suppose it is very important,
and yet, I often try not to enjoy it.  I do not know what the reason for this
is.  I suspect, though, that I do not enjoy a lot of things that most people
find enjoyable.  Hmm...  a thought.  I enjoy thinking, but thinking leads me
to depression.  Therefore, I enjoy depression.  This seems unlikely, as
depression is a bit of a downer (yes, I know, stupid joke) but maybe it's
true.  Of course, I also enjoy other things, such as contests of wit,
intellect, and/or will.  Hmm... another thought.  Most of the tests of will I
have undertaken have been rather painful, and yet I did them anyways.  My most
recent one I quite definitely enjoyed.  Maybe I enjoy pain, as well.  I think I
have figured out the definition for what I enjoy.  I enjoy proving my humanity.
By humanity I do not only mean mercy, human decency, and other concepts
conjured by the phrase "Oh! Have some humanity!" Maybe you can picture the
pale-faced maiden, pleading to two enraged men wielding bar-stools, begging
them to stop the violence, too.  Anyway, by humanity I mean everything that
is exclusively human.  Yes, mercy falls under this category, but so do things
such as revenge, torture, mass destruction, etc... Of course, I am not
particularly interested in those last 3 examples (maybe revenge, on occasion),
but I think I've said enough.  Certainly depression and tests of will would
fall under humanity.  So would art; another thing I enjoy.

~
Hmm... Today I am in Paris.  I have written a poem about this city.

=>   Paris Is


     Paris is
     Dog shit,
     Lousy weather,
     The smell of urine;

     And that is what makes it
     a beautiful city.
          ~~~

There have been 2 concepts I've been contemplating; selfishness and ambition.
I believe everything a person does is selfish.  Hmm... well, I'm not
completely sure.  Actually, I guess there are lots of things people do that
is unselfish.  I believe that most things a person does is selfish.  There,
much better.  I think, though, that I have not thought about selfishness
enough to write about it right now.  I have very little to say about ambition.
Only that I think it is a terrible thing not to be ambitious, to want to become
greater than you are.  I pity those without ambition.

~












































~
I was thinking a bit about what I wrote earlier; that I would cause the
extinction of the human race merely to postpone my own death.  At first I
thought it was a good thing that my views are probably not shared by very
many, as dying for the benefit of others is often a very good thing in terms
of advancing the human race.  However, something else occurred to me today.  If
no one was willing to risk their own life, doesn't that mean that there would
be no wars?  I think it is a possibility that if my view were held by all
people, it would do more to further the human race that the views commonly
held today.  I will restate that I believe this only to be a possibility, it is
not something I believe to be true.

Should I give this "book" a title?  I think if I give it a title, it will
change the nature of the "book", though I'm not sure in what way.  I suppose
if I think of a really perfect title I will use it, but I will not settle for
anything less.  I don't have anything against leaving it nameless.

Today I sent E-mail to Cthulu.  Yes, I am aware that I am entering the mundane
world here, but I think I will include this anyway.  I find this interesting
because it is the first contact, albeit one-way, that I have had with the
modemming world in probably over 2 months.  I find it interesting that I had
completely lost interest in mist, and the modeming scene entirely, for a
while, but now I can't wait to submit my work.  It is probably because I
believe the material contained within this book to be the best I have ever
written.

~
I just thought of an interesting paradox; I know now that I should never have
came to Europe, but gaining this knowledge makes it worthwhile.  Restated: It
is good that I came here because I learnt that it is bad that I came here.

If I type this "book" on to computer, will it lose some of its meaning?  I
believe this to be an interesting quiestion; The words and ideas will be
exactly the same, but the asthetic qualities, such as the colour of my pen,
the shape of the pages, the appearance of my handwriting, and all the words
and letters I have crossed out, will be lost.  The question is whether or not
the aesthetic qualities of literature matter.  If you look at other forms of
art, like painting, acting, & dancing, you notice a difference; in the latter
3 forms, the meaning is conveyed through how it appeals to the senses.  The
asthetic qualities of literature are different.  They are things like the
rhythm, the emphasis, alliteration, etc.  Basically, how the text flows.  I
think, though, that the physical appearance of literature is also important.
I suppose it is the same as looking at a photograph of a painting, a
videotape of a play or ballet, or listening to a tape of music; it has less
meaning than the original.

Hmm...  that last sentence has a lot of gravity: to me, at least.  Of course
it would be considered "selling out" if I were to allow this "book" to be
edited in such a way that is appropriate for mass market consumption.  In my
mind, it is "selling out" to edit this book in any way.  To take things one
step further, it is selling out to show this book in anything but its
original form.  I now have an interesting dilemma; I would like to submit
this book to mist, (I even considered trying to get it published, presuming it
became long enough, but quickly dismissed the idea.)  but I also want this to
be the best piece of work I can make it.  By submitting it, it becomes worse.
What to do? I could mention the existence of this "book", and then bring it to
meets, to be looked at in person, but then it would hardly have the same
audience, (not like mist packs have a big audience, but this would be just
pathetic...) and a lot of my handwriting would be incomprehensible to the
reader, and they probably wouldn't have time to read the whole thing.   I
wonder if there were great artists (in all mediums) who have known that work
must never be known, and so they have died, unknown to the world, their only
consolation being that their work was better because of it. I am now much less
sure about submitting this "book" to mist than I was even a half hour ago.

~
I have come to a frightening realization; this book cannot be submitted to
mist.  I understand more about art now; when you look at a painting, you can
never understand it, the same is true of art in any medium.  The only person
who understands it is its creator.  Art is not meant to be shown to an
audience.  With this realization, I think perhaps I should quit mist, as
anything submitted to it immediately fails to be art.  Much has become clear
now.  There is still one question, though.  What should I do with this "book"
once it is finished?  I could destroy it, but I think that that is a stupid
thing to do.  I am not sure why, but I do not want to destroy it.  I could
entrust it to the executor of my will to be revealed upon my death, but that
would be the same as revealing it while I am still living, because throughout
my life I would have the knowledge that it would be seen, and so it would fail
to be art.  I think what I should do is preserve it somehow, and put it
somewhere where it will never be found.  This way it still exists, it is
still art, and it will always be this way.  This is a scary realization; Did
great artists such as Van Gogh, Shakespeare, etc, not realize this?  That
their art has no meaning? It cannot even be called art.  Is it possible that
these people were rich on talent, but had less genius than I have?

Another question: Does the material in this "book" concerning it's perusal by
an audience, such as the disclaimer a few pages back, cause it not to be art?
I think not.  They are part of this "book", and like the rest of this book
they will never be read, and so it remains to be art.  Second Question:
Conny, as well as some strangers (on the train, for instance) have seen me
write in this "book", and are aware of its existence.  They don't know what it
is, but they have seen it.  Does this mean that it is no longer art?  I am
less sure about the answer to this one.  I hope that because they do not
realize that it is art, it is still art.  Another interesting paradox: if they
realized it was art, then it would not be art.  I think this was a good answer
to question number two.  From now on I will be more careful where and when I
write in here.  There is one other question: What if someone were to find this
"book", read it, and realize it is art, but they did this without my finding
out?  Would it still be art?  Yes, because I am the only person who understands
this "book", and so if I still believe it to be art, then it still is.
However, what if this person were to then tell me that they found it, and that
it is a piece of art?  I think then, it would not be art.  I thought maybe I
could kill that person, but it wouldn't matter.  I would live with the
knowledge that this "book" had been discovered and realized, and that it is
therefore no longer art.  I suppose now would be an appropriate time for
another note to the reader: If you are reading this, and you are not me,
Don't Tell Me That You Read It!  I hesitate now, because now it occurs to me
that if I have the knowledge that if this book were read that I would not
know about it, then maybe it fails to be art.  This next answer I am very
unsure about.  I think what I said was correct; however, I am confident
enough that it won't be found and read that I will leave the above note to the
reader as is, confident that there will be no reader (as I already said).

I think I have figured out what to do with this "book" once it is finished.  I
will place it in a watertight container (or multiple containers, inside of
each other), encase the container in concrete, and throw the whole thing into
the ocean, as far from land as I can get it.  I think then it would be
preserved for a very long time, probably hundreds of years, if not more,
intact.  The only thing better than that that comes to mind would be shooting
it into space, in some sort of appropriate container, but that would probably
be significantly harder to accomplish.  Now I am curious, though.  A few
minutes ago I liked the idea of there being a very, very slight chance that
it be found, sometime in the distant future.  Now I must wonder; if I live
with the knowledge that there is a chance of it being found, is it no longer
art?  This would seem to be the case.  Of course, the only way to be 100%
positive of it not being found is to destroy it.  I have learned something
else, now.  Because I must destroy this "book" for it to be art, it is a
waste to create it. No, wait, it is not a waste, because it is art.  It is
worth creating art only to destroy it, without a single other person ever
finding out about it.  Why? I don't know.  Maybe I am the only real artist to
ever live, though probably others have come to the same conclusions as I have
in the last 3 pages.  Of course, I could never and will never know about them,
but I respect them for that .  I think then, that I will burn this book when
it is completed.

Hmm... this changes the way I look at paintings, read poetry, etc... Wait,
maybe it doesn't.  Can something that is not art still have meaning?  For
instance, do Shakespeare's plays mean anything?  Sure, they are not art, but
maybe they still have meaning.  I think probably they do not have meaning,
only asthetic beauty.  So I suppose this does change the way I look at "art"
(I will refer to what is believed to be art, but of course is not, as "art";
always in quotes).  Before I had looked for the meaning in "art"; the artist's
genius.  Asthetic qualities were second in importance.  However, because it has
no meaning, asthetic beauty is the only thing that matters, which is funny
because I don't really think asthetic bearty matters at all - I've stated
before my opinions on talent.  Yes, it really is a superficial world we live
in.  It's funny, because I always thought it dumb of Conny to judge a painting
only by how it looks - I always tried to look for the motivation behind a
painting, (but rarely found one - of course, that is not surprising.) but now
I realize that really all you can do is look at how appealing it is.  And I
suppose when I read literature now I will look for how skillfully the author
manipulates the English language.

There is something very important to say here.  Although I have learned a
great deal tonight, in some ways I have learned nothing.  In English class
next year, when we are reading a novel, or poetry, I must still look for the
"meaning" behind it.  It is almost unfortunate to know this much about art -
Maybe this book, which I did not think could get published, would now win a
Nobel Prize for literature.  However, it is so important that nobody has even
the slightest clue of this knowlege I possess that probably I can never use
this knowledge.  Maybe I could show these last few pages to my English teacher,
and before I know it this "book" is my doctorate thesis.  This is the price I
must pay for being a true artist.  I believe the knowledge of what I am to be
reward enough.  If I could gain anything on a mundane level from this
knowledge, then it would not be art.  Perhaps that's the best way of summing
up what art is; something from which you seem to gain nothing, but you really
gain the only thing that matters.  This is interesting.  I concede that this
book, which is real art, still means nothing because I am mortal.  (No. 1 on
the list I made a while ago).  However, looking at the rest of the list, I
find that real art has taught me a great deal about 2 & 3, which are above
the mundane level, but nothing about the rest of the list, which is mundane.

I think I can divide the list into 3 levels, which I will now explain.

     Ultimate Level - No explanation necesssary

     Existential Level - Things that matter as long as you are existing

     Mundane Level - Things that do not matter.

Ultimate Level {    1.  Nothing
Existential Level { 2.  Yourself
               3.  Other People
Mundane Level {     4.  Human Race
               5.  Knowledge & Science
               6.  Physical Appearance
               7.  Nature
               8.  Achievements
               9.  Wealth & Possession

The last 6 pages have been the most important discovery of my life.

~
I have to go away
I have to go away
I have to go away

I have discovered true Genius.  It is a scary realization.  An artist, he
mysteriously disappears while on a canoeing trip.  He is never seen again.
Perhaps, there was an accident, and he died. But he was an expert canoeist
(canoeer?), and now I know the truth.  His name was Tom Thomson.  He has
fulfilled what I wrote about in the Blank Page.

It feels good to be able to write about the Blank Page, now that I know it
will never be read. Really, it was stupid to include the blank page.  I should
have left no sign at all that I intend to fake my death.  One thing that I
realized yesterday was the name I must assume: Tom Thomson. I can picture
him, sitting alone around a small campfire somewhere is the middle of
Canada's vast wilderness, hundreds of miles from civilization.  He paints
there, and probably writes too; it is real art.  Of course, he is certainly
dead by now.

~
I am having difficulty thinking clearly.  I cannot believe these things I
write, and yet, I know they must be true.  I thought of something earlier
today; Society saves the common man, and destroys the uncommon man.

I do not know if what I am writing here is correct, or if it is crap.  If it
is crap, then I have invented the perfect excuse to not show it to anybody;
It is genius and must be unread to remain that way.  I think I do not believe
what I have written.  It is scary, but I want to be insane.  I want to have
perfect rationalization, without any doubt, and I want to be able to do what
I find rational.  That is insanity, and genius.  Now, I am confused, unsure,
hesitant, and I believe I am above myself.  Why is there a voice inside my
head telling me that I must be frugal, that I must dwell on my own thoughts,
that I must isolate myself?  I think maybe the voice is right, but I have not
yet reached the point of insanity where I can see the rationalization behind
it.  I have to wonder if I am still catering my writing to an audience.  I
have to wonder if I do not mean what I say, and I am writing shit.  I think
my confusion is made worse by my present situation; I have no purpose here, I
can do whatever I want, go anywhere; and yet, there is nothing I want to do,
nowhere I want to go.  That is not entirely true; I want to be friends with
Connie, but like I have said before, this will not happen.  And so, I am
defeated.

Why do I have so much trouble fitting in with other people?  I find I can
often understand them, sometimes it is even easy to tell what they really
think, how they really are; and yet (again), I cannot be like them.  Maybe I
am caught between two extremes: Normal, and genius.  I am not normal, and can
never be normal, but I do not have the focus, the ability to see things on a
different level, that a genius has.

Once again, I wonder if I should submit this to mist.  I still believe some of
my previous arguments; that only the creator can understand his art, and that
art is not meant for an audience; but the part of me that is normal, and not
genius, yearns for recognition, achievement.  Right now, I exist both on the
mundane and the existential level.  A true genius lives only on the existential
level, until they ascend to the ultimate level, where they destroy themselves.
I wish I could understand this final step, but it is not within my grasp.  I
suppose, once I understand that final step, I too will destroy myself.  It is
funny that if this happened, people would mourn my death.  I suppose it is a
sad thing, but really, what choice did the destroyed have?  I now know that I
will not mourn Audrey's death, if she does reach the ultimate level, because
even though I cannot comprehend what she thinks, I know that she sees only
the truth.  That sounds corny so I'll try to rephrase it: The decisions she
makes, no matter how wrong they appear, are always right.

I think my tone in that last paragraph was much too... hmm... prophetic, maybe (is that even a
word?)  Like, something Mr Miyagi would say, or something.  Too wise sounding, without the
wisdom to back it up.  Of course, maybe it is true, but I think first I have to believe it to be true.

That is one thing that I've definitely learned recently; what you believe is
more important than what is real, or what other people believe, or whatever.
Of course, what is real?  But I'll get to that later.  I wish I believed in
myself more.  I wish I could go up to someone and say exactly what I wanted,
oblivious of the repercussions.  I think the best word to describe it is
fatalistic.  I get very fatalistic when drunk, and I've become very
fatalistic with Conny, I think because I now understand that no matter what I
say to her, it won't affect her.  In a way, that's good.  I can practice
saying what I believe (it's harder than it sounds) and if I screw up, it
doesn't matter. Unfortunately, it doesn't matter when I don't screw up,
either.

Oh yeah, so what is real?  I think that changes depending on your
intelligence.  People living on the mundane level accept everything as it is;
everything is real, everything is how it appears. And then there's people who
understand more about what reality is.  Reality to them is the collective
perception of reality by all people.  1984 is a good example of this.  And
then, I think, comes solipsism; the belief that reality is how you perceive
it - "Reality" exists only in your mind.  These last 2 examples are on the
existential level.  Perhaps, when one reaches the ultimate level, one discovers
that reality is nothing.  Nothing is real, nothing exists.  I am not sure,
though, because this is a view far beyond my comprehension.

I have figured out what to do about the mist question.  I think what I said
before, that for this "book" to be art it must never be seen and must
ultimately be destroyed, is true.  However, I do not yet believe these words.
When this "book" is finished, then I will know what to do.  Either I will
believe in my previous words, and show the book to no one, because it is
better; or I will still doubt the truth (if it is the truth) and submit it to
mist.  Right now I would do the latter.  I think maybe the "book" has improved
recently, because it now includes things which I would not have written had I
thought it would be read.  True, if I do submit this, I will wish I hadn't
written these things, but of course I will include everything anyway.  I
think I regret some of the things I have written recently, as a lot of it is
crap.  I say this, but I accept it.  Right now, a part of me is crap.  It is
interesting, because if I get to the stage where I no longer believe in crap,
then this book will be destroyed, and no one will know of the crap I wrote;
but if I do not, then the crap will be read.  I suppose this is just.

~
I believe I have discovered yet another thing about human nature.  I think it
is the quest for scientific knowledge that keeps man from going insane.  Today
I was playing with Lego and, granted, it's not exactly atomic theory, but it
was technic lego, so you have to use your brain a fair amount to figure out
how to build something.  Anyway, I realized that when I'm thinking, "how does
this work?" or whatever, that I no longer ponder my existence.  Anyway, what
does this signify?  I think it further shows that their are two distince types
of thinking; scientific and artistic; left-brained and right-brained (I'm not
sure which is which). I think both types of thinking define what makes us
human, and I think both types are equally important, but I also think that the
two are opposed to each other.  Science seems to further the continued
existence of man, whereas the type of thinking I've been doing lately, which
I'm not really sure is artistic, seems to lead to ultimate destruction.  I'm
not sure if what I write is true to that extent, but I think it's clear that
art has no practical purpose.  Now I'm thinking about the list again.  It
seems like science has everything to do with the mundane level, and art has
everything to do with the existential level.  Note that the existential level
is just a name I gave it because it seemed appropriate.  I do not know very
much about existentialism. 

Hmm...  time for a new paragraph, same theme, though.  When I say art has no
practical purpose, I mean it is not any type of tool.  You can't use it to
predict the weather, or cut the grass, or whatever.  What it can do is make
you think.  I think it is clear that too much thinking is a bad thing.
Imagine if everyone were to constantly be questioning their existence; their
purpose in life, and whatever else.  Like I said above, it would lead to the
destruction of the human race.  So why do I think about these things?  I
think I have realized the answer.  Thinking about things on the existential
level does nothing for the human race, but everything for yourself.  I guess it
could then be called a very selfish thing to do.  I consider myself a "better"
person having realized the things written about in this book.  Whether or not
they are true is of little importance; more important is whether I believe them
to be true.  Unfortunately, as I said before, I do not yet believe everything I
have written.

Now, a bit about solipsism.  I wish I could be a solipsist.  I wish I could
look around, and firmly believe that everything was only in my head, and did
not really exist.  That other people were a creation of my mind, and nothing
more.  I understand solipsism; I think the best thing about it is that it is
impossible to disprove, and it may well be true, that I am the only one, and
the universe exists only in my mind.  Like I said already, though, I do not
yet believe this.  Maybe one day...

Solipsism leads you to questions, though.  If everything is in my mind, then
what am I?  Am I a physical entity, or does nothing physical exist?  Maybe my
"life" is like a dream, and I'll wake up from it.  Hmm... I think this could
be a very good argument for solipsism.  When you dream, you believe it to be
real.  You do not know it is a dream.  Everything that you dream exists only
in your head.  I have even dreamt that I've fallen asleep, and dreamt.  Then
I've woken up, thought "Oh, that was just a dream, and now I'm awake."  Of
course, the "me" that is writing in a book right now was still asleep.
There's more about dreams, too, sometimes they seem to last a very long time.
True, I've never had dreams that have spanned 17 years, but I don't think it's
impossible.  Maybe it's happening right now. 

I think this is the best argument for the afterlife.  Life is a dream, and
then you'll wake up, do something for a day (however long that happens to be)
and then at night you'll go back to sleep, and have another "dream" which
would be another life, maybe in a very different universe. 

I think I understand now what happens when a solipsist reaches the ultimate
level.  To them, life would be exactly the same as a dream.  I do not believe
this, I still believe in physical things.  It's interesting, maybe dreams are
trying to tell us that there are no physical things, that it is all in your
mind.  Anyway, when a solipsist reaches the ultimate level, He is then sure
that he is in a dream, so he wakes himself up.  Of course, to an observer, he
kills himself.  To the solipsist, though, it is much different.  Either he
ceases to live, and that is it; No more thoughts, no more universe, no nothing.
If this is the case, then it doesn't matter to the solipsist, because dead
people cannot regret the life they lost.  The other thing that could happen
is he could be right; his "life" was only a dream, and now he is awake.  Maybe
he is something much, much more powerful.  Maybe he is a god.  Of course,
maybe in the world he now belongs to this doesn't mean a whole lot.  I find
this most recent stuff about solipsism interesting because if it true, then I
am writing this only for myself, because no one else exists.  If this is the
case, then maybe I am dreaming, and these words are my subconscious, telling
me what to do.  Now I realize something else.  This stuff on solipsism ties in
with everything.  I said a few days ago that art was meant only for its
creator, and now I find that if solipsism is true, what I'm writing can only
be for me.

I have also said that art exists on the existential level.  So does solipsism.
Someone who only cares about #2 on the list, which is on the existential level,
is a solipsist.  Maybe art is what tells us how we really are.  Maybe art is how
our "real" selves communicate with our "physical" bodies, which may or may not
be on the planet Earth, in the universe as we know it.  I can see how number 3
ties into this as well.  Other people exist only in your mind.  The things they
say would also be subconscious messages to yourself.  That is why other people
are so important - you will learn a lot about yourself by what they say.  What
about the rest of the list?  If the mundane aspects also exist only in my mind,
then they too could be important.  It is scary, but maybe all these things
teach you something.  Maybe I am a baby in a womb, and this dream is how my
species prepares its children for life.  Everything is in my mind, and the
knowledge I gain about myself through this dream is what I will need when I am
born.  I picture entities floating through space, vast, powerful bodies.  Of
course, what I really am is undoubtedly far beyond my comprehension.  I think,
maybe, I have taken another step.  I still believe in the actual existence of
the universe, but I am less sure now.  I am also less sure if there is any
reason for anyone else to read the "book".  Undoubtedly I am writing it for
myself, and I am not even positive of other peoples' existence.  I think this
is a very good thing, my growing unsureness about the way things are.

Now, I understand more than I believe.  I think it is important not to let
what I understand dictate my actions, until I believe that these are the
right actions.  Maybe I have had a glimpse of reality, but I still cling to
this dream, if that is how it is.

~
I have been thinking about other people's "art".  Before I thought that is
was not art; but now, I think maybe it is.  Other people's art is my own art.
It exists in my mind, and that is all I can be sure of.  Because "I", meaning
my physical body, did not create it, it was created by my subconscious to
teach me something.  Therefore, it is art because it was created by me and I am
the only one who will ever see it.  I cannot yet understand it because I do not
yet understand my subconscious.  I am thinking I should submit this to mist to
see what people say.  Probably, I could learn a lot from that.  It is
interesting; Recently I have been able to see meaning in things that I did not
understand before.  In nature, in the way people act, in art, in everything.
True, what I understand is only very, very small compared to what I don't
understand, but I think I am learning.

~
If I believed these things I write, I would be crazy.  I know that I would
prefer it that way, but I can't believe these things.   I don't know if it is
the truth, and I just cannot bring myself to accept it, or if I really do not
believe these things.  Truth is irrelevant. There is no definite truth here.
If I believe these things to be true, then they are.  If I don't believe them,
then they are false.  This I already knew.  The question is whether or not I
will one day believe these things, or if I will stay this way.  I find it
curious that I can write these things, but not believe them.  I hope that the
answer to the above question is that the more I learn, the more I understand,
until I believe these things.  It seems strange, though, that something like
this would come in small steps.  It seems like you should know it all your
life, or you should live your life, and never have the faintest notion of it.

~
Here is an interesting thought: I have thought long and hard, trying to think
of some instance that could disprove that what we are living in is real, and
prove that it is a dream.  I have come up with nothing.  However, it has made
me consider some things...

What is the past?  Much like the what is real question, the answer depends on
your intelligence. On the mundane level, the past is what has already happened,
and that's it.  On a higher level, the past is what you currently believe has
already happened.  Much like reality itself, there is no way to prove that the
past ever happened, or that there is such a thing as time.  For instance, I
remember getting up this morning, but maybe that's all it is: a memory.  Who's
to say that I actually got up this morning, or that this morning ever occurred?
For that matter, who's to say that I have been in this life for more than a
split second in the present.  I can feel time passing, but once it has past, I
can no longer be sure that it occurred.  Maybe the memories I have of what has
already happened are not real.  Hmm...  I figured out the best way to explain
this.  Maybe my brain is looking at a wide assortment of postcards from all
sorts of different universes, flipping through them very quickly.  Each
postcard, though, contains the memories of an entire lifetime, so that I can
experience a "life", for instance, the one I have been having for supposedly
17 years, in a split second.  The only flaw to this theory is that I should
logically remember the previous postcards as well, but it is possible that
this is the first one, and that I am only a fraction of a second old.

Oh yeah... anyway, even if I have been alive on this planet for all these years,
who's to say what really happened?  I think everyone can probably think of a
case where they've remembered an event from the past happening in a particular
way, and then they've found out later that it actually happened a different way.
Yeah, so, what I'm getting at is... it's possible that things have happened in
the past that would disprove reality, but now I remember them differently, or
don't remember them at all.   I have no way of being sure.

As I am writing, and as I have been writing for the last few pages, I am
wishing (and have been wishing) that my surroundings will melt away, and a
voice will say something like, "You have finished your first lesson," or,
"there is nothing more to learn from this world," and then I will discover my
true nature, and begin my real life.

It is funny, the reason I wrote that last paragraph was because maybe I needed
to say it would happen for it to happen.  I'm still here, though, and nothing's
changed, so I guess I can still learn more from this world.

I have been writing a lot about things that could be perceived as the afterlife
lately.  I do not believe in the human notion of God.  I think much of what I
have said is possible; that I am a baby in the womb, still unborn (duh...).
I am sure, though, that if there is a higher power, we humans would not know
about it.

~~
I now realize how much I have been lying to myself.   I now realize my own
arrogance; my false assumptions of other people.  Maybe some of the things I
have written here are true, but that is not important.  I have brought my
depression upon myself; not just by my actions in Canada, but here, too.  I
have not even tried to enjoy myself.  Of course Conny's friends do not like
me; I gave them no choice.  I do not know the reasons behind what I have done.
Sure, I thought I know exactly why I did something, but now I know I had been
lying to myself, lying to everyone.  I believed I could see what everyone was
thinking, what they were really like, and I believed that I was so much deeper
than them, so much more intelligent, so superior.  I think now that the
opposite must be true, that they could see exactly what I was thinking, they
could see my arrogance, and I had no idea what was going on inside their head.

~
I'm thinking of calling this "book" "Dream World."  Their are 2 reasons for
this.  The first is that maybe the world is a dream; I've already explained
how this could be possible.  The second reason is that I've been living in a
dream world up until the last few days.  Every entry in this "book" except for
this one and the last one were made while I was living under these false
assumptions.  Anyway, those are my reasons, which maybe I shouldn't have
written down (it kind of takes the meaning out of the words when you explain
them...), but I'm still not sure, so I'll ponder the question some more.

Oh yeah, I think I'll clear up some stuff I've written earlier.  First, the
stuff earlier in this book is what I thought when I wrote it, so I think it
is still important; its just that I want to make sure that the reader knows
that I've changed my mind on a lot of it, so here goes.

First, about Audrey.  I think I understand how she feels.  I think I've spent
the whole summer feeling like she always feels.  Now I feel sure that there is
no reason for me to feel this way, and no reason for her to feel this way.  I
have already stated the most important theme of what I'm trying to say, but
I'll state it again.  You won't enjoy life if you don't try to enjoy life.
You won't make friends unless you try to make friends.  You must have
self-esteem.  I guess it is something that I have been rather low on this
summer, and maybe Audrey's been low on it her whole life, but whom can either
of us blame for it but ourselves.  The other thing about Audrey is that of
course I'd mourn her death if she died, and I hope to hell that she doesn't
do anything stupid like that.

Now, what else is there in this "book" that I violently disagree with?  Oh
yeah.  The two poems I wrote - the one to Conny and the one to Teresa - are
shit.  Maybe the poems are OK, I honestly don't know, but I now disagree with
their meaning.  They say "Pity me.  I'm so pathetic," but, of course, who's
fault is that?  Certainly not theirs. 

I also disagree with my previous opinions of this "book".  I don't know if it
classifies as "art" or not, maybe anything you choose to call art is art, but
I definitely know that this book is nothing special.  I said before that maybe
this "book" could win a nobel prize, maybe it could be my doctorate thesis.
Well, now I'm 100% sure that that is crap.  I still think that this is one of
my best pieces of writing, maybe even my best, but that is all.

I guess I should mention that my views on solipsism remain unchanged.

Hmm... now the interesting question.  I had previously written that art is not
meant for an audience, and only its creator can truly understand it.  I think
there is still a certain amount of truth behind these statements.  I'll have
to think about it some more, though.  I do, however, disagree with what I said
about people like Van Gogh and Shakespeare not being artists because they were
recognized.  I think they were definitely very good artists, and that their work
really does have meaning.  Still, though, I wonder if the very best artists were
discovered.

Oh yeah.  I also highly doubt that I will fake my death.  It is still a very
lucrative idea, but I doubt I will actually do it.  I also doubt I will destroy
this book, and probably I will submit it to mist. Maybe I am a sellout for that,
but I don't know; maybe people can learn something from it or something...

~
I now have under 1 week remaining in Europe.  It is a bit ironic that the
whole time I was here, I wanted to be able to redo Conny's stay in Canada,
and fix everything that I did wrong (which was everything), and now when I
look back at the past seven weeks (yes, I still have a bit of time) I find
myself wishing I could redo them too.  You'd think I'd have learned the first
time around.  How do I do this?  What makes me so good at blowing every chance
I get?  I guess this is a good example of the saying, "Those who do not learn
from the past are doomed to repeat it," or whatever it was.  Well, I think
I've learned this time; but I really can't say that for sure.  I think the
best way to describe what I do is I just let things slip through my fingers.
I just procrastinate, or I think, "Oh, it doesn't really matter," and slowly,
I start to lose touch with people, or whatever.  I guess I'm just too lazy.

I've been thinking about all my bad qualities lately.  I know I shouldn't
really think about these things if I want to keep a positive attitude, make
friends, etc... but oh well, Here's a quick list.
     - Lazy
     - Procrastinator
     - Poor listener
     - egotistic (egocentric?)
     - arrogant
     - overconfident
     - immature
     - irresponsible

I wonder if superficial belongs on the list.  A week ago that would have been
the last thing I'd call myself, but now I'm not so sure.  A bit of
explanation...  It used to be that I thought most other people were superficial.
I thought I could understand them.  I thought they weren't nearly so deep as I.
But then, to find out that just one person was much, much more deep than I had
thought, and probably much more deep than myself, puts everything in doubt.
Was it not superficial of me to assume I could understand a person by the way
they looked, what they said, and how they acted?  I think it probably was.
Maybe, though, I'm not quite so superficial now. 

I wonder why I made that list (above).  I think it was something I had to do,
to show that I recognize my own faults.  Still, it seems almost a superficial
thing to do, writing them down, as if I'm saying, "look at me!  I'm so great!
I recognize my own faults!"  Also, I wonder how much I believe them.  Hmm...
this part gets confusing...  It seems to me that believing something and
knowing something are 2 different things.  Zum beispiel: someone can believe
in God, but they do not know God exists.  However, I think the opposite is
equally possible; I know I am not perfect, but I believe myself to be perfect.
I'm not sure if that last sentence was just an example or not.  Maybe I should
just say that I know I am not perfect.  I'm not sure what to believe.  I think
the difference between the two is that people believe what they want to
believe, but what they know is a definite fact, whether they want it to be
true or not.  I think usually the two are interchangeable.  For instance:
Probably, if you believe in God, you also know God to exist.  I hope my mind
is not so deluded as the one that subscribes to the last statement...  Oh, I
thought of another good example; I believe I have learned something from all
the screw-ups this summer, but I do not know that for sure.  Maybe something
similar to this will happen in the future, and I'll screw up just the same.

I suppose what you believe is more important that what you know, as you can
never know anything for sure.  Everything you learn is based on a set of
assumptions that can never be proven true or false.  I think probably the
only thing you "know" for certain is your own existence, but that means very
little, as you do not know what you are.  

I have also been thinking about everything I wrote after "The Big Change."
I'll call it that for lack of a better name.  The big change is what occurred
last Tuesday night, and all the entries in this "book" after the double break
(~~) were written after the big change.  I still have doubts in my mind as to
what I believe.  Hmm, before I go on, I have 2 awesome examples...

Example #1: "Pippen," the Stephen Schwarz musical.  Mist members be damned, I
won't summarize it.  Go buy the soundtrack.  Anyway, I think it is a pretty
good example of how I'm currently thinking.

Example #2: "The Last Temptation of Christ," the Martin Scorsese film.  If you
haven't seen it, rent it.  This is a good example of the doubts that are
lingering in my mind.

Okay, where to start?  I think it is safe to say that pre-BC (big change) I
had pretty much come up with the philosophy that I was much different than your
everyday person.  I thought I was much deeper, much more intelligent, basically
superior.  Yes, it was arrogant, but it was what I believed.  I could also see a
rationale (word?) behind my actions that made sense according to my philosophy.
And then, came The Big Change (doom-doom timpani noise).  In short, a friend of
Conny's told me a lot about how to live.  Now, my attitude is that my previous
actions were irrational and stupid, and I should try to enjoy myself.  This is
much different from my pre-BC attitude, which was to try not to enjoy myself.
Okay, now for the lingering doubts.  What if I was right the first time?  What
if I really am "Extraordinary"?  I think there is no chance of this, but I think
I know why I have these doubts, so I'll explain... 

The Explanation of the Doubts: Okay.  First, remember what I said about
believing something and knowing something.  I'm not sure which the more
important is, but I believe that it is believing (maybe, though, I know that
it is knowing... a bad joke, but possibly true.)  Anyway, Pre-BC, I believed
that I was so great.  I'm not sure how to explain this, but in a way, if you
believe you are something, then you really are that thing.  Now, Post-BC, I
believe myself to be not nearly so great; so therefore, I am not nearly so
great.  (Like I said, it's hard to explain...) Now, doesn't it seem like it's
better to be "Extraordinary" that "Common"?  True, maybe people will hate you
because you think you're so great, but so what?  They're stupid.  They don't
understand you.  They don't matter.  It's strange; Reading it now it seems
unthinkable, but it is what I believed.  Anyway, I have gone from
"Extraordinary" to "Common" and it feels like I have lost something.  And the
hardest part is that I can never know for sure; maybe I have.

~
Today I have composed yet another poem.


->

     I never know
     What to do,
     or what to say;

     So if you want me
     to go away,
     I will

     But if you want to talk,
     I'll listen

     And if you want to listen,
     I'll talk

     And if you need anything,
     I'm here.
             ~~~

Hmm... The last line is a bit cheesy.  Oh well, it's done.  Yes, it too is
nameless.

It's funny, I consider some of the poems in this book to be better than
anything else I have ever written ("About a Martyr" is hard to beat, mind
you.) I also consider some of them to be crap, upon reflection, but that's
not the point.  The point is that all these poems are the conversations in my
head, put onto paper.  Is that good?  I'm not sure if I've learned something
about writing poetry this summer, or forgotten something.  It seems to me that
probably the former is true, though, since there isn't a whole lot I could
forget.

~
So much running through my mind; and yet, so little to write.  My thoughts are
too confused, too unsure to put to paper.  I even feel that maybe I should not
be writing this entry right now, but I have less than 48 hours remaining in
Deutschland, and I haven't written in a few days, and I have nothing better to
do, so I'll attempt to describe what I've been thinking about.

I now understand the situation with Conny, I think.  Maybe I have stated
before that the only thing that matters here in Germany (to me) is that I
become friends with Conny.  I have certainly told her that often enough.
Anyway, I think I understand why.  The way I treated her in Canada was
unexcusable; that much is certain.  I know that the only way I can forgive
myself for what I've done is if she can forgive me.  Yes, I have apologized
and she has said it is okay, or whatever, but she has not forgiven me.  Only
if we became friends would it mean that she has looked past what has already
happened, and that I am truly forgiven.  And so, I am in conflict with myself,
with Conny as the arbiter.  The thing that aggravates me the most right now is
that I feel it is possible that she forgives me, and that we become friends,
and that I forgive myself; however, I have run out of time.  I leave tomorrow,
without achieving closure.

That is not the only thing on my mind.  I have also been wondering whether I
love Conny.  It is a question about which I am very, very unsure of the answer.

And still I say yes.

I think I just figured out what to put in her yearbook (that was another thing
i've been thinking about...)  Yes, of course it's a poem.

->

     i can never forgive
     myself

     for what i have done
     to you;

     i leave here today
     empty

     for you have stolen
     my soul.

     i love you.

          -Fraser

     P.S. sorry it doesn't rhyme.
              ~~~

I don't know why i'm so intent on putting that P.S. in, but oh well...  I also
don't know why I chose the word "soul" over "heart", but it seems like the
right word for some reason...  I think this one is a much better choice than
my previous one, though it's still possible I decide to write something else.
I wonder if not naming my poems is something that will become a regular thing.
I think over half the poems in this book are nameless.  Well, I suppose it
really doesn't matter...

~
I have decided that I am a very vain person (add it to the list a few pages
back).  I am still trying to decide exactly what that means.  I care about my
personal appearance; and yes, I still think that your personal appearance is
a good indication of what you are like, but I think it would be better in a
way if I didn't care about my personal appearance.  Hmm... having difficulty
explaining...  Yes, I think most people care about their personal appearance
to some extent, and I don't think I care excessively about it, so I have some
comfort there; but here's what I'm not sure about: What does it mean when
someone doesn't care about how he looks?  I can think of 2 answers to this;
either he is a slob who is too lazy to bother with making sure his clothes
match, his hair is good, whatever; or he realizes that you can't judge a
person by his appearance, and that it really doesn't matter what he looks
like; or both.  Yes, I definitely wish I didn't care about my physical
appearance.  Maybe this is another example of the difference between knowing
and believing; if I know I shouldn't judge people by their looks, then why do
I do it anyways? Maybe it's partly instinctive; sort of a survival of the
fittest type of thing, at least as far as it goes for how I look at girls
(Does that sentence make any sense at all, grammatically or ideologically?).
Anyway, I think our society and culture is more to blame for this
superficiality.

Here's a philosophical (I think) question: If you've lost something but you
don't know it, have you lost anything at all?

There are 2 more related Questions:
1. If you haven't lost something, but you think you have, then have you lost
it or not?
2. If you've gained something but you don't know it, have you gained anything
at all?

I think the last question is the most important.  Keep in mind that I'm not
really talking about tangible things in these questions, more like
opportunities, insights (Yes, I know, cheezy words...) or whatever.

My answer to the original question would be that no, you haven't lost anything,
and my answers to the others would correspond appropriately.

~
It is 14 hours until I leave.  I think my stay here has been a contrast of
extremes; I loved it, and I hated it; I can't wait to go home, and I never
want to leave.  I think often of the regrets I have, not just of how things
have gone with Conny, but other things as well.  People say that what is done
is done, and you have to move on, but I wonder how that is possible.  How can
I forget the terrible things I've done; the mistakes I've made?  Why should I
say, "I've treated you like shit, but that was all in the past, and I want to
enjoy myself, so all the suffering I put you through counts for nothing"?
It's interesting that if given a choice I would choose the destruction of the
human race over my own death, and yet I feel compelled to live in misery
because of the way I have treated one person.

     "Everything has its season,
     Everything has its time;
     Give me a reason,
     and I'll soon show you rhyme."
               -Stephen Schwarz
               "Corner of the Sky" from Pippen

I think maybe guilt is what destroys people.  They accept it so willingly,
too; "Yes, I deserve to feel like shit; it isn't nearly compensation for what
I've done."  And then they start to lose their focus, their rationality; they
no longer know why they get the way they do, or what the right decision is.
Soon, they no longer know what they believe.

Maybe you are supposed to forget the past.  Maybe you have done something
terrible to someone, but maybe you are a different person now.  Is it right
to hold something you did against yourself, when you know you are not the
same, and would never do it again?  I think my problem here is that I do not
know for sure that I have changed.  Yes, I think waht I said before was right;
when Conny forgives me, I can forgive myself.  It is unfortunate that the
chance of that happening has almost reached 0%.  Of course, maybe that was my
chance from the beginning.

I think that might be the one thing that has bothered me; maybe she didn't
give me a chance, maybe there was absolutely nothing I could do.  I don't
really believe that to be true, but I can never know for sure.  The ironic
thing is that it is I who never gave myself a chance; I made that choice when
Conny arrived in Canada, by not giving her a chance, and for no reason.

I said before that I will leave without achieving closure.  I think that is
what bothers me more than anything else.  We have not come to any
understanding; things are in many ways the same as when I arrived here.  The
worst part is that I have tried, and failed.  There really is nothing I can do.

~
I had for a long time decided that this would be my last entry in this "book."
Right now, it is Saturday, September 1, and I am on the plane to Vancouver.
One thing I thought would happen was that this "book" would come to a natural
close.  I now know that this will not be the case. 

And so, what to write?

I suppose, really, there is nothing to write.SAUCE00Red Pen                            Basic               Mistigris           20010124fx