Snow, Misandry, and Kaspar Hauser

Lately, I've been having trouble sleeping soundly. I've worked out diligently prior, and on a solid three hours of sleep. I slept around 10:30 and awoke at 3:00 AM shortly after. I had trouble returning to sleep due to the combination the recent blizzard inviting out the snow-plows from nearby Clay County, and something I'm rather not say, but can be likely presumed by one or two readers who know the current state of my intestines. Syracuse has signed a bill saying they will not use salt upon the roads, which leads to extraordinarily ineffective services. As a loop-hole that I am slightly proud of to see used for the sake of good service, we simply rely upon the nearby Clay County - who does use salt - to handle our roads. Pleased with shrewd politicking or not, I'm unable to sleep as they're extraordinarily loud.

I've watched them work, as the cold never fails to perk me up, and followed it with a hot cup of coffee and some morning sugar. It's going to be a long day, and I'm pleased to have run so much, as I won't be able to now, because the snow is unkind to my running sneakers. I'll need something more solid in me for weights today. I also have to force contact with Doctor Olsen and then mail out the painting I've done.

I finished the aforementioned painting last night, while watching a documentary about cancer, oddly. It's of the moon setting over Mount Rainier. It's kind of pretty actually, and while it's ultimately rudimentary in construct, I'm surprised I did as well as I did.
Mount Rainier was always sort of neat to me, because I'd read about it as a child after a small fascination with Washington, where Magi-Nation's team was headquartered. In Seattle to be exact.

I'd also like to talk about men.

It's a little bit of an abrupt topic shift, but I don't trust myself to segue effortlessly into it at 4:45 AM. Men have been a majority of the pioneers, as per the old outdated societal view where men did everything and women stayed home. I don't think that neccessarily means men, "had it good" so to speak. I mean, I imagine it would've been a pretty shitty existence when times got hard, being forced by an uncompromising society to work your ass off without the assistance of anyone you were living with - people would be kind of appalled to hear that nowadays, and would probably tell you that you have a lazy lover or something.

I was thinking about why I'm quite proud of my masculinity, and I think it's because of this advocated sense of misandry that's permeated some of society in the wake of the feminist movement and the rise of Court Television.

I would like to presume - as probably most anyone would of themselves - that I am a good person. I donate blood, platelets, and marrow. I work odd-jobs and train diligently to share what money I do have with the small handful of people I hold dear. I'm versed - perhaps not always well - in philosophy, and my views are flexible but still hold my convictions quite solidly.

I do not like the presupposed notion that I am best assumed to:

• Have held or currently hold the notion that I am better than women because of society's once-held belief that men should be on the forefront of industry and politics.
• Enjoy extraordinarily crude humor. I indulge in terrible jokes on occasion, but only within small circles of dear friends who are doing the same. And never openly or in public. If you know me, I'm far more known for my dry and terrible puns.
• Be a better candidate for criminal acts - namely assault or rape. I have a spotless record, and haven't even dabbled in marijuana, which has sadly almost become a "coming of age" event within the places I have lived.
• Be extraordinarily close-minded. I'm quite fond of many cultures and study them quite openly - one of my favorites being the Kurdish culture. I don't mind various sexualities, though I meet claims of some of them by extraordinarily young people with skepticism. Religion is a non-issue to me, as well - I think at the base of them, they are codices for living peaceably, and that their only danger lies in when they are organized beneath some sort of charisma or authority.
• Be very comfortable with the idea of multiple partners, or infidelity. I have very strong monogamist terms for myself, and have openly declined the hearts of many very dear people, and the beds of many less-dear people, for sake of my love for another.
  

I just hate the idea that the male gender should be nut-shelled as having poor impulse control, being privileged, crude, ignorant and prone to violence.

In closing, I guess I'd like to talk a little about Kaspar Hauser. When I was little, I'd read about Kaspar in a book that'd transliterated his name incorrectly as "Kaspar Hussar". He terrified me. Essentially, he claimed to been raised in a dark cell where he was left bread and water, and where he was occasionally drugged and groomed. He appeared without any clear origins, and presumably a rudimentary understanding of the language, in Germany with a note that essentially said: "We have taught him. He'd like to be a cavalryman like his father was. Enlist him, or hang him."

He could say little beyond "I'd like to be a cavalryman, as my father was" and "Horse", and was presumed to be a feral child or an imbecile. In the book I'd read, they mentioned people being quite fascinated with the animal-like ways he would pace his room.

People began to presume he was of royal lineage and had been sort of "swept under the rug", but had somehow escaped. Many housed him and attempted to discern his origins, but none were successful, and all had ultimately come to think of him in spite. When many began to suppose he were a liar, odd events would happen, where he claimed hooded figures attacked him with clubs or knives. They always left threats, and ambiguous claims, and finally, after one that left a mirrored note, Hauser died from the stab-wound that followed it.

With modern investigation, many believe he was a liar, feeding off his fame and attention, and that all the attacks were self-inflicted injuries to advert the notions that he were a fraud and to revive interest in his dying lore. Nothing was ever turned up as to his real origins or true identity, however, and I do believe that his tomb says it best: "Here lies a mysterious person, who died under mysterious terms."

What an oddity.

Watercolors, Hailstorms, and Bone Marrow.

I got a really slick letter today. So slick that, instead of pinning it up on my cork-board like I tend to do for the mail I get, I actually dug up the cases I used for some charcoal sketches I bought when I was small, took the sketches out, and framed it instead, like I had Onni's calligraphy. It was chock-full of heartfelt stories, hippie memoirs, and facts about people I love that I find still hold true: beauty, a passionate curiosity, and a fervent care for others.

It was all sealed up with a hand-drawing of a butterfly that had flitted about after perching in her garden. I've bought a little Crayola tray of watercolors so that I can return the favor, and paint something worthwhile in return. I'm not a very stellar painter, but I have two eager sheets of cardboard and half the mind to paint some scenery akin to the stuff from Ico - Ico was a really beautiful little number.

I jogged a lot today. I was on my way to the Gym, and I kind of roundabout'd to dish out some thoroughly unnecessary reminders. I didn't make it to the weight-room, so I decided instead to just jog across town non-stop. As I did, a small storm kicked up, and the light rain I jogged in became a raging hailstorm that would make my lights flicker off and on when I returned home. I made it to the mile-marker that I push myself to reach, and I'm starting to be able to do it casually. It hurts, and I can feel it in my legs afterwards, but I can do it, and that speaks volumes about progress itself. The hail wasn't that bad either - I don't get hail often, but it felt something like running in a sandstorm. It was a sensory overload for certain.

I'd also like to thank the folks at Maid Army and Twohou as well as Fujiwara and Ana for their assistance in helping me garner ears for the Marrow Registration campaign I'd stirred up in response to Surviving the World. Without you guys, I wouldn't have been able to advertise, or reach as near as many eyes as it did. If you're reading this and out of the loop, let me explain:
Donating marrow is something I've been passionate about but unable to afford. For the remainder of January, the National Marrow Donor Program is covering the one-hundred dollar fee for registration. If you're over eighteen and meet the criteria to donate blood or platelets, you may register here for free until, well, after-tomorrow.

In closing, it happens to be Claire's birthday today.
Happy birthday, Claire! You're probably not nosy enough to sniff it out, but it's here. I hope your hangover is small and your post-party excitement is big.

Metaphysics, Strays, and Citizen King.

My Metaphysical dabblings are rudimentary at best; I've looked into some polarity, been given a quick summation of how Exorcism works, lesser banishment rituals, better meditation, and there's something else I was going to add to the list, but I'm a bit too frazzled right now to think of what is. Either way, you get the gist of it - I'm no philosopher.

I've been reading about prophets and scryers as of late, and scientists as well. It seems they held hands in the Renaissance, prophets and scholars? I don't really know what caused that rift. It seems like a more effective system. I think the world's slowly coming to believe that will and fact are mutually exclusive - that science is completely detached from one's ability to think, will, and create. I think we've raised intellectual bars into a prison.

That's a cheesy metaphor.

In retrospect, I wish prophets would stop postulating with regard to the end of the world. In addition to making the whole field look like quackery when it falls through, they're unproductive. I'd prefer Oracles that guess to ways to better the world as opposed to those who breed ennui with their presumptions that all will end - and soon.

Optimistic Prophets and Physicists holding hands.

That'd be one hell of an ideal world. Kind of Randian in a way - I remember Danneskjold studied Philosophy and Physics: "A pairing of subjects that just isn't heard of these days."

Work with the Military requires eight weeks of training. It also requires technical teaching. I'm being processed for it all, but that's still quite a length to be inactive, so I've resumed job-hunting. It sounds kind of defeatist to me, but I'd really just like to have expendable income again, so while everything's still cooking, I'd like to begin working on the side. There's a local Animal Control hiring, and I've got an extensive - extensive - history with Saint Joseph's Animal Control, and the Souris Valley Humane Society when I lived on the Canadian border.

If all goes well, I'll be scrubbing pins and snipping knots for pay whilst preparing for another job later. There's even the off possibility that I'll be able to keep both: that's doubled the income and a slough of benefits.
I can't afford to get ahead of myself, though. While I'm prophesying all the good that may come of this situation's potential, I need the factual ground of it being my situation in the first place.

I've been a little emotionally bruised as of late. Actually - it's more correct to say I was a bit bruised up a few days ago. I was sweating everything, and I just didn't know what to do.
I talked with my family a bit. I basically got:

"Are you okay? Have you been working out? You should be better to yourself. Is Emily okay? She's been better? Is she in health? Is her mother okay? Are you fighting? Has she decided she doesn't like you? She's none of those things? Then all is well."

It was kind of an apt assessment - I haven't lost anything, so what was I so worried about?
I went out for a late-night sprint and punctuated it with some Citizen King.
You ever hear that song "I've Seen Better Days"? I sang that in the shower, warming-up and un-musking from my running. After that? I just knew everything'd be fine.

I've seen better days, sure, but I know the situation's not nearly as bad as it seems and it's nothing I can't be ambitious about.

I guess that's kind of it. If you're feeling lazy, this can all be summed with:

• It'd be really cool if Scryers and Physicists worked hand in hand while adverting doomsday-prophecy and simply bettering the world.
  
• I may have work in the meantime while being processed for the military. At best, I may have two jobs.
• I had some relationship problems. A conversation with my family, a sprint, and some Citizen King patched me right up, and I'm feeling optimistic and strong again.
  

Herr Commisar.

Something kind of rough has happened. Rather than telling it like a story, I'm going to make it into a series of bullet-points:

• My FAFSA was processed at a sluggish pace.
• My G.I. Bill has not even been processed, which leaves me paying for class out of pocket.
• My job-hunting has been fruitless since arriving in New York.
• I cannot live in the Dormitories.
• I cannot study Medicine and must take prerequisites as not to waste time.
• I may waste time taking prerequisites as they may not transfer.
• Money is tight and Emily needs finances to travel to L.A. and begin the life she wants.

As such, I have decided to join the Military for the following reasons:

• I can get a job freely so long as I prove my lungs do not affect my performance.
  
• Working out so that Emily would admire my body has made the above exceptionally easy.
• They will allow me to branch into a Medical field. And pay for it.
• They may allow me to transfer to Emily, who lives near an Airbase.
• My father has influence in the area.
• I am given exceptional health benefits, which I may pass to Emily if I put a ring on her finger.
• The particular area I am getting into is easily left, allowing me to apply my Medical gains elsewhere.
• The pay is a cut above minimum wage.

I am confident in my ability to meet their needs and my father has the background to tell me what said needs are. I have them noted and will set them as the standard for my workouts until I can do them casually.

They are:

• Running 1.5 miles in thirteen minutes or less.
• 60 Push-ups in one minute.
• 60 Sit-ups in one minute.

I will attend the gym every day as opposed to every other day, and make a point to hone my legs more. My only regret is that they will shave me bald as part of my initiation.

To Do List:

Follow-up Vaccination. X

Run mail. X

Search Jobs. X

Make Postcards. X

Pick a Valentine to make. X

Fix Alec's Computer. X

Handgliders.

I had expected myself to fall quite readily upon my leap from this safe-zone of stagnant mediocrity into change and Emily. This is not the case, and I've found myself holding some sort of invisible handglider that slows my decent into independence whilst pissing the majority of people I hold dear off as well.

I can't wait to simply have my feet on something solid. I'm just so tired of drifting closer to the floor of where I'd like to be.

College has had some odd developments. It's not exactly everything I want it to be, and all the opportunities that had been fostered for me in Missouri now seem like they're glowing like a damned sun of regret saying, "You should have prepared early! You should've made all your important decisions when you were seventeen! Why, oh why did you get comfortable?"

There are no rooms in the Male Dormitories, so if I want to save myself the metric-assload of distance between me and the college, I've got to shut up and color until Next Semester when the drop-outs and graduates are finalized or I've got to work on borrowing a vagina.
I'm opting for the first course of action.

I have passed the entrance exams with flying colors, having eaten the English portion, which I already have free credits for thanks to my college-level courses. I even did golf-clappably okay on the Math portion. Not stellar, but solid, and now I qualify for an array of courses as opposed to some rudimentary knuckle-dragger course I'd been anticipating.

However, like the dormitories, the Medical courses are full and they're not accepting late applicants. I feel slightly jaded, knowing that nobody in that course has the two college accredited courses I have, nor the community involvement, even if it's only through the Community Blood Center. I have to wait for people to quit. They offered me a chance to talk to other medical students who will help me plan how to get closer to Emily with more credits, but I frankly don't have much faith in that sort of system, and I imagine a whole lot more of sitting in a room for an hour drinking swill coffee while someone texts on their phone in between classes.

I don't know. I'm a little jaded. It's not what I thought it'd be, but I talked to Emily and I think I'm going to spring for it and just knock out my Prerequisites and hope they transfer.

...Also, my father hates my guts and can't seem to decide if he'd like to be drunk, asleep, or impotently angry. His martyr routine is frustrating, and he seems clueless as to why I'm so eager to get the fuck out. And more clueless still as to why nobody likes to ask anything of him.

...Because the moment we get on our knees? Any of us?

He hops up on his cross.

The Tamalero.

Tamales are a pain to make. Not only does the corn-dough stick to your hands and flake quite readily, but it's a pain to find corn-husks to steam them in. Moreover, it takes some effort to really find a good balance of cumin, chili and such to really make them well. Tamaleros are a rough bunch. They usually work from home, rolling out corn-dough, packing it full of beef, pork, or chicken, and then selling it from stands.

During the era of the Depression, it's kind of odd, they actually had a culture of sorts amongst Spanish food stands. Women would cook "sleeping beans" - beans slow-cook overnight - and serve them with rice and tortillas whilst salsa-dancing to attract customers. It wasn't a risque affair like it might seem, but a cheery, raucous sort of thing. Tamaleros sold tamales from the backs of carts and old cars. Goodwill, low prices, and good eats.

It kind of died overnight when the U.S. Government enforced stricter business and food protocol, demanding paperwork and credentials for the stands of the impoverished Spanish immigrants who were serving equally impoverished workers. There wasn't exactly enough money to be had to just license a business. It was kind of a impromptu sort of affair to start with, y'know?

You're probably wondering why I'm sitting here talking about Spanish food culture at 12:46 AM. A man was killed a couple years ago. I heard his story and it breaks my heart - I'd like to believe in Karma, and have faith that all happens for a reason, and that we tend our gardens accordingly as per Candide's claim, but I can't explain this guy's death. There's just no reason for it.

Cosme Gonzalez was forty-eight when he died. He was a Spanish man living in Los Angeles, California. He was from Acapulco, Mexico and was known for, delicious cooking aside, his signature hat and thin moustache. He sold Champurrado - a thick Spanish drink kind of like Hot Cocoa - alongside his famous Tamales and simple things like pillows, fruit and corn from his station wagon, as he had for twenty years. His neighborhood was poor, and if you couldn't spare two dollars Cosme was known to give them out free.

A man who knew him said, "Not one free tamale, but two. That's how good of a guy he was."

He'd call "Tamales! Champurrado-!" though his hands three times a day, and ring his hand-bell to attract customers, and children liked him because he would dance on occasion to entertain them as they ate - a homage to older times.

There's a lot of crime in the Westlake district of L.A. Mostly Mara Salvatrucha. Mexican Mafia.
They like to view street merchants as quick fixes. They usually don't have anyone there to protect them. They don't have papers. It's kind of like pulling a gun at a garage sale and demanding the little tool-box full of one-dollar bills.

Cosme Gonzalez's sister really admired him for not letting himself be shook-down by the Mexican Mafia. He played his game fair until the day he died. And he played it generous, kind, and loving. There a man named Werner Francisco. He is nicknamed "Blue", and while most gang-members in the area don't openly pack heat, he does and did, and demanded the tamalero's money. As Cosme turned to run, Francisco shot him three times in the back. Cosme was ultimately pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

He had a wife of ten years, and three children; a nine year-old son, and two daughters who were five and three at the time.

The officer who informed his wife said he simply gave her the blood-spattered earnings that Cosme had tried to run with and held her when she cried. They never caught Werner Francisco, either.

Here are two photos of Cosme. He is the kind of man I admire and I don't understand under what circumstances the world is bettered without him. He deserves better than to be gunned down by some crime-syndicate thug.


A testimony to simplicity and selflessness was shot to death on 325 South Witmer Avenue, February 27, and I don't know why.

I don't know. I just hope that I can do right by this guy. That I can follow his example. When I'm in a position to, maybe I should volunteer medical expertise. Work a free clinic or something. But for now, I light a candle for him three years overdue.

Cusp-Leap.

Things are rather well as of late. Forgive me for being a little less than vocal about it, they've simply been busy with the same reasons that you've come to expect: Change is in the making, and this time, it's coming to fruition. Thank you, God, for giving me the resolve to follow through with all this in spite of my admitted fears.

I've finished the little banner for the top. I was originally going to swap it to White, but it's just dark enough, yet colorful enough to work. Smile's house has such odd vomit-like colors that the text looks nice when I make it to match because it adds just a touch of not-red or white.
I'm looking for places to add his "Bleeding Eye" and "Broken Smile" fliers that are pasted all over the classrooms of the School, but I don't really have any ideas how to re-organize my Followers List and About Me tab where they would be sort of welcome, let alone how to incorporate them there in HTML. Sometimes, I have regrets about getting my answers from brief periods of study in Technological Education. If I'd not been such a shirk, I'd be able to handle wiring, lathing, HTML, and XYZ coordinate entry.

I've a meeting with the local college I've settled on. It's not exactly prestigious, but it's close and manageable. It also has on-campus living arrangements and I'm hoping Scholarships for academic merit, as I'm in the top-quarter for receiving those and supposedly the college's talent pool is rather limited. Whether this is a good thing and I'll be favored or whether the nail that sticks out highest will be hammered hardest has yet to be seen. More on that when I've toured, talked, and such.

Last night was a beautiful evening. The moon wall bright and beautiful as it's been for the past few days, but this time it was cloudless and striking. It was just cool enough to see your breath, which let me sleep with the window open and without regrets in the morning. Prior to sleeping, I enjoyed Emily's lovely company. She's received the tea I sent her, and has prepared a lovely letter from her and her mother. A cork-board just won't do it justice, and I think I will frame it in a nice glass case. A memento like that makes my heart melt and my ambition burn.

I spent most of the day cooking for people, cleaning, and helping my little sister wrap her head around the failures of the Treaty of Versailles and how it ultimately was a coupon for World War II. And then longer rewording and even writing a few portions of her essay over it. She's a brilliant girl, just not a good History student, whereas I won my high school's Cup for History.

I'm just leaping off the cusp into independence. I hope it rewards me.

Trial by Fire.

I am trying out some new Smile themed gimmicks with this blog.
I have no idea what I'm doing, so it's a bit of a trial by fire.

So far I'm getting burnt quite badly, and you may notice that while my posts are prettily centered,
the Follower's lists and all other lovely, cool things have vanished.

I'm working on fixing that. Sorry about the mess.

I'll tell you more later, when my bladder and proverbial plate aren't full.