Primary Function: Extraverted Intuition (abbreviated Ne)
Extraverted Intuition is the function which takes in ideas from the external world and draws connections between them. To the ENFP and ENTP (Graham), types which have Ne and their first function, new and experimental are necessarily good, and old and conventional are necessarily boring. One might go so far as to say for them life is lived for novelty.
This Ne manifests most obviously in their creativity, their looking outside the box which inevitably results of their thirst for new connections. It also manifests in their irreverence; they often view tradition as necessarily bad, and a hindrance to new and better possibilities. Both of these characteristics can be seen in their ironic and absurd sense of humor, built on satire and one-upping established conventions of comedy.
There is a negative side to Ne, however. ENPs are notoriously indecisive, for one; decision is viewed as the death of possibilities. And then they are distractible and fickle like no other; when one lives to be excited, and when excitement comes from possibilities, one leaves prematurely when possibilities run dry. For the ENFP especially, this life of meeting and leaving interesting people (people as Fi territory, more on this later) frequently hurts the people when they find they were only objects of interest, and it leaves the ENFPs themselves wracked with guilt.
Auxiliary Function: Introverted Feeling (Fi)
Think of auxiliary function as an anchor for each type, or as a channel of the energy realized by the primary function. This function is where the ENFP differs from the ENTP—where the ENTP focuses his Ne on the world of preexisting ideas and theory and structures, the ENFP’s Ne is focused on Fi, the world of personal feelings and convictions.
ENFPs, as a result of this Fi, are strongly devoted to a sense of right and wrong. They live their lives in pursuit of self-fulfilling experiences: intense emotions and expressions of humanity, unrealized possibilities in individuals they consider interesting, and important potential causes which need championing. This combination of Ne and Fi is especially apparent in their relationships—ENFPs are excellent psychologists who are drawn both to the study of personality and to helping others, and most of what they say (aside from numerous jokes) is said to gauge the response of the listener and obtain a new bit of information about them. Unfortunately they will sometimes reveal a bit too much about themselves and lavish compliments and in this manner unwittingly convince others that they are more concerned about them than they actually are. The ENFP himself will often also feel guilt over this “inauthenticity.” Another negative consequence of Fi: because individuality is so important to ENFPs, they (unlike ENTPs) are likely to consider any imposition of an organization into their lives not only a threat to the realization of possibilities but also a threat to individual identity. Thus they will wage an unnecessary lifelong war against bureaucracy.
Tertiary Function: Extraverted Thinking (Te)
This function is used frequently, but only serves to aid the second function in carrying out its agenda. The user is often aware of this abuse of the function, and tries to compensate by convincing himself that he is skilled at its use independently.
For the ENTP and ENFP there is again a difference: ENTPs have Extraverted Feeling in their Tertiary Function, and their social finesse and understanding of others’ feelings and ambitions help them to promote their cause or project. ENFPs have Te, which is thinking applied to the accomplishment of goals and the meeting of criteria. Notice that this differs from the ENTP’s Introverted Thinking in auxiliary, which is thinking applied to evaluating already realized structures and ideas.
In the Tertiary Function, the Te manifests in the ENFP’s use of logic to justify or condemn behavior, and his taking personal offense to criticism of ideas which he has invested emotionally in. This both comes from a backwards logic of finding evidence with a solution already in mind. Te will also appear in hints of dogmatism, elitism, and shows of forcefulness when the ENFP is under stress.
To compensate for their weakness in this area, ENFPs try hard to prove their intellectual competence by gaining trivia knowledge, surrounding themselves with Thinking Type friends, or following cultural norms associated with intelligence.
Shadow Function: Introverted Sensing (Si)
Both ENFPs and ENTPs have Si as their last and weakest function. Si champions the value of pleasant memories and follows traditions and rituals for this sake—in this way Si is diametrically opposed to Ne. Si in the position of the Shadow Function acts as a silent anchor to all the ENFP’s and ENTP’s behaviors. It is, however, so far back down the functions line they are often not aware of it. This is evident in the signs of their lack of awareness of sensory input: very poor coordination, incompetence in picking up social etiquette, and neglecting to eat and sleep. However, its looming presence makes them nervous in new physical experiences, gives them a propensity toward nostalgia and sentimentalized memories, and draws them to engage in familiar places, customs, and (often irrational) beliefs.
Last note: EP types in general (primary functions Extraverted Sensing and Extraverted Intuition) tend to evaluate the worth of ideas or sentiments by how they are received by others. EFPs in particular are extremely concerned of what their friends think of them. ENFPs and ESFPs both will take any bit of criticism or compliment done in jest far too seriously. In the worst case, they are given to changing their own beliefs and interests to find common ground with friends.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Creep
I don't like that word--creep. It's like how I don't like the word "awkward." Somehow it's a negative attribute to be different in matters of social convention. And creep is just one step further. It's someone who tries to approach others in their own weird manner. Someone who is socially ept, who approaches others, he's gregarious. But when someone is awkward, they become this very negative connotationed creep?
It's awful. Creep, or awkward--anytime I hear anyone talk about anyone in those ways I just want to punch them. It's not just jealously. It's a bit of jealousy, I guess, but it's also the whole "weird is bad" thing. By extension, it's the negative sanctioning of bad behavior by not being friends with these "creeps". Done en masse, it's spoiling anyone's happiness for not following social conventions. I don't like it.
It's awful. Creep, or awkward--anytime I hear anyone talk about anyone in those ways I just want to punch them. It's not just jealously. It's a bit of jealousy, I guess, but it's also the whole "weird is bad" thing. By extension, it's the negative sanctioning of bad behavior by not being friends with these "creeps". Done en masse, it's spoiling anyone's happiness for not following social conventions. I don't like it.
In love with famous people who can't write music
I like Adam Young a lot. I can't stand his music, but after reading his blog, I bet I'd love to meet the guy. And Miley Cyrus--I feel the same way about her. I'd totally go out with her or something.
It's kind of odd. A lot of the real hipster blogs I read are talking trash about them and their pretentiousness and character flaws. Guys, really? Just because they can't make music, they suddenly become bad people? Radiohead's my favorite band and yet I swear Thom Yorke is much more of a dick than any of these teeny boppers will ever be.
(It's why I hope I'll never be famous. People might start liking my character.)
It's kind of odd. A lot of the real hipster blogs I read are talking trash about them and their pretentiousness and character flaws. Guys, really? Just because they can't make music, they suddenly become bad people? Radiohead's my favorite band and yet I swear Thom Yorke is much more of a dick than any of these teeny boppers will ever be.
(It's why I hope I'll never be famous. People might start liking my character.)
Monday, December 27, 2010
The day I get into college I will start an anime review blog!
Somebody shoot me before I write this blog!
Remember me as someone who at least tried to love (and succeeded in loving) the higher-tiered works, but alas never fell out of love with the romantic escapism which saved the life of a former friendless middle-schooler hooked on My Chemical Romance.
Remember me as someone who at least tried to love (and succeeded in loving) the higher-tiered works, but alas never fell out of love with the romantic escapism which saved the life of a former friendless middle-schooler hooked on My Chemical Romance.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
I've been thinking: almost all the songs I write on the guitar make use of the following:
- Constant change between the pentatonic scale and heptatonic scale
- Constant change between 4/4 rythms that go in groups of threes (like x--x--x--x--x-x-) and 3/4 rythms, and occasional arythmia
- Many major triad chords from many scales, which all blend to sound cool and discordant
- A constant low note (E is easiest) that sounds on off-beats to keep rythm
The songs usually have that classical Spanish guitar sound, something like Radiohead's Bodysnatcher-esque songs (that song is probably what I base everything I write on). The scale is all Tool and the Velvet Underground. I wonder why the latter two; I don't even love them amazingly much.
(Wow, analyzing my own music--am I pretentious?)
Friday, November 5, 2010
Annica!
Everything is passing by so fast.
At the end of the year I'll leave this country and most likely not see my friends here ever again.
I won't miss them, I don't think. I'll be caught up in the moments in college.
The past is never relevant. The past is but an aching pang in my stomach.
Life is the now-moments.
At the end of the year I'll leave this country and most likely not see my friends here ever again.
I won't miss them, I don't think. I'll be caught up in the moments in college.
The past is never relevant. The past is but an aching pang in my stomach.
Life is the now-moments.
The thing about teenagers is most are at about the same place in life: struggling to find their own identities and beliefs and dreams amidst a sea of hormones, scared and pessimistic about the big corporate world and all its sharp corners ahead of them, but still mostly alive and making it through for those odd moments of bliss and friends and family. That’s where my own friends are, at least, and that’s where Holden Caulfield was, and that’s where I am. Now, the thing about this thing about teenagers is they are mostly conscious of this fact and resent it. I do, at the very least. I swear, if I ever become a writer, to never write a novel targeted at teenagers, because of the ridiculous ease of such a task. I say just add to your character angst and selfishness and self-loathing and we’ll be soft-hearted enough to sympathize, even me. Oh, sadly, me: reader of A Clockwork Orange and The Great Gatsby and Ulysses in my freshman year. Listen, every teen hipster has a soft underbelly. We’re all catchers in the rye, keen on keeping those of our kind from the cruel of the corporate nightmare, all hail the subculture. We’re all a soft-hearted, cynical, lost bunch. Exhibit A: me. My life. What can we make of it? At the moment, we have (1) my five family members fearfully grabbing at what is left of my descent into sinful bohemianism, fasting for me, pleading with me, inspiring in me a guilt which watches over every sentimental moment I can hope to have with them. And then we have (2) one of my closest friends constantly stealing the spotlight with his highly cultured tastes, his brilliant mind, his admirable morality—oh, I do worship him, but do I bore him with my vulgar and unintelligent chatter?
We have (3) another friend who has opened up to me recently. Another, because—get this: every year I have maybe half a dozen people opening up their deepest, darkest secrets to me and thinking of me as their best friend. Oh, of course, I love them opening up. I do. And I love him. But when this sort of thing isn’t reciprocated, I just feel awful and drained. Or at least I think that’s the problem. And then we have these three friends over here (4), all quite happy people, and my favorites of the bunch. Little do they suspect: I feel horribly inadequate around them. Why? Every attempt to express affection comes off as stiff and unnatural, especially around that one girl. Now I withdraw when I see them, for sake of self-respect. Ah, selfish me! Do they suspect I dislike them? Lastly we have (5) a long distance relationship devoid of all feeling, Along with (6) a possible online crush--a sad girl of 15 who looks for comfort--to compensate. In summary, then: this current life is one defined by: five family ties, five close friendships, one online friendship-on-the-brink-of-romance, one stale long distance romance— all pervaded by sinful sycophancy, self-consciousness, and a (not entirely unfounded) sense of inadequacy. And guilt over it, mind you: I realize in all of this that I am committing the horrible and heinous offense of forfeiting authenticity for acceptance, paving the first tiles on the way to a corporate hell of act and tact. Continuing the example, I add to this tangle of thorns a something called “school,” which attacks every already-stressful afternoon social encounter with reminders of unfinished work from the night before, or failed subjects, or unsatisfying SAT scores. I fight it, of course. I scorn this Tool of the Man and all its worldly values of wealth and power, I tell yourself you don’t care and your highest goal is to own a bookstore and maybe a cat. But my stomach tells the truth in aching pangs: I, simply incompetent and in denial. Finally, in my room alone there are my attempts to escape with naïve dreams of childhood—my goals of life on the road, of offering ear and shoulder for come-and-go friends, of living for the miraculous and mind-boggling people that populate every corner of this stark existence!, of dying a savior—now crumbling away at the edges—Dear reader, behold, Exhibit A, (proudly written in a silly sort of mock-pretentious style that may quite possibly have been stolen from a certain narrator in a certain favorite novel, and excuse my temporary lack of identity)—such is the life, I think, of the mess that is the teenager; caught between a drive for authenticity and identity and an endless love for friends and family, fighting the gears of the corporate machine, picking up the vestiges of values and dreams after their foundations have fallen away, and for the first time getting fleeting glances at the still ineffable face of empty, such is the life.
We have (3) another friend who has opened up to me recently. Another, because—get this: every year I have maybe half a dozen people opening up their deepest, darkest secrets to me and thinking of me as their best friend. Oh, of course, I love them opening up. I do. And I love him. But when this sort of thing isn’t reciprocated, I just feel awful and drained. Or at least I think that’s the problem. And then we have these three friends over here (4), all quite happy people, and my favorites of the bunch. Little do they suspect: I feel horribly inadequate around them. Why? Every attempt to express affection comes off as stiff and unnatural, especially around that one girl. Now I withdraw when I see them, for sake of self-respect. Ah, selfish me! Do they suspect I dislike them? Lastly we have (5) a long distance relationship devoid of all feeling, Along with (6) a possible online crush--a sad girl of 15 who looks for comfort--to compensate. In summary, then: this current life is one defined by: five family ties, five close friendships, one online friendship-on-the-brink-of-romance, one stale long distance romance— all pervaded by sinful sycophancy, self-consciousness, and a (not entirely unfounded) sense of inadequacy. And guilt over it, mind you: I realize in all of this that I am committing the horrible and heinous offense of forfeiting authenticity for acceptance, paving the first tiles on the way to a corporate hell of act and tact. Continuing the example, I add to this tangle of thorns a something called “school,” which attacks every already-stressful afternoon social encounter with reminders of unfinished work from the night before, or failed subjects, or unsatisfying SAT scores. I fight it, of course. I scorn this Tool of the Man and all its worldly values of wealth and power, I tell yourself you don’t care and your highest goal is to own a bookstore and maybe a cat. But my stomach tells the truth in aching pangs: I, simply incompetent and in denial. Finally, in my room alone there are my attempts to escape with naïve dreams of childhood—my goals of life on the road, of offering ear and shoulder for come-and-go friends, of living for the miraculous and mind-boggling people that populate every corner of this stark existence!, of dying a savior—now crumbling away at the edges—Dear reader, behold, Exhibit A, (proudly written in a silly sort of mock-pretentious style that may quite possibly have been stolen from a certain narrator in a certain favorite novel, and excuse my temporary lack of identity)—such is the life, I think, of the mess that is the teenager; caught between a drive for authenticity and identity and an endless love for friends and family, fighting the gears of the corporate machine, picking up the vestiges of values and dreams after their foundations have fallen away, and for the first time getting fleeting glances at the still ineffable face of empty, such is the life.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
How to create your very own Jandek-style album:
The musical process:
1. Detune every string on your guitar. Strum an open chord.
If any two strings retain any semblence of concord, repeat.
2. Take an audio recorder and turn it on.
3. Press random frets and strum erratically.
4. Scream your thoughts on the first thing that comes to mind--
be it Jesus, drug trips, or days of the week coupled with the names of famous European cities.
1. Detune every string on your guitar. Strum an open chord.
If any two strings retain any semblence of concord, repeat.
2. Take an audio recorder and turn it on.
3. Press random frets and strum erratically.
4. Scream your thoughts on the first thing that comes to mind--
be it Jesus, drug trips, or days of the week coupled with the names of famous European cities.
The cover art:
You have a choice here.
You have a choice here.
You can take a poorly-lit picture of:
1. Yourself,
2. Buildings,
or 3. Furniture.
1. Yourself,
2. Buildings,
or 3. Furniture.
-
-
Bonus Indie Creds:
Send this guy a copy of your record, along with a genuine Jandek record.
Ask him which is which.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Hipster.
I came across the word in On the Road.It turns out they like that book.
It turns out they like Warp Records, and Radiohead, and Eastern religions, and vegetarianism, and wearing thrift store tees with American Eagle sharpied on, and Vespas, and coffee shops.
I am 91% hipster according to a quiz on Hello Quizzy.
Go figure.
Hear me out, world. Hear me out, world. Hear me out, world. Hear me out, world. Hear me out, world. Hear me out, world. Hear me out, world. Hear me ou
wasted time, messy house, unwashed body in the morning, tasks! all piling on my shoulders,
my life is permeated by a feeling of aimlessness:
hear me out, world. Tell me where to go from here, then
give me a push. Daring dreams, with wings and things--
or if not, at least an eloquence to communicate my uncertainty--
my life is permeated by a feeling of aimlessness:
hear me out, world. Tell me where to go from here, then
give me a push. Daring dreams, with wings and things--
or if not, at least an eloquence to communicate my uncertainty--
tell me: is this eloquent enough?
Are you listening?
Are you listening?
Sunday, October 3, 2010
P.S. Reading a life of Empedocles, I felt how old is this desire to make a god of oneself.
This letter, so far as I am conscious, never attempts this.
On the contrary, I consider myself one of the most common humans.
You may recall those days of twenty years ago when we discussed "Empedocles on Etna" - under the linden trees.
In those days I was one who wished to make a god of myself.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Shit happens
Are you, by any chance, looking to shove atheistic existentialism (hidden under the thin veneer of theism) down the throat of your 4-year-old child--while simultaneously giving them a newfound appreciation for canine fecal matter?Wow, have I got the perfect movie for you!
That's right, folks! Doggy Poo has it all:
the meaninglessness dog shit that is you, the unchangeable consequences of all your past misdeeds, the inevitability of death (in the form of an ox-drawn carriage) from the moment of birth, the cruel winds of chance sweeping some forward and leaving others behind, the horrible monotony of each and every day, and the finding meaning (in your love for another) before your life is over.
No, really.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Anime and manga I like
I don't know how much I blog about it, but I'm a huge fan of these mediums.
For the record:
My favorite anime is Haibane Renmei and my favorite manga is Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou.
I also enjoyed Satoshi Kon's movies, Tatami Galaxy, Boogiepop, FLCL (more for the subdued romance than the action and humor.
Of course, realize that I've watched far less than I should have by now, mainly due to my lack of patience with long series. To keep myself interested, I tend to opt for films under half an hour. Among these, my favorites:
Cat Soup (for which Bo Ningen is doing a sexy live cover at the Branchage), Kakurenbo, Dimension Bomb, She and Her Cat (great mood, mind the sentimental narration), and the second (second (second)) episode of Twilight Q. I'm hesitant to recommend Aquatic Language. Its message is forced and its got clumsy dialogue, but I love the camera. And maybe try Mt. Head; mind the predictability, but super dig the Japanese banjo and opera.
For the record:
My favorite anime is Haibane Renmei and my favorite manga is Yokohama Kaidashi Kikou.
I also enjoyed Satoshi Kon's movies, Tatami Galaxy, Boogiepop, FLCL (more for the subdued romance than the action and humor.
Of course, realize that I've watched far less than I should have by now, mainly due to my lack of patience with long series. To keep myself interested, I tend to opt for films under half an hour. Among these, my favorites:
Cat Soup (for which Bo Ningen is doing a sexy live cover at the Branchage), Kakurenbo, Dimension Bomb, She and Her Cat (great mood, mind the sentimental narration), and the second (second (second)) episode of Twilight Q. I'm hesitant to recommend Aquatic Language. Its message is forced and its got clumsy dialogue, but I love the camera. And maybe try Mt. Head; mind the predictability, but super dig the Japanese banjo and opera.
Satoshi Kon's death
Schoolwork prevented me from finding out about the death of anime director Satoshi Kon until this week. This event has been covered by all our dear anchors in the aniblogosphere and I don't care much for redundancy, but I'll mention that I, too, was taken aback by his sudden death and the note he left behind.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The History of Jerry Lee Pynchon, His Invention of the First Postmodern Language, and another Event Which I Will Not Spoil
Before I go on with the story, let me introduce to you the protagonist. His name is Jerry Lee Pynchon. He is a postmodernist.
Now you have to understand that many people who say they are (or are labeled as) postmodernists are not really postmodernists. They still believe, deep down, that environmentalists and feminists are absolutely, universally good, and Adolf Hitler and George W. Bush are absolutely, universally evil. When these people say they are postmodernists, what they really mean is “all these religions open hospitals and change the lives of criminals, and they all teach really similar things, so why can’t they just get along?”
If you asked Jerry Lee Pynchon the same question, though, he would have told you it was because if he was a Christian, the Muslims in his reality were all going to go to hell, and if he was a Muslim, all the Christians in his reality were going to hell, except maybe those whose good deeds outweighed their bad deeds during their lifetime. He would have added that they should be aware that this was only his perception of Muslims’ and Christians’ perceptions. He would have then added that Muslims and Christians probably were teaching the same thing, for the person speaking to him, while simultaneously teaching different things for himself. And then he would have added that this, too, was his perception. Because how can he be sure people labeled Muslims and Christians even exist? What is existence? What is language? What is everything in the world? Relative! But only for a postmodernist!
The question askers would have left very frustrated and confused, and that would be because Jerry Lee Pynchon was a true postmodernist.
--
Now, Jerry Lee Pynchon is surfing the internet at the start of our history. Or rather, was surfing the internet, because I would had to narrate the rest of the story in present tense. And so Jerry Lee Pynchon was surfing the internet in an apartment in Chantilly, Virginia, when he came across an ad requesting a teacher for Reed College’s new course titled “Understanding Postmodernism.” He decided he would apply for the job.
The application form had two blanks. The first blank asked for his telephone number. He wrote “703-376-8923” in this blank. The second asked if he was a postmodernist. He thought: “I am a postmodernist, but only in my perception of reality. For other postmodernists, postmodernism can be defined as voting democratic and thinking all those religions should all get along—but only in those postmodernists’ realities.” So he wrote: “It depends.”
As legend has it, out of all 3.25904 billion applications for the job, his was the only truly postmodern answer.
--
Jerry Lee Pynchon’s class was stupid.
His first assignment had been to read the white text on a white sheet of paper. He asked if they could, in all honesty, see the white text on the paper. They all admitted they could not.
So he devised a plan. He created an alphabet of lines. A line one millimeter thick would be the “a” of his alphabet, and a line 26 millimeters thick would be the “z.” His second assignment, then, was for his class to memorize the line alphabet. Again, they could not.
So he devised another plan. He wrote a book titled Ulysses II. For many of his students, Ulysses II was the most beautiful thing in the world. It made them cry and it made them laugh and it made them understand life through new eyes. The best part about the book was it got better and better with every chapter. The second best part about the book was it started adding a few neologisms somewhere in the middle and increased its neologism count until by the second to last chapter the whole book was written in neologisms, so the readers absolutely could not spoil the almost-ending of the book for themselves.
And so the stupid students devoured the book until the second to last chapter, where they found a note which read “Alro mauley haogagi mai” which translates “I am very sorry, but the last chapter, which contains the answer to life itself, is written in my line alphabet.”
--
By the time Jerry Lee Pynchon had finished the last chapter (which was 900 pages long and didn’t really have the meaning of life in it), word of Ulysses II had spread around the United States of America. The New York Times critics had read it through and hailed it as the greatest piece of literature in the history of the universe. The Washington Post praised it for its good writing and great themes and predicted his style as the next great literary revolution. The best part, in his opinion, was that every literature buff in the States had picked up a version of his line alphabet and learned it for himself or herself so that when the chapter was released, everyone completely understood every part of it.
Jerry Lee Pynchon was just getting started, however. His next step was to write ten more books in his line alphabet, with each book having lines within words getting increasingly closer. Then, on the last chapter of his tenth book, words became lines (looking something line this: ------- ------------------------ ----------- ----------------- --------- -- ----------------- --------- ----------------------------). Most readers, however, understood that a line of a certain length placed in a certain place within a sentence was probably this word or that word. The Chicago Tribune praised his works for being “haifor sorli ales” which in his own neologistic language translates as “catchy and written in a fun language to write in.”
In the following ten years, Jerry Lee Pynchon released ten more books. These books started with simple line-words so the audience could easily infer what the story was about, but got increasingly more complex and ambiguous so that by the tenth book, the lines could mostly mean absolutely anything. The Christian Science Monitor praised his work for being “-- ----- -- ----- --” which translates as “lodke” which translates as “revolutionary!”
In the ten following years, he released ten books with nothing but lines in them. By this time, line-writing had become as commonplace as written English.
In the following ten years, he began to curve his lines. Lines ran all over the page in mad scribbles. By this time, many great works of literature were translated into the line alphabet, including the two best books ever Ulysses II and the Bible. With the Bible’s translation, a curious phenomenon began: some preachers began preaching that Jesus was actually several people. Some others, in reply to this teaching, preached that Satan and God were one, and everything was one, and so Jesus was actually only one—it says so in the Book of Lakos, after all.
While all of this happened, Jerry Lee Pynchon found all the members of his no-longer-stupid class and handed them diplomas.
--
When Jerry Lee Pynchon was 72 years old, he found a malignant tumor in his throat. The doctor who discovered it told him the cancer was very advanced and he had no chance of living. He tried to tell the doctor “it’s funny, because I always wondered what that lump in my throat was” but the lump was so big by now he could no longer move his vocal cords.
That night, as he lay in his hospital bed, something happened (and don’t ask me how I know this): Ahura Mazda, the Creator of the Universe, came to him in a vision.
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, you will die in a week,” he said. “How many good things have you done in life, and how many bad things have you done in life? Can you say for certain that you are going to heaven?”
Jerry found he could speak. So he said “I have done mostly what I thought was good, but what do you consider good, Ahura Mazda?”
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, goodness is converting other people to Zoroastrianism.”
“Is that how my reality operates? In that case, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, I thought you knew already. Creation testifies to my existence. But right now I am very lonely because nobody worships me any longer. If you bring back all my worshippers, I will not send you to hell.”
Jerry Lee Pynchon thought for a while.
“Why can’t you appear to these people yourself?”
“That is because I want to display my power through one of your students. I have appeared to her in a dream as a voice asking her to ask you for the meaning of life. All things work out for my plan.”
Jerry Lee Pynchon sighed. “So you’ve fated me to convert her?”
“No, Jerry Lee Pynchon. You might fail. I have chosen to turn a blind eye to what happens in the future and to only influence the present.”
“I can’t see why you don’t just appear to everyone like this. The people going to hell might have been saved if you would just have appeared before them.”
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, will you or won’t you do it?”
“Alright. I’m only doing this because my reality demands that evangelizing will get me to heaven. For other people, you may not exist.”
Ahura Mazda metaphorically scratched his head.
--
A week later, a voiceless Jerry Lee Pynchon was approached by one of his graduate students.
“Teacher,” she said. “I have been looking all my life. You never did tell us the meaning of life in Ulysses II, did you?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“Teacher, what is the meaning of life?” And with that, she gave him a piece of paper and a pencil.
Jerry Lee Pynchon began to write. He wrote for five hours, until every page on the notebook was filled with text. When he was finished, he handed the notebook back to the woman.
She studied it for a very long time. Then she nodded her head and left.
That night, he died.
On the channel ------- news, the lady told everyone that what he was trying to say with these 40 pages of squiggles was that you could make your meaning whatever you want it to be. Everyone thought this final work was insightful and deep. A few of his students could not hold back their tears at the beauty of it.
Now you have to understand that many people who say they are (or are labeled as) postmodernists are not really postmodernists. They still believe, deep down, that environmentalists and feminists are absolutely, universally good, and Adolf Hitler and George W. Bush are absolutely, universally evil. When these people say they are postmodernists, what they really mean is “all these religions open hospitals and change the lives of criminals, and they all teach really similar things, so why can’t they just get along?”
If you asked Jerry Lee Pynchon the same question, though, he would have told you it was because if he was a Christian, the Muslims in his reality were all going to go to hell, and if he was a Muslim, all the Christians in his reality were going to hell, except maybe those whose good deeds outweighed their bad deeds during their lifetime. He would have added that they should be aware that this was only his perception of Muslims’ and Christians’ perceptions. He would have then added that Muslims and Christians probably were teaching the same thing, for the person speaking to him, while simultaneously teaching different things for himself. And then he would have added that this, too, was his perception. Because how can he be sure people labeled Muslims and Christians even exist? What is existence? What is language? What is everything in the world? Relative! But only for a postmodernist!
The question askers would have left very frustrated and confused, and that would be because Jerry Lee Pynchon was a true postmodernist.
--
Now, Jerry Lee Pynchon is surfing the internet at the start of our history. Or rather, was surfing the internet, because I would had to narrate the rest of the story in present tense. And so Jerry Lee Pynchon was surfing the internet in an apartment in Chantilly, Virginia, when he came across an ad requesting a teacher for Reed College’s new course titled “Understanding Postmodernism.” He decided he would apply for the job.
The application form had two blanks. The first blank asked for his telephone number. He wrote “703-376-8923” in this blank. The second asked if he was a postmodernist. He thought: “I am a postmodernist, but only in my perception of reality. For other postmodernists, postmodernism can be defined as voting democratic and thinking all those religions should all get along—but only in those postmodernists’ realities.” So he wrote: “It depends.”
As legend has it, out of all 3.25904 billion applications for the job, his was the only truly postmodern answer.
--
Jerry Lee Pynchon’s class was stupid.
His first assignment had been to read the white text on a white sheet of paper. He asked if they could, in all honesty, see the white text on the paper. They all admitted they could not.
So he devised a plan. He created an alphabet of lines. A line one millimeter thick would be the “a” of his alphabet, and a line 26 millimeters thick would be the “z.” His second assignment, then, was for his class to memorize the line alphabet. Again, they could not.
So he devised another plan. He wrote a book titled Ulysses II. For many of his students, Ulysses II was the most beautiful thing in the world. It made them cry and it made them laugh and it made them understand life through new eyes. The best part about the book was it got better and better with every chapter. The second best part about the book was it started adding a few neologisms somewhere in the middle and increased its neologism count until by the second to last chapter the whole book was written in neologisms, so the readers absolutely could not spoil the almost-ending of the book for themselves.
And so the stupid students devoured the book until the second to last chapter, where they found a note which read “Alro mauley haogagi mai” which translates “I am very sorry, but the last chapter, which contains the answer to life itself, is written in my line alphabet.”
--
By the time Jerry Lee Pynchon had finished the last chapter (which was 900 pages long and didn’t really have the meaning of life in it), word of Ulysses II had spread around the United States of America. The New York Times critics had read it through and hailed it as the greatest piece of literature in the history of the universe. The Washington Post praised it for its good writing and great themes and predicted his style as the next great literary revolution. The best part, in his opinion, was that every literature buff in the States had picked up a version of his line alphabet and learned it for himself or herself so that when the chapter was released, everyone completely understood every part of it.
Jerry Lee Pynchon was just getting started, however. His next step was to write ten more books in his line alphabet, with each book having lines within words getting increasingly closer. Then, on the last chapter of his tenth book, words became lines (looking something line this: ------- ------------------------ ----------- ----------------- --------- -- ----------------- --------- ----------------------------). Most readers, however, understood that a line of a certain length placed in a certain place within a sentence was probably this word or that word. The Chicago Tribune praised his works for being “haifor sorli ales” which in his own neologistic language translates as “catchy and written in a fun language to write in.”
In the following ten years, Jerry Lee Pynchon released ten more books. These books started with simple line-words so the audience could easily infer what the story was about, but got increasingly more complex and ambiguous so that by the tenth book, the lines could mostly mean absolutely anything. The Christian Science Monitor praised his work for being “-- ----- -- ----- --” which translates as “lodke” which translates as “revolutionary!”
In the ten following years, he released ten books with nothing but lines in them. By this time, line-writing had become as commonplace as written English.
In the following ten years, he began to curve his lines. Lines ran all over the page in mad scribbles. By this time, many great works of literature were translated into the line alphabet, including the two best books ever Ulysses II and the Bible. With the Bible’s translation, a curious phenomenon began: some preachers began preaching that Jesus was actually several people. Some others, in reply to this teaching, preached that Satan and God were one, and everything was one, and so Jesus was actually only one—it says so in the Book of Lakos, after all.
While all of this happened, Jerry Lee Pynchon found all the members of his no-longer-stupid class and handed them diplomas.
--
When Jerry Lee Pynchon was 72 years old, he found a malignant tumor in his throat. The doctor who discovered it told him the cancer was very advanced and he had no chance of living. He tried to tell the doctor “it’s funny, because I always wondered what that lump in my throat was” but the lump was so big by now he could no longer move his vocal cords.
That night, as he lay in his hospital bed, something happened (and don’t ask me how I know this): Ahura Mazda, the Creator of the Universe, came to him in a vision.
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, you will die in a week,” he said. “How many good things have you done in life, and how many bad things have you done in life? Can you say for certain that you are going to heaven?”
Jerry found he could speak. So he said “I have done mostly what I thought was good, but what do you consider good, Ahura Mazda?”
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, goodness is converting other people to Zoroastrianism.”
“Is that how my reality operates? In that case, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, I thought you knew already. Creation testifies to my existence. But right now I am very lonely because nobody worships me any longer. If you bring back all my worshippers, I will not send you to hell.”
Jerry Lee Pynchon thought for a while.
“Why can’t you appear to these people yourself?”
“That is because I want to display my power through one of your students. I have appeared to her in a dream as a voice asking her to ask you for the meaning of life. All things work out for my plan.”
Jerry Lee Pynchon sighed. “So you’ve fated me to convert her?”
“No, Jerry Lee Pynchon. You might fail. I have chosen to turn a blind eye to what happens in the future and to only influence the present.”
“I can’t see why you don’t just appear to everyone like this. The people going to hell might have been saved if you would just have appeared before them.”
“Jerry Lee Pynchon, will you or won’t you do it?”
“Alright. I’m only doing this because my reality demands that evangelizing will get me to heaven. For other people, you may not exist.”
Ahura Mazda metaphorically scratched his head.
--
A week later, a voiceless Jerry Lee Pynchon was approached by one of his graduate students.
“Teacher,” she said. “I have been looking all my life. You never did tell us the meaning of life in Ulysses II, did you?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“Teacher, what is the meaning of life?” And with that, she gave him a piece of paper and a pencil.
Jerry Lee Pynchon began to write. He wrote for five hours, until every page on the notebook was filled with text. When he was finished, he handed the notebook back to the woman.
She studied it for a very long time. Then she nodded her head and left.
That night, he died.
On the channel ------- news, the lady told everyone that what he was trying to say with these 40 pages of squiggles was that you could make your meaning whatever you want it to be. Everyone thought this final work was insightful and deep. A few of his students could not hold back their tears at the beauty of it.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Wait a minute, Freud--I swear I'm not a siscon!
Last night, I dreamed my sister had a sandwich and she was licking it on all sides. I was afraid she would eat it for some reason, though, so I kept trying to shove a hot dog in it. I woke up with my hands in my pants.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The summer in review
First, and update: 2 weeks in Malaysia has produced 2 additional story ideas. I'm so excited right now I'm afraid I'll give them away if I write any more than a sentence's description for each. The first will be a story that must be told backwards because of a certain--ah, should I spoil it? I'd rather not. It shall begin with a man reading a note scribbled by a stranger before dropping dead. The second shall be about a man's life, told as the script of a... my, this is dangerous! I'll shut up for good!
On the by note, I've read 60 chapters of Death Note over the course of a few days (I lost interest around the 50th chapter--Mello and Near? Really, Ohba?) before moving on to Bokura no. I've bought DVDs for Durarara!!, Kaiba, and FLCL (for 3.00 USD each). I'll have finished eight books--A Wizard of Earthsea, Bridge to Terabithia, Animal Farm, Sophie's World, Franny and Zooey, Haruhi Suzumiya, Welcome to the NHK, and On the Road--and countless short stories by Bradbury and Asimov by the end of the summer. And if all goes according to plan, I'll also have written three of my own stories (the first three written on my own initiative!).
And lastly (I hate tedious lists, too, dear reader, but I love bragging even more) I plan on buying glow-in-the-dark paint to paint a piece of shrinky-dink paper to hang around my neck in replacement for broken Mr. Cobain--at the moment, I'm considering a LOVE statue with the LO stacked on top of the VE, with string threaded through the O.
And perhaps it's a bit early, but I'm feeling excited about my return to the States next year for college. Think: I'll get to see my girlfriend again!--excitement mixed up with a bit of anxiety? I'll save up for a Ducati motorcycle, however expensive it'll be; I'll paint it pink! I'll get addicted to White Wolf role-playing games all over again!
Mind the counter!
On the by note, I've read 60 chapters of Death Note over the course of a few days (I lost interest around the 50th chapter--Mello and Near? Really, Ohba?) before moving on to Bokura no. I've bought DVDs for Durarara!!, Kaiba, and FLCL (for 3.00 USD each). I'll have finished eight books--A Wizard of Earthsea, Bridge to Terabithia, Animal Farm, Sophie's World, Franny and Zooey, Haruhi Suzumiya, Welcome to the NHK, and On the Road--and countless short stories by Bradbury and Asimov by the end of the summer. And if all goes according to plan, I'll also have written three of my own stories (the first three written on my own initiative!).
And lastly (I hate tedious lists, too, dear reader, but I love bragging even more) I plan on buying glow-in-the-dark paint to paint a piece of shrinky-dink paper to hang around my neck in replacement for broken Mr. Cobain--at the moment, I'm considering a LOVE statue with the LO stacked on top of the VE, with string threaded through the O.
And perhaps it's a bit early, but I'm feeling excited about my return to the States next year for college. Think: I'll get to see my girlfriend again!--excitement mixed up with a bit of anxiety? I'll save up for a Ducati motorcycle, however expensive it'll be; I'll paint it pink! I'll get addicted to White Wolf role-playing games all over again!
Mind the counter!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Deliberation!
3 A.M. summer nights, spent cold, curled behind a screen,
late afternoons spent typing retyping retyping in empty rooms,
brought forth a stream, a world
of fireworks and fireflies and disillusioned moths
and deliberation--a world
that, Alas!, grew stolid by its third hour--
I must publish while it is still hot!
"Spontaneous prose," Kerouac!:
oh, genuine! oh, a torrential thick mucus stream of feelings on the white!
In the past weeks, I fear I should reconsider cruel art and cold beauty and deliberating in favor of spontaneous prose (for I fear I've lost all half of my 2 readers as a result of my switch from,
and have I?) but, dear Everything!:
I cannot, cannot, cannot
and I shall not
forfeit
authenticity
.
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