Wait in line
'Till your time
Ticking clock
Everyone stop

Everyone's saying different things to me
Different things to me
Everyone's saying different things to me
Different things to me

Woooohh
Do you believe
In what you see
There doesn't seem to be anybody else who agrees with me

Do you believe
In what you see
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe in
What you see

Nine to five
Living lies
Everyday
Stealing time
Everyone's taking everything they can
Everything they can
Everyone's taking everything they can
Everything they can

Woooohh
Do you believe
In what you feel
It doesn't seem to be anybody else who agrees with me

Do you believe
In what you see
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe
In what you see

Ah and I'll shout and I'll scream
But I'd rather not have seen
And I'll hide away for another day

Do you believe
In what you see
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe
In what you see

Everyone's saying different things to me
Different things to me
Different things to me
Different things to me
Different things to me
Everyone's taking everything they can
Everything they can
Waiting Line-Zero 7

If anyone can answer this question for me they win... well nothing really, except my undying respect? Who knows, take a shot.

Where does the world end and my mind begin?

I leave you to contemplate.

Food Coma

I am sitting and waiting out this behemoth that can be called my stomach. After stuffing helping after helping of my families off beat salmon thanksgiving dinner into my disproportionately small stomach, one that has only been shrunken more by months of eating nothing but college scraps and home cooking of the apprentice chef, myself, I began to feel so sleepy that my head and body and toes and, most importantly, brain began to sag and slowly turn off. This slowness is still effecting my movements, making this entry more than difficult to type. This sluggishness caused by over eating temporarily warmed my soul however, for how often does the broke college student get the opportunity to stuff oneself and then eat more, for no reason other than a desire to do so. "Thanksgiving time is the life," I thought to myself. This joviality lasted about as long as the comatose effects of the over eating, but just as my movement returned, so did thought, and, as always, a touch of pragmatism.
This particular attack on a national tradition does not so much attack the idea behind it, but the thoughts that it stems in most people, myself included. I survive, quite happily in fact, on a daily basis eating what I eat in my apartment, when on campus, whenever, but I have always prided myself on not eating more than I personally need to get by. Why do I do this? Because one to many times in middle school, I was shown a video of all those starving children, all those adults who spend every moment contemplating the exact shape of every rib they poses for no other reason than they have nothing else to do, eating for example. Since this overwhelming dearth of depressed documentaries assaulted my happiness in indulgence, I have tried my damnedest not to indulge, to the best of my ability, in all these silly American ideals that we hold as impossible to live without.

So to come around to a point, I feel horrible guilt right now; guilt about how much I ate tonight. That seems silly when read, even to me, but then again, if one Thanksgiving dinner of one middle class family in this country was shipped to Africa and given to an entire town, they would get more happiness out of it than we ever could. I do not think that America and its richness is evil, nor do I think that we should be world communists and spread wealth evenly, because that will never work properly. My only point is, is it necessary that we flaunt or power and richness with this holiday that, in its own way, supports consumerism as much as Christmas ever did. Maybe we should sit around, and eat minimally, being thankful that the rest of the year it is not us, but everybody else who eats this way. I believe that is much more imposing than gorging yourself to celebrate our fat happy nation ever could be. And now, my over stuffed self, will go to sleep, and dream of waking up a fatter man.

Tree in the woods

I often wonder how much of other's pasts, the stuff they tell me, is true. It is not a difficult thing to say, "I went to Paris to drink a cup of coffee at midnight while looking at the Eiffel tower and smoke cigarettes." Perhaps Sally tells this to everybody she knows. This now, is part of her past, at least as far as everybody else is concerned. Does it matter whether it is true? The obvious answer is yes, she knows its not, therefore, it is still a fiction. But what if, after years of maintaining this lie, building on it, setting the words, actions, and order in stone? Is it possible, that after years of this, Sally will convince not only everybody she knows, but herself as well that she went to Paris for that cup of coffee. Now when the question, "Does it matter whether it is true?" is asked, its answer is much more complex. If the past is the past, no matter what, then what has happened has happened, no matter what. This philosophy leads to an easy answer. But is plagued by the intangibility of our past. Last night, I remember nothing past the sight of the Dixie cup leaving my lips and the burning sensation going scorching my throat. From there, my past is nothing but what I have been told it is. I will never know more, so I must accept my friends recollection. This is my problem with past and with time, and with memory. The past that I concider really, is a culmination of my memories of what has happened, just as my future is what will happen. I went to Paris to drink a cup of coffee at midnight while looking at the Eiffel tower and smoke cigarettes. I leave you with that.

La Musica

La Musica is eternal. I am endlessly amazed at the effects of music on a group. The beauty is in the unconscious twists and turns that it will have on the mood and tone of a group event. One can begin, end, move up, move down, or even slap the current layer of conversation with nothing more than a tune change. The other night, an experiment got performed. Late, late at night, after the parties had closed, and there was a reconvening in our apartment, somebody tried to take us on a journey of what they thought the night should be. Obviously this failed, but they did take us on A journey of of our own creation. The resounding thumping of Daft Punk threw the night into a field frenzy of conversation, movement, excitement. This wave was ridden to its resounding finish, after which, a gentle flowing of Badly Drawn Boy wrapped itself around us and speeches about reality, infinity, and inner calm ensued, bring a level of connection to the eight of us. This mind trip lasted until the unthinkable was done, a wild shoot to the face brought in the form of Hey Ya swept in and out and through us; the party had to start, and this was the time, no other would do. Cans were cracked, cigarettes lit, shot guns thrown around like candy. Who knew such energy existed in this group that had, moments before, been discussing the contradiction that is infinity. And then the exhaustion set in. Eyelids suddenly gorged themselves, weighing themselves down and needing to sleep on top of a comforting bed of eyelashes. Then the awareness of a man Marching The Hate Machines Into The Sun, sprung forth, smooth, ethereal, swimming its way into our minds, souls and bodies. And thus the night closed, hearing the death march of hate into its doom of burning flames.
Now, this is what I saw, felt, and heard, but the eternal aspect of music is that nobody else who spent that particular evening in that house, would tell you this story. This is my story because this is my interpretation, not of events but of music and the language that it is. Just like language, it is as individual as we all are, and as similar as it must be.

The Falsity of Language Part 1

There is a wonderful paradox included in this entire entry. I hope you all see it after reading.
What is language? This question has plagued my mind for some time now. We speak every day, read most of them, and listen more than either. But what do we speak read and listen. I fail to see the connection to be made between the words I am typing and the meaning that you as a reader are understanding. How is it that we, through this completely ambiguously intentioned form of communication, understand one another? This is the great falsity of language as I see most people understanding the concept. People think of words as being whatever it is they represent. When I say chair, you know of what I speak and you think, "this thing I'm sitting in is a chair." I say that you are wrong in this thought. Though chair may be a perfectly acceptable and necessary representation of what you are sitting in, making it understood to any who speak the English language that you mean something upon which one sits, that does not make that object upon what you sit any more a chair than a sella or one of any other hundreds of ways to say chair throughout the world. The point here is that the only connection between words and what they represent is the meanings that we have surrounding the use of the word. It is our experiences, past, present, and future, that create the meaning of the word, nothing more. So with that I refute language as a formal means of communication. This is when I come to a hitch in this marvelous breakthrough that I may have made. At this very moment am I not conveying this concept to you through words? Even I cannot deny that, as much as I may wish to. So, with that I leave you, hopefully doubting every word that you speak today and wondering why it means to you what it means.