the struggle here is internal- in which i perpetually feel that inside of me there rages a monster. but this is not some satanic grotesque typically associated, but a beautiful articulate. i ask myself- "what is to be my life's work?" because i am ready to pour everything. ive narrowed it down, yes, today, but it seems as though tomorrow it will widen out again. in times when nothing is certain, i fumble over what i am supposed to be doing while the clock still ticks towards judgment day, and i am scared that i will be judged by my achievements lack thereof.

but still, i must write my manifesto. i must trudge on in the blink of nihilism, on the verge of feeling, like God, as though i am attempting to create ex nihilo. but is it to be a manifesto of nothingness? i find a cycle like the Judges- the thought occurs to me that at some point all of this struggle to create will be synthesized into some epic being that will win from me its independence. i keep feeling as though in some moment of transcendence all of my artistic efforts will magically transcribe themselves onto a permanent page and thus be entered into the great historical canon of human art. most importantly, i will reap the satisfaction of knowing that my message has been broadcast into space, and i have received an intelligent reply. it is legitimate. i feel as though ive found my calling, and i am ready to get to work.

but every time i start, i get depressed. i suddenly feel incapable of writing anything. then i criticize my own method of validation by artistic achievement, and i decide to just be. i decide to perhaps never write again. and i decide to be ok with myself if this happens. i decide to not attempt to "force" writing. so i dont write.

then i start to think- "what is to be my life's work?"

It is fascinating to me the dichotomy in which Hawthorne choses to portray Arthur Dimmesdale. In the public sphere, he is a pastor so beloved by his congregation that literally every occasion in which it is even remotely suggested that his sheet-white conscience may actually be stained with the mark of passionate disobedience is met by immediate and optimistic justification by the public, even when the scope of such a suggestion permanently associates him as the adulterous partner of the town's known whore and absent father of her bastard daughter.

But instead of being relieved that his sin continues to go unnoticed, Dimmesdale is all the more angry and upset. Each time he attempts to dethrone himself as this spiritually endowed mentor/prophet, his self-deprecation preached from the pulpit only furthers his status as a uniquely humble individual in the eyes of the public.

Is this behavior not the ironic opposite of a human public so infamous for making accusations against innocent men? Most men that hold any form of public office take great pains to be seen as innocent, yet the public never fails to dig up some sort implicating evidence.

Dimmesdale wishes to be seen by the public in the same way that he mistakenly chooses to see himself- as the greatest of sinners and most hideous of men. He is Faust, and strives perpetually to bring about his own damnation. Ironically, however, the public refuses to damn him, even when the sun shines brightly on the scarlet letter in the middle of the public sphere.

"It is a curios subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his object. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow."

i had a dream last night.

i was standing in line at a fast food restaurant when she walked in. i was wearing my glasses and my blue jacket, and when she saw me she cowered in that way that she does, and she muttered something like "O you look smart." No "hi." No "how are you." Her social nervousness caused her to forget the salutation, even when the person she was addressing hadnt seen or talked to her in over 6 months and lived in a different part of the country.

Unable to deal with the situation, she ran out of the restaurant. I meanwhile, found myself in a state of complete shock at all this, so much so that i suddenly discovered i was in the front of the line, and turned around to see the lady at the register yelling at me for holding up the line.

I, too, ran out of the restaurant, but discovered her nowhere to be found. I got in my car and called her, pleading with her to let me buy her a cup of coffee. She agreed, and we setup to meet at this coffee shop. So i drove to the coffee shop and waited. She doesn't show. I go home angry and depressed.

The next morning I wake up vaguely conscious (a dream within a dream) of some noise in the house last night. Taped to my dresser I find a note from her elaborating on her recent life. But the note is multiple pages long, and contains more than just words. She drew all these little pictures and shapes in the margin. And interjected between her ramblings about her goings ons are random little quotes that meant something to her.

I look around for her, but she is nowhere to be found.

my subconscious self wishes to construct some sort of fairy tale.

in the dead of night is when all the assholes come out, and they drive your buses, and they always make you late because their fatass thinks that a coconut tastykake at 3am is precisely the thing that is going to keep them going. so they stop at the gas station that is no more than 5 minutes from 30th Street (after already leaving New York 30 minutes late).

all this happened after he pulled over the bus a separate time and threatened to call the police on an asian student after he accidently (and harmlessly) decided to walk down the front steps of the multi level bus.

ive had a thing for normal people lately.

let me tell you some normal things about me:

i have lot of friends that i sincerely love and engage in mostly normal relationships with

i drive a normal car

i have a normal job

i am relatively normal for a 22 year old white post graduate

ok thats it

we're into the wandering realm of the season of death, and i shall say how death brings her beauty- in falling leaves. but even more, in welcome brisk nights where you underestimate your bicycle ride, and you are cold.

we fill our bellies with warm things. we reap the fruit of the land in the season of harvest, then we sit around the fire and reap the fruit of good friendship. we give thanks, and it is good. and yet we remember those who have not the means to engage in such heartwarming activities, and we pray for their peace and prosperity.

we wind away, ever casually, towards the dark black night of winter, asking God, who is ever present so deep inside our hearts, to grant us peace and mercy until the long shadows disappear, and we find ourselves once again inside the garden of Eden, as children, not lonely, no, but rejuvenated again by the light of the life-giving rays of spring and the purpose-giving work that is before our hands.

who is the man who makes the music?

we might never know