This is my first video-log (vlog).
I explore being uncomfortable through humor, identity, art and – well, watch it and come to your own uncomfortable conclusions.
Maybe about glasses? or green smoothies? and hopefully skin.
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I am, however, no stranger to blogging. One entry in particular relates to this vlog:
http://njgouge.wordpress.com/2011/04/13/the-color-awkward/
I know, shameless promotion. Leave a comment.
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This vlog includes an (incomplete) original music composition, “Lanting Xu.” Imagine erhus and harps and chimes.
(Note – I taught myself how to play the piano.)
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I realized I reference certain concepts, so here are some links:
The Otso Otso Dance (and Song):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRqCRMKk2A4
The Erhu:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZ2nv2V7Ehw&feature=related
Nobuo Uematsu’s Music (Aerith’s Theme from FFVII):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UODCxAtyDo

I asked, “Have you been here before?” He said, “Yes, I like their chai.” I ordered a tall chai. He picked out a table. “How is it?” I asked. “Espresso Art is always good.” I smiled, and felt stupid. You know, like a school girl, a really dumb school girl.

We talked. He said he liked books. Yes! And then we were walking. I wanted to show him something, a wall covered in vines. “I’ve been here,” he said. Gah… With this element stripped of the surprise -

“This place is perfect.” We sat in the grass and looked at the sky. The moon was bright. I hugged my knees and smiled. My teeth chattered. “Are you cold?” he asked.

His jacket was soft and warm, so soft and warm.

It presents a map of a new world, unexplored, with this departure point leading into infinite possibilities. Point A to B, C, D… Z, and so on and so forth; sometimes circling back to Point A, but Point A has changed and looks like Point B, and sometimes Point C, or the two together and seemingly the same. But neither – and never! – as that Point of the past and this Point of now and the Point of the future never really is that Point or this Point or the supposed conception we seem to capture as a fixed Point. These Points are fleeting. This is the universe of mortal understanding, as death (and beyond?) continues to escape even our most philosophical conceptions.

So we may never mark the treasure map’s Point X. To think so, and to desire so, and to fix ourselves upon this mean, is nonsensical. To note that Point A then and this Point A now and the Point A that will become that Point A and this Point A points at a deeper understanding. Point X is full of fool’s gold. And the discovery of that and of this is inspirational as well. It is the path we walk upon, the path between that Point A, this Point U and the Point X that remains to be misunderstood.

You know, because when I was nine I spent time searching for A’s and I thought they were found the same way: through a belief in hard work and conforming to a school of thought; and, now, I think that naïve with the appearance of innocence. However, this present sense of understanding still borders that naivety; and coming back to it, the future will find it naïve with the appearance of understanding.

Miranda says in The Tempest, “How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, / That has such people in’t!” At one point: innocent. At another: naïve. And yet another: the dystopia of Aldous Huxley. And with this, I digress to yet another Point that still has yet to make sense.

William Faulkner: “Facts and truth don’t really have much to do with each other.”

Joseph Gouge: “Fact: I write uncertain
truth: I write [uncertain].”

Patricia Hampl (2): “When I reread what I had written just after I finished it, I realized that I had told a number of lies.”

Gouge: “Fact: I study Plato to further understand this
truth: I study [Plato].”

Hampl: “If I approach writing from memory with the assumption that I know what I wish to say, I assume the intentionality is running the show.”

Gouge: “Fact: I wish to write the
truth: I wish [to write].”

Hampl: “But no memoirist writes for long without experiencing an unsettling disbelief about the reliability of memory, a hunch that memory is not, after all, just memory.”

Gouge: “Fact: my memory is
truth: my memory.”

Hampl: “Invention is inevitable.”

Gouge: “Fact: invention is inevitably a
truth: invention.”

Hampl: “Invention is screamingly evident in what I intended to be transcription.”

Gouge: “Fact: I am not ashamed of this
truth: I am [not ashamed].”

Hampl: “I write in order to find out what I know…”

Faulkner: “Facts and truth don’t really have much to do with each other.”

Gouge: “I write in order to divine truth from a fact or a set of facts; often times this truth is a transcendental embodiment of the fact [without all the unnecessary – yet necessary – factors that give rise to this truth].”

I have been reading Agatha Christie novels, stroking my ego: “Joseph, you can solve this mystery.” So far I’ve managed two, inevitably by sheer dumb luck.

With the rest I wrestled with my intellect, imagination and intuition; Hercule Poirot would have been proud. I swore to myself, and secretly to Him, that I would not echo His bumbling friend Hastings. Simply defined, Hastings is analogous to the common reader, you know, prone to bouts of stupidity.

Unfortunately, I continuously find myself playing the part of Hastings, playing the fool to Christie’s hand. With everlasting reverence: Agatha Christie Wrote. The English language: a toy, Her obedient plaything, a slave. Her novels stand testament, second only to the Bible. (I read that one, too, but all the homophobia just didn’t do it for me.)

Her writing borders literary porn. (I giggle, clench my fists, and moan “murder! yes! murder!”) Oh, the subtleties and nuances of her prose, the explicit and evocative murders and Her charming British quirks; I can practically see the twirling of a pen, a wink, a tongue trailing, a mouth coiled in coquetry –

(Breathe, Joseph, breathe!) I enjoy Her writing.

In general I enjoy reading. I fancy intellect; communicated in a pellucid and intriguing manner it kindles inspiration. So with as much frankness and transparency: I wish to write as well as Agatha Christie. If not as well, I wish to write well enough to entertain Her spirit. I want to be enjoyed, to be respected, to be made love to so that one day someone (maybe even Agatha Christie) might find my writing literary porn.

Why, yes, I am a little mad, a little pretentious; aren’t we all?

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In reference to the title of this post, there will soon be a video.

See Spot.
See Spot run.
See Spot run after the man.
The man has dark skin.
See Spot chase the black man.
See Spot hunt the nigger.

See Spot.
See Spot run.
See Spot run after the woman.
The woman has a tool belt.
See Spot chase the lesbian.
See Spot hunt the dyke.

See Spot.
See Spot run.
See Spot run after the woman.
The woman is wearing a coolie hat.
See Spot chase the Asian woman.
See Spot hunt the chink.

Don’t ask someone else.

I don’t need someone else to speak on my behalf.

If you ask my parents, they will or will not tell you how many years old I am, possibly the date I was born, and possibly the exact moment time wise. That is, if they do or do not remember.

If you ask a friend, they will or will not know and will or will not tell you the truth/a lie. Some may or may not remember the date I was born and some may or may not make a wild guess. Some need or do not need reminding.

If you ask me, I will or will not know the truth. If I feel like being honest, I might tell you details that other people told me and supported with evidence such as my birth certificate. If I feel like being dishonest, I might tell you details that other people told me and supported with evidence such as my live birth video with a time stamp flashing red in the bottom left corner. If I feel like being polite, I might tell you details that other people told me and supported with evidence such as personal anecdotes about how they remember me being born.

Strangely enough: someone could have gotten the finer details wrong on a birth certificate, someone may have set the time stamp incorrectly, and my memories are not your memories. Which brings me to my next point: I don’t remember being born, and I don’t care.

What I do know is I am living, now. I also know that I am typing this sentence now. Now that moment has passed, and now I am typing this sentence. Eventually, I will have posted this on my blog and you will be reading this. I find that amazing. More amazing than that one time I don’t remember when I was born.

So really, if you want to know how old I am, ask me. I will tell you something irrelevant to who I am as a person. Because when I tell you that I was born August 11, 1989 in Angeles City, Philippines and I am 21 years old:

I feel irritated when the response is, “Oh, you’re a Leo.” What does that mean?

I feel insulted when the response is, “Oh, you’re Filipino. I know someone else Filipino, also.” Sometimes I laugh, “Oh, yes, I know them. I see them at the meetings.”

I feel tired when the response is, “You’re so young.” I feel tired because life doesn’t stop when they make this statement, and I feel myself stretching back and forth between the past and the future. I feel the strands of time unravel, and the importance of our being together in that moment sullied by an irreverent statement that insults my sense of time.

However, overall I feel gratified in being able to express for myself my age. If I cannot express myself, I would rather be dead. So, if you want to know how old I am, ask me; I want to feel irritated, insulted and tired. These feelings remind me that I am human.

My boyfriend loves reading books, so I figured making him some special bookmarks would be a great gift for our anniversary.