I have some very startling, very radical—some might say hopeless—insights into Mr. Ben Affleck's latest communications. Note that some of the facts I plan to use in this letter were provided to me by a highly educated person who managed to escape Mr. Affleck's deceitful, fickle indoctrination and is consequently believable. Mr. Affleck's dissertations are a blatantly obvious and cleverly orchestrated script, carefully concocted to make a cause célèbre out of Mr. Affleck's campaign to develop a credible pretext to forcibly silence his opponents. But I digress. Some of my acquaintances express the view that my message has always been that his worshippers are a bunch of misguided individuals parroting one another and unwittingly serving ends they would never intentionally promote. Others express the view that Mr. Affleck has completely stepped off the deep end. I am prepared to offer a cheer and a half for each view; together, they paint a sufficiently complete picture of Mr. Affleck to warrant a full three cheers.

To tell you the truth, I strive to be consistent in my arguments. I can't say that I'm 100% true to this, but Mr. Affleck's frequent vacillating leads me to believe that if you're not part of the solution then you're part of the problem. Unlike everyone else in the world, Mr. Affleck seriously believes that he can scare us by using big words like "pancreaticoduodenostomy". Woo woooo! Here comes the clue train. Last stop: Mr. Affleck.

Mr. Affleck has had some success in forcing me to leave the country. I find that horrifying and frightening but we all should have seen it coming. We all knew that honest people will admit that Mr. Affleck is the root of all evil. Concerned people are not afraid to direct our efforts toward clearly defined goals and measure progress toward those goals as frequently and as objectively as possible. And sensible people know that Mr. Affleck has stated that I'm some sort of cully who can be duped into believing that factionalism is a be-all, end-all system that should be forcefully imposed upon us. That's just pure irrationalism. Well, in Mr. Affleck's case, it might be pure ignorance, seeing that I am intellectually honest enough to admit my own previous ignorance in that matter. I wish only that Mr. Affleck had the same intellectual honesty. I have now said everything there is to say. So, to summarize it all, Mr. Ben Affleck is incapable of looking with an open mind at anything that doesn't strictly endorse his views.

http://www.pakin.org/complaint/

Shutter Island (Martin Scorsese, 2010)

I'd been anticipating Shutter Island for about eight months before I finally sat in the theater to watch it. I first had the trailer dangled in front of me back in September of 2009 during the previews for Public Enemies. I was completely blown away by the trailer, and loved the idea of watching a sort of horror film from Martin Scorsese (who is probably one of my favorite American directors).

However, even though the film was due for an October 2009 release, the studio felt it wasn't strong enough of a contender for the Oscars, so they pushed it back to February of 2010. I was upset, but I waited patiently to see it. When February rolled around, I went to see it the Saturday after the release, then again on the following day. The two experiences differed greatly. During my first viewing, despite having had the film's plot twist spoiled for me, I was completely and utterly confused. The film threw me for more than one loop. And I was even shocked during the big reveal, as there are so many layers to the story.

My second viewing was an even richer experience, and cemented my opinion of this being a marvelous piece of work. The story is structured perfectly, each act building on the last, creating more and more tension. When the final act comes, and I felt like I couldn't take it anymore, Scorsese slowly releases the pressure, with a climax that is both beautiful and tragic all at once.

Visually, there isn't a flaw in this film. The atmosphere, mood, and tone are set so beautifully by the imagery. The lighting is eerie, harsh at times, yet soft and delicate at others. The final flashback scene is shot so bluntly, adding to the heartbreak of what's happening on screen.

Now, do not be deceived by this film's marketing. This is not very much a horror film. Yes, it takes cues from horrors of old, but it's so much more than that. It's a tragedy, hidden under the mysteries of the film. The eeriness and unsettling atmosphere serve the film's protagonist in his journey towards the truth, and the understanding of exactly what he has to do in the end.

DiCaprio is fantastic in the lead role, capturing perfectly the paranoia and edge of his character. A second viewing definitely reveals just how complex his performance is.

At the end of the day, I can't find many flaws with this film. It's a great example of how a story can be told in a way that's entertaining, while still retaining a subtlety that most films near to this genre don't even have a slight grip on.

I highly recommend this film not just once, but twice. It's a film that deserves to be seen more than once.

Random Stream of Thought Thing I Wrote on Facebook

Who wants to eat cake with me?

No one? Oh, ok that figures. so, fuck people. they come into your life, shit on your carpet, then steal your can of Dr. Pepper on the way out. It's tiring. I sit there and think, "Oh, man, I really wanted to drink that Dr. Pepper, but that asshole just stole it. what a douchebag." I've had too many cans of Dr. Pepper stolen in my lifetime, and I swear, the next person who takes my can of Dr. Pepper is in for a grade A ass kicking.

Then you've got all these bitches coming around saying, "PLEASE! TELL ME HOW TO DRINK MY CAN OF COKE! I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DRINK THIS COKE!" so you try to explain to them how to do it, but then they decide that they don't want to do it that way. They just wanna keep trying to open it from the bottom, when that's completely impossible.

Then you try and tell your parents that you don't like Coke. You like Dr. Pepper. Then they're all like, "OH, but we don't want you to drink Dr. Pepper. We want you to drink Coke!" but drinking Coke doesn't make me happy. Dr. Pepper makes me happy, right? So I want to drink Dr. Pepper. but then they say they don't want you drinking Dr. Pepper in their house, or bringing Dr. Pepper around, or indulging in a glass of Dr. Pepper when you're out. So when the hell am I gonna get to drink Dr. Pepper?

Then you decide that you don't want keep trying to drink from the crazy straw anymore. But everyone around you is drinking from the crazy straw, and some people are taking HUGE gulps from the crazy straw. But you try to explain to people that the crazy straw ain't for you anymore, you wanna drink from the regular straw and just enjoy your drink. Who cares about what straw you're drinking from?!


Life's a bitch, then you die before you can finish your Dr. Pepper.

Religion. I don't think I can name any other thing that's made my life more miserable than religion. Growing up in a Southern Baptist church, I was force fed religion for my entire childhood. I accepted God when I was merely six, not even nearly old enough to understand what kind of choice I was making. My decision was based on a fear of the eternal fires of Hell. My desire to not go there was so strong that I accepted something so quickly, so naively; a decision that would basically ruin many of the years that would follow.

There comes a point in everyone's life where they step outside of themselves and begin to evaluate the life they're leading. When I was a teenager, I started to think about things in a way that didn't seem to line up with what I'd grown up thinking. Though my thought processes are dreamlike and idealistic, it's balanced with a sense of realism and common sense. As I struggled to come to terms with this, religion just didn't seem to add up in my mind.

However, my surroundings didn't encourage a new way of thinking. Still heavily involved in the church, I was a part of a group of people that threw me for a loop. A group of people with typical teenage problems: identity, lack of control over emotions, the struggle with one's place in this world. What seemed to set me apart from them was that, while we were all desiring to experience God in a real way and to hear from Him, they clung harder to religion as they struggled, while I gradually began to push it away.

I was always told that if you weren't experiencing God, it's because you didn't actually want to. I call bullshit on this, because I wanted it. Oh man did I want it. I wanted to experience God, I wanted the assurance of a wonderful place to go after death, away from all pain and emptiness. I wanted a relationship with a higher power that would fulfill all the needs that other humans weren't meeting. I wanted all the answers to this life answered in the pages of an ancient text. As much as I wanted this, I never experienced this, never saw it in my life in a tangible way, and my questions weren't being answered by this book. It merely created more questions.

Another issue I struggled with - and I don't fear to write this here, as anyone I'm concerned about knowing this about me won't ever see this post- was my sexuality. As far back as I can recall, I've felt different feelings from the other people around me. I wasn't attracted to females. However, having been taught to believe this wasn't right, I struggled to reconcile these feelings with my worldview. I wanted to be rid of it, to be normal. I tried to ignore it, I tried desperately to pray it away, I even confided in someone who I thought could help me, and despite much effort, nothing changed.

This is when I knew that the process of abandoning my faith would begin. And it was a long, painful process. I tried to justify things, to line things up with my belief in God. It never worked.

As I've grown, and come to love and accept myself, I've found that the last thing I need in my life is the religion which caused me so much hurt and anger.

I just cannot, in any way, accept God as an undeniable fact when this world is so completely shitty. The idea that a being so powerful and loving would create man, knowing that he would, in the end, not choose Him. A being that's so loving that He would wipe out thousands of people for turning away from Him, when He was the one who gave them the choice. The state of this world makes it impossible for me to accept God, because this place is so miserable that I can't believe a God would sit in heaven and do absolutely nothing.

I just can't do it anymore.

Now, I have nothing against people who have faith. If it truly edifies their lives, and allows them to come to terms with their mortality, then that's great! Truly. The people I do have a problem with, are the people who feel as though their religion entitles them to dictate to other people how they should be living their lives. What they should and shouldn't be doing. I can't stand that because what makes a person so arrogant to believe that it's their place to do this? And even if their not vocal about it, silently judging a person is just as terrible. Just live your own damn life, and don't worry about what other people are doing.

And to this philosophy, I will live my own life. Live and let live. Though religion may not be for me, I can accept that it works for others.

And, if I'm being perfectly honest, I feel more liberated now having given up faith then I ever felt while calling myself a Christian. I suppose it's all about perspective.

Excerpt

I just wanted to post an excerpt from what I'm currently writing. This is the first several passages. It's very rough because it's from the first draft, but I'm pretty pleased with it.

The working title is Calm.

When I first saw the photograph that my father kept in the top drawer of his dresser, carefully hidden underneath the overlap of his underwear and his t-shirts, I didn’t think anything of it. It was a basic photo, taken under poor lighting - probably fluorescent - , its only subjects being my father and another man, their arms around each other‘s shoulders. My mind didn’t register anything besides that it was merely a photo of him and a close friend, taken before I was born. Why my father, who was mostly unsentimental about his past, would keep this photo tucked away in his dresser was a question that didn’t cross my mind in the moment.

However, when the truth about my father’s life was revealed, everything about the moment I discovered the photo came rushing back to me. I remembered the temperature in the room, the feel of the cold air against my skin. A window must have been opened, then forgotten. I remembered the smell of my father’s room. A smell I was used to, that now penetrated my sense as if I’d just walked into an unfamiliar home and breathed in the peculiar, unique scent. I recalled the angle in which the photograph lay against my palms and the way it felt in my hands. All of the sensations were as vivid, as though I was in the moment. It was as if, deep in my subconscious, I had known that these few minutes would be pivotal in the course of the future of mine and my father’s relationship.

Until that night on February 1st, my father’s life story had been something along the lines of normalcy. He was born and raised in Britain, had met my mother there and, after her sudden death during my young years, had immigrated us to the United States. He and I defied the conventions of most father-son relationships. He had raised me alone, and in doing this was allowed to raise me the way he saw fit. He instilled in me a love of art. All art. He taught me the beauty of a painting, the wonder of colors. This transferred to our shared love of great films. We spent many hours discussing the meanings of some of our favorite pictures, and the way in which the aesthetic communication opened our eyes to the business of living and how frightening and beautiful it is. Most of all, though, he instilled a deep appreciation of music in me.

The earliest memory I can recall is of my father in the kitchen, hard at work on one of his excellent meals. A tradition that we would take part in for years was to have the music turned up as loud as we could tolerate, and to dance across the kitchen while cooking. I remember my father doing this. One of his obscure favorites at the time blaring across the room, he in his work clothes, barefoot, dancing and singing to the delightful tune. It was him at his most joyful. It was in these moments that I saw how much life the man who had raised me had.

His passion for music extended beyond performing for me in the kitchen of our New York apartment. He was an excellent singer, though he was far too modest about his abilities. When he was drunk on wine, he would serenade me with songs of old; they were mostly hymns. I would listen to his voice, melodious and beautiful, and I would be captivated. To this very day, I have never heard a singing voice like my father’s. His talent was truly unique.

Though he was talented, he understood reality. When he moved us to the States, he didn’t live under delusions of approaching fame. He was sensible in his hunt for employment, never turning his nose up at an opportunity. His only goal at this point was to provide. His sacrifices for me were endless, not the least of which included working several terrible jobs over the course of my childhood to ensure that I was fed and properly educated.

Due to his charm and fantastic way with people, he quickly moved up in positions at a company he worked for during the last days of my eighth grade education. As I moved onto high school, he moved into a manager’s position, with much better benefits and salary. No more hourly pay for my father.

During my second year of high school, he began to attend auditions. His dream was to sing in a choir. Choral music was something he was passionate and knowledgeable about. Whenever an opportunity arose, he would leave work early and rush to try his hand at grabbing a tenor spot. He later told me that he approximated that he’d attended some upwards of thirty auditions. Until one day, luck (or maybe fate) lent him a hand. He'd gotten the tenor spot! They’d "loved his voice, and felt like he would add something to their choir". When I arrived home from a tiresome day at school, he grabbed me and twirled me like he used to do when I was younger. To celebrate, we went to dinner at an expensive restaurant and spent an ungodly amount of money. The best part, he’d informed me, was that it was a paid position, and if the choir did well he could make as much money as his current job paid him. He was going to put in his two weeks the very next day.

I look back on this moment and realize its significance. I realize how easy it would have been for this opportunity to pass by, which would have altered the course of how things would later turn out. I sometimes wonder if, had he not taken this spot, would things have remained as they were right then? Or would the course of things have found another way? Regardless, this was merely the beginning of it all.

Lying

Denying oneself for the sake of an easier existence.

It's a process.

When you reach the other side you may not seem to find a peace of mind immediately,

For there's still family and friends who may not see things the way that you wish they would.

It's a process.

But on the other side is there true happiness? Can one be "wrong" yet be happy?

Why care? Why allow others to define the way your life is lived?

All we really want is to be happy. The search for personal satisfaction is ultimately how we live, is it not?

I want to share my life with the people I love, but what if they don't want to be a part?

Then what do I have left?

My own life. My own path. My own happiness in spite of others disapproval.

So why continue lying?

Because it's easier.