Guilt and the Heart

Tonight, Carrier pointed me toward a short story by Edgar Allen Poe entitled The Tell-Tale Heart. I had forgotten how chilling of a writer Poe can be. Basically, a young man becomes focused on an old man's eye...described as a vulture's eye. One can only presume he was speaking of glaucoma. During the chilling tale, the young man slowly plots the old man's murder, not for greed, not for hate, but because of the single eye that haunted him. At the witching hour each night, he would slowly enter the old man's room, practicing, taking hours to go in unnoticed. On the appointed night, he startles the old man, but remains unseen, not moving a muscle. Then in one swift move he kills the old man and hides him. Police come, due to a shriek heard by a neighbor. The young man invites them in and chats with them, not hinting anything is wrong. But in the course of discourse, the young man starts to hear the old man's heart beating and beating...getting louder and louder. In a fit of madness he dashes to the room, unboards the body, and shows the policemen.

As I was reading, I could hear my heart getting faster and faster and faster. Guilt. It's a strange entity. We do things, because we convince our rational minds that it is necessary. After the deed is done, however, we renumerate about it. Our rational mind and subconscious mind wrestle if what we did was right or wrong, id versus the superego. Usually our conscience gets the better of us. And guilt rears it's head. My friend thought that I was sort of like the protagonist in the story. He said that I am capable of focusing on minute details and getting riled up about it. I have a fantastic ability to get upset and stay upset for awhile. I'm not so sure about that one, but I admit that I do have a temper. But I think I usually cool down in about an hour or two. Lasting grudges are rare, but they happen. Guilt plays a large role in my inability to sustain anger. I start thinking. And then, I know that I shouldn't have done what I did, or say what I did. So I break my stony silence and apologize. I have emotions, yes. And like any other human being, I express them...perhaps not in the best of ways at times, but what person ever does?

1-888-84-SPACE ...

I was watching The French Open on NBC this morning starting at 6am. Watching Capriati and Venus Williams. Then I happened to see a commercial for Rent-A-Space (see the above number if you want to rent space from them). They had some sort of security system to protect your valuables. But what struck me as funny was that they had "storage counselors" to help you organize your space. And they showed some older gentleman dressed in a unifrom with his jaunty baseball cap and protuberant belly showing a lady with a big box to her area. They looked like they were talking about weighty matters, like where to put the box, whether to stack it or to place it next to another box. Storage Counselors. Almost as bad as sanitation engineers. We'v become so PC it's getting ridiculous. Do I really need someone to tell me where to put a box or a lamp to help maximize my storage space? Why do we create such titles? Just so that it sounds more important? I never quite understood that. Does it make the person feel better to be called a storage counselor rather than someone that works at Rent-A-Space? I'm reminded of a Cathy cartoon strip where half of Cathy's company was being laid off. Irving started making up exciting positions to make those not being laid off feel more important so they would be able to compensate for all of those being laid off. Things like a CEO (Chief Envelope-licking Officer), CPO (Chief Plant-watering Officer), CFO (Chief Faxing Officer), and CAO (Chief Attitude Officer). Just food for thought.

Newsies ...

I was driving to get some food from Gina's BBQ on my way back from purchasing a PS2 (yes, I climb bandwagons late) from Toys N' Joys when I was struck by newspaper sellers on the corner of Kapahulu and Harding. Now, anyone whose ever seen the Disney musical, Newsies, knows that newspaper boys roam the street, calling out headlines, and selling papes. I remember when I used to live in Kaneohe, I would see boys on the sidewalk hawking the Star-Bulletin or Advertiser. The fellow who came to collect money for the daily Star-Bulletin was also a young person of the male persuasian. But...nowadays, there are no longer any newspaper boys. Instead I see women, men, and even some elderly people selling newspapers on the street corners that once housed aspiring young job holders. What happened? What changed? Has our economy gone so far south that adults must take over what was once a predominantly child/teenager line of work. Does selling newspapers really earn one enough money for sustenance? I just sort of stared for awhile as I awaited the red light to turn green. I didn't roll down my window. I didn't buy a paper. Perhaps next time I should, and contribute to our economy. . .

On a Dark and Stormy Night

Well, technically it wasn't storming, but how else to start a story but with a cliche? It seems like all I'm doing is telling stories from my past now. Perhaps because my life right now consists mainly of staying home, reading, and fiddling around on the computer. My friend Jennifer alluded to an infamous Copy Machine theory. When explained to various people, The Copy Machine Theory has been awarded some of the strangest looks I've ever seen. So take a trip with me down memory lane... (insert the dream sequences wavy thing they have on TV):

(Setting the scene. Darrett, Jennifer, and a host of other people are working in Hamilton Library. Darrett is about to start on his Copy Machine run, i.e. go to see if the copy machines have paper and if there are any copiers that have jams. Jennifer is about to do a headcount run, i.e. go and count everyone in the library; kind of a silly job, but it beats shelving. Night. Enter Darrett)

Darrett: (swinging copy keys) Hey Jennifer, come around with me.
Jennifer: What?
Darrett: (conspiratory whisper) It'll take you longer so you won't have to shelf-read books.
Jennifer: (ponders) Ok.
(The two compatriots shuffle off throughout the library servicing copiers and counting people's heads)
Darrett: (slamming the door of the copy machine on 1st floor) Damn. These copy machines in here are always broken. They always have jams, and look at all the paper on the floor!
Jennifer: (thoughtful pose)
(They trot off to more copiers. On the third floor...)
Darrett: (patting the copy machine fondly) There you go baby, all fixed.
Jennifer: (looks at Darrett strangely)
Darrett: What? They're my babies.
Jennifer: Do you realize that there are two different kinds of copiers? (ed. note: now they are more uniform, back in the old days, Hamilton had two sets of copy machines...) There are the ones with the external paper loaders and the one with the internal paper loaders. External and internal parts. (thoughtful expression) Hey, male and female copy machines!
Darrett: Never thought of that. Hmmmmmmmm....I wonder if that is why there are so many jams on the first floor. Those two copy machines in there are male. With all that white paper floating around all the time. I wonder if they're getting confused. No wonder they're jamming. But what about the female copy machine on the 4th floor that always jams.
Jennifer: (mysterious look) I don't want to know what that one is doing...
Darrett: She must like it rough...
Jennifer: (pause)
Darrett: (pause)
(Roars of laughter. Co-worker Ty passes by. Copy Machine Theory of Jams is explained to him.)
Ty: (strange look at Jennifer and Darrett) You two are weird.
Darrett: It was Jennifer's idea!
Jennifer: Was not. (points at Darrett) It's his.

The Copy Machine Theory was explained to others. Interestingly enough, it does make certain sense, at least to those working there. It doesn't sound as funny on paper, but at 10:30 pm when you've worked for about 5-6 hours at a library shelving books and talking with insane students trying desperately to find a book to write a paper that's due in 7 hours...you crack! I think that Jennifer and I just look at things in a different manner. There are other stories in my arsenal, some that will never be published to protect the innocent. Something like, well, *drum roll and scary music) The Monkey Story involving my poor friend Valerie.

I wish I had something else of value to post. I don't have pets like Jennifer, nor am I taking summer school like Carrier. Nor do I have a creative mind or interesting perspectives like Theseus51. My day basically consisted of playing with blogspot's templates, singing along with the muppets, playing tennis, and the brief nap. See what happens when you're on vacation? Your brain turns to mush.

Of Wind and Water ...

I don't know if other people will find it funny, but my friend and I were laughing pretty hard. It's one of those vicious cycles...you and they laugh at the incident, you laugh at them, they laugh at you laughing at them, you laugh at them laughing at you laughing at them...and so on and so forth for a good 15 minutes. That doesn't beat my personal record. Once I laughed for 45 minutes and fell under the table at Band Camp. Yes, I was a bonafide band geek in High School.

(setting the scene. Enter 5 friends, three male, two female, drinking their respective Jamba Juices. They are hot from walking from Bravos to Pearlridge Downtown to go to Fun Factory. One of the aforementioned males and females are walking together)

Darrett: (sucking on Jamba Juice)
Jennifer: (looks at Valerie walking very quickly in front of them) Where is she going?
Darrett: (still sucking on his Jamba Juice)
Jennifer: Well?
Darrett: (still sucking on Jamba Juice. Not wanting to stop the delicious juice he sort of crouches in mid air, in what to him appears to be a sitting posture).
Jennifer: (looks at Darrett strangely) What would you have done if she were a man? Use hand gestures?
Darrett: (pause)
Jennifer: (pause)
Darrett: (Fits of laughter). She's ... looking ... for ... a place ... to sit...
Jennifer: (giggles, laughs)
Valerie, Edwin, Chad: (puzzled looks on faces)
Darrett and Jennifer: (explains to above group)
Edwin: Oh, I thought you were saying that she was short.
Darrett and Jennifer: (more gales of laughter)

(enter Fun Factory, Darrett heads to Virtua Tennis2, everyone else gathers around Dance Dance Revolution. Pan out. Fade to black)

In the Beginning

Tahlmorrha...fate...destiny...kismet. For those well versed in Fantasy, this is a term created by Jennifer Roberson in her Chronicles of the Cheysuli. I, admittedly, am not the most religious person on the planet, but I always liked the way that quote sounded. It was suggested that I move my random musings from Xanga to Blogspot, on account of a friend that has an account here. I'm not sure what the difference is, but I suppose that it will be interesting to find out. One thing of note, though, Xanga tends to be populated by a disturbing amount of people in high school. I know I'm going to date myself...but when I was in high school, we barely had 28.8K modem access, let alone programs that coded HTML for you.

Anyhow, it's been a strange road so far. I suppose that everyone's first post on a new place chronicles who they are, what they are, and why they are. I can answer the first two, the last I leave for the philosphers in the world. My tiny spark of creation was named Darrett Choy on November 29, 1977, which makes me for the non-math afficianados about a quarter of the way through my first century of life. I was bred, born, and educated solely on the island of Oahu, a tiny little island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Contrary to the beliefs of some on the contiguous 48 states (known affectionately as the mainland) we are a part of the United States of America (although I'm not sure I'd bandy that around much in the international scene given the somewhat frigid reception Americans might receive now). I recently embarked on an exciting, yet humbling journey known as medicine, as I recently graduated from the University of Hawai'i at Manoa's John A. Burns School of Medicine with my MD. As to what I am? I describe myself as a self-avowed musical freak; in fact at my Senior Lua'u I was one of the "guess which one of your classmates this is" candidate. The opening remarks from the Anatomy Professor were...this one of your classmates always seemed to know everything about any musical I ever mentioned. Fantasy nutcase. Tennis follower. Addicted to my computer. And addicted to the most powerful drug known on the planet, Hope. So welcome to my world.