Good intentions are of no use: I was browsing the net last night. Again. I couldn’t read any books yesterday because of that. I am reading 10 books at once, plus extras. I’ve got this schedule that makes me read – forces me to read – every one of them. It works like this: in the morning (& in the afternoon, for that matter) I can read as many books as I want, as many chapters as I want, but at night I must read only 1 book, the one least read and at least a chapter of it. It would be a very good schedule if only I followed it. I do follow it, but yesterday I disregarded it completely. Saturdays are the worst days ever.

As for today, I woke up at 9 am and went out to buy food. On reaching the subway, I glanced at the clock: 9:15 am?!? Oh god, the DST ended Saturday! When I got to Liberdade fair, I couldn’t buy any food, since they were still mounting the booths and the shops were all closed. I paced up and down that ungodly square under a scorching sun for 2 unholy hours! I had little money on me and I almost spent it all in magazines (only magazine stands were open). To make matters worse, the place was packed full of wondering wandering people. I thought I would lose it. As soon as I could possibly muster, I bought food and ran away from that place. Very comical indeed.

I was getting disappointed in Saul Bellow. His novel Humboldt’s Gift was beginning to wear me down but now I have fallen for his writing style again. Damn, the man’s good! I read about 5 chapters of it today – and to think I was unwilling to read the whole thing at all! Amazing, isn’t it?

Oh, I’ve created another blog. I shall create many others. Just today I surfed the net and ranted all over my many blogs. I gotta stop these things.

Surprised at my terrible grammar and spelling and handwriting? I do tend to be all sparks and glory at the beginning & ashes afterwards. It’s a diary, after all. It must reflect myself.

Disconnections, sudden shifts of subject, intrusive thoughts, distractions, insights, bursts of pedantry, self-abuse & self-worship – & most of all, idiosyncrasy – are to permeate all through this diary. I can’t help it & surely you can’t help me. I told you to leave hope behind.

As I write, dark clouds sneak into my view. I am writing by the window, the sun has set but a glint of light still lingers on the horizon. These same blackish clouds are wiping away that band of light. It must be winding like hell on the skies above, they’re passing by so fast. One looks like a buffalo. Or a cat.

It’s 7 pm already. The sky has taken a lovely shade of royal blue.

Excerpt taken from the Logic online course given by Carnegie Mellon University:

We have discussed how to identify an argument, and its premises and conclusion. We haven’t discussed yet what makes an argument a good argument. Since an argument can be construed as a reason to accept the truth of its conclusion, we will consider an argument a good argument just in case it represents a good reason to accept the truth of its conclusion — that is, just in case we really ought to believe that the conclusion is true, based on the argument alone.

EXAMPLE:
——————————————————————————–

If you don’t remember to keep the lid on a teapot when you are finished using it, cats are likely to get into the teapot and make a mess.

=> You should remember to keep the lid on a teapot when you are finished using it.

——————————————————————————–

Assuming that you did not remember to keep the lid on your teapot, there is not much of a chance that you will need to worry about cats getting into it — to begin with, most cats wouldn’t fit into a teapot (unless you had an awfully large teapot). Given this, you probably wouldn’t consider the premise of this argument to be true. Even if you did, however, you might be the sort of person that would find a cat in a teapot vastly amusing, regardless of the mess, and hence encourage that sort of behavior from your feline friends. The premise of the argument is not true, nor does it provide particularly strong support for the conclusion. As a result, it is not a good argument.

How about our second example:

EXAMPLE:

——————————————————————————–

Cats don’t like to get wet, and teapots are frequently filled with tea.
Immersing a cat in tea is guaranteed to get the cat wet.

=> Cats are not likely to get into teapots.

——————————————————————————–

In contrast with our first argument, the premises of the argument are all true — cats really don’t like to get wet (at least most of them don’t, though there is the odd cat that even likes to swim), teapots are frequently filled with tea, and immersing a cat in tea will get the cat wet (and probably mad at you as well). These premises also provide at least some support for the conclusion—any cat that had the good sense to check the contents of a teapot before climbing in would probably be dissuaded from doing so by the presence of tea in the teapot. Of course, not all cats have good sense, particularly those still of a size to fit into a teapot. So there could be the odd cat in a teapot, though probably not enough of them that cats in teapots could reasonably be considered a likely situation. This argument is thus a fairly good one.

Ah, there is nothing like basking in the beauty of Logic as taught by CMU professors!

17Feb2005

Here is the first of a series of disappointments – or maybe this isn’t the first one – a diary with a preface. How crushed were you when you realised you weren’t actually reading the diary? Maybe you were just amused and you’re reading this now with the same enthusiasm and light-headedness as you did before. Maybe your heart’s skipping even faster, because you were put on hold for too long, and your curiosity’s about to set your heart ablaze – or you could just be bored to death. I’ve warned you not to set your hopes to high – for this isn’t the diary yet, but a prologue. I just wished to dabble once more in metalanguage. Will you indulge me?

The reason of this prologue is to find the reason why people write diaries. Many do, it’s a widespread habit. I could argue that they are reminiscent of the religious confessions, but then I’d be disregarding other cultures. I could say it’s a fad, but it has endured for centuries. In a way, diaries are much like books, even though raw. Both express our views on reality and fantasy alike. Maybe that’s what makes us human, the need to express ourselves. However, expressing oneself is never easy. Without a hard shell made of hypocrisy & contempt, fake smiles & lowered eyes, one self could barely stand the onslaught of oneself. The solution? A confidant we can trust in, one who’ll remember every single word we say, one who’ll accept every flaw we have without judging us, one who’ll remind us of who we are. Maybe to write a diary is to hold onto the self. A way not to get lost in the hustle & bustle of life. A way to live, & not only to be alive. The problem with some is that they put too much of themselves into their writings. They draw blood from life to make the pages sparkle, whereas their lives wither. Let’s not dwell on this subject any further, the point’s been made and I’m already digressing. I attempted to answer a question, but failed miserably before your eyes. Weak arguments, weak case, weak prologue. Luckily for you, this is the end of it.

Open the curtains. Let the show begin!

(End of Prologue)

17Feb2005

And so it starts – a diary, in which my thoughts shall be engraved for posterity. That is, if I don’t rip it apart first. I shall write it in any way & language I fancy, after all, it’s mine, posterity be damned, for I shall have none! These thoughts are never to leave these sheets unless, of course, someone wants them to. In fact, after it’s written, I will have no power whatsoever over this diary – if I can, if I remember, I’ll hide it; after I’m dead, pity – or over my life, since I’ll be dead by the time someone reads it. At least in spirit, feeling an ominous shiver, unconscious that someone’s reading my diary.

Even though it is a diary and has all the secrets & facts of my life – and that’s why it’s called ‘diary’ – & it’s sure to attract the curiosity of people – diaries are like magnets; I know, I’ve read my fair share of them – I’ll advise you against reading it. You’ll be disappointed. I’m disappointed with it already. Diaries always disappoint me. The gracious image we’ve got of the owners of the diaries vanish as soon as we read the first lines. Such weaknesses, such bad grammar, such a terrible handwriting! We open the diaries expecting to read some awful truth, to find out some terrible secret… and there are only dreary tales of the daily grind. tales without style, without plot, intense as a slumbering puddle. It’s not difficult to understand why I gave up reading diaries. It was not the guilt of peering into another’s secrets: it was the boredom of reading them. See, I’m bored already! Aren’t you? I think the worst thing about diaries is that people only talk about themselves in them! Is there anything more boring than reading pages and pages about a boring life, told by a boring person? Yes, to listen to them.

What is more, the subjects never change. Complaints, love confessions that’ll never come true, anger towards the parents, the teachers, anger towards the world, heartrending self-pity, backstabbing of friends, and a bunch of nonsense. That’s the essence of diaries. You might claim that’s not like that, that you’ve read diaries that escape this definition, but I pray; analyse them further, and you’ll see they’re but variations – even though well done – on the same theme. I won’t escape it either.

Quoting Dante: “Leave all hope, ye who enter here!”

(End of Preface)

Who has never written a journal? A diary full of tiny secrets you were sure your life would end if anyone read it – but truth was nobody cared about them; a travel journal, even small scraps written on the back of photos and on polaroids; a blog begun by curiosity which eventually lead to exposing your whole life to strangers. A journal with your thoughts and sketches, filled with candy wrappings and cards and pressed flowers. It is art of some sort, something we do to satisy ‘our deep need to complain’ and to remember who we are and what we have gone trough.

Now imagine this multiplied by thousands. The 1000journals project started when some guy sent out to the world a thousand journals to be written by whoever found them, and then passed on to the next person. Only one journal came back, but that doesn’t really matter. Just the fact that they are out there, filled with the minds of several people makes us think of all the possible ways of living there are, and why weren’t they returned. Imagination is always more powerful than the naked reality. For those of us who haven’t found those journals yet, there is a similar project on the net called 1001journals in which you have to scan your journal and upload it to the site.

Scanning my journals would be a drag, since I actually – remark that I like saying ‘actually’ – do not keep them long: perfectionism makes me rewrite them and eventually rip them apart. So I must have only two journals after almost 20 years writing them. It is just as well that I did not set out to write a book, otherwise I would be the most prolific writer in the whole world that has never written a book.

Please check out the 1000journals project, the movie about it (yes, we have bananas!) and the 1001journals project.

Tags: journal

Sometimes we feel like we have little control over our lives, as if it was actually being dictated by others. As the saying goes, ‘Stop the world, I want to get off!’ Of course the world does never stop but people get off of it anyway.

I was discussing with my friends about the suicide ‘hot spots’ all over the world – Golden Gate Bridge, Mount Fuji, Eiffel Tower – and wondered what made them go to those particular places only to kill themselves. Honestly, I find it a waste of time and energy. Then again, suicide is already a waste of time and energy. What makes those spots so popular? Maybe they want to make one last attempt to connect with the world – killing themselves where so many have lost their lives before. It must be terrible to those who live there. Maybe it is not, and they even place bets on such and such person according to his/her general appearance, ‘Oh, that is a goner. I don’t give him two days’, ‘I bet ten bucks he’ll die tonight’, and that sort of thing. One can never know.

Another thing we were talking about: why don’t they choose a better method? I mean, think a little about the people who have to ‘retrieve’ your body and make it somewhat better to be put on display. By display I mean the coffin, of course. Imagine his job: piecing you together after you have just jumped from a great height or blown up your brains. Or piercing you so you do not look so swollen after drowning yourself. And then bathing you, dressing you, applying makeup. Really, I am pro-cremation. It is way easier on those people: ‘Oh god, this one looks like hell! Burn’im!’ It is also practical since it does not require land for burial. You can simply go and pollute a river or the sea. It is uncanny how people like to scatter the ashes in the sea. You know, I have to draw some stats on this as well.

I should get myself another hobby.

Tags: psyche