Why is it that I always end up wanting to talk to someone only after I've decided I want to be alone? Why is it that it always seems to happen in the evenings, generally after 10pm, and when I'm sitting in front of the computer? It never fails to depress me. Or maybe I never fail to depress me. And that's awfully depressing.
Were I still in Blacksburg, I think I would stroll over to Alexi's room, spelunk and wind my way through the mountains of garbage he has strewn all over his floor, and hover over his chair while he rants over what idiocy Riceboy X is spewing in the 3000GT forums. I'll only understand about half of what he says, but his endless supply of trash talk never fails to cheer me up. Then we'd proceed to watch some utterly random but strangely hilarious video clips, undoubtedly involving vintage cartoon characters in perverted sexual escapades, and closing the evening in an oddly comforting way.
In spite of being a tried and true introvert, I'm starting to think I really do need to live with people I can relate with and talk to.
On a lighter note, anyone who didn't see Women of Lockerbie missed out on a truly tremendous show and wonderful performances from everyone involved. It was deeply moving, deeply affecting, and in no way shape or form influenced my current mood.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
On taking too much time
I was in the shower at the gym today, and I got to thinking about God. No, that is not a double entendre. My mind just wanders sometimes. At any rate, I got to thinking about the main reason I take exception to the deity of Christianity, and before you know it, I was on this huge mental spiel that involved everything ranging from newtonian physics to the nature of omniscience. Quantum mechanics, time, open and closed systems of bodies, chaos theory - I touched on all of it as I narrated to myself why I disliked the Christian idea of God.
All the way home, on the subway, I was still going over all the reasons in my head. I mounted a mental soapbox, as it were, and waxed eloquent on what I perceived to be a fundamental reason that Christianity is, for me, flawed. I practically narrated a small thesis on exactly why the idea of God, as it is presented in the Bible, offends my sensibilities. Then I get in front of my computer, get prepared to write some astonishing, remarkably philosophical, lovingly polished piece of vaguely self-congratulatory prose...and I lose all desire to put it into concrete words. The concept of it is still sort of floating around in my head, visually reminiscent of the Crab Nebula, but actually committing that entire piece to writing feels odious to the extreme. As a minor aside, I am extremely proud that I have found occasion to use the adjective "odious." I was remarking to Lyle only earlier today that our modern sense of language is decidedly unpoetic.
So. What does this indicate? I think it suggests a rather profound shift in my way of thinking since my younger days. Things, even things I love, take too much time these days. The idea of going back over this idea that I've already hammered over for something like an hour and a half in my head, and writing it out before going to bed just seems utterly tedious. Before I started attending college, such an activity would've seemed...well, fun. That's a bit worrying. I feel like I don't enjoy writing as much as I used to, and the work involved in hammering out anything of even acceptable quality is growing too substantial. There always seems to be something else that needs to be done.
Hah. If Jackie were reading this, she'd probably tell me that it's because I'm not in the moment.
Was there any point to this? Well, I could feed my arrogant side. I could say it's because I'm wondering whether or not pieces of particularly insightful or eloquent work were left unwritten simply because their authors got lazy or possessive. Certainly the likes of Einstein, Thoreau, and Faulker wrote great works, but what more lay unrevealed in the depths of their minds? Could they have kept the greatest treasures of their imaginings to themselves, never to grace the light of day? Does it matter?
But actually, I think it's just because I wanted to write, and to share what I wrote.
All the way home, on the subway, I was still going over all the reasons in my head. I mounted a mental soapbox, as it were, and waxed eloquent on what I perceived to be a fundamental reason that Christianity is, for me, flawed. I practically narrated a small thesis on exactly why the idea of God, as it is presented in the Bible, offends my sensibilities. Then I get in front of my computer, get prepared to write some astonishing, remarkably philosophical, lovingly polished piece of vaguely self-congratulatory prose...and I lose all desire to put it into concrete words. The concept of it is still sort of floating around in my head, visually reminiscent of the Crab Nebula, but actually committing that entire piece to writing feels odious to the extreme. As a minor aside, I am extremely proud that I have found occasion to use the adjective "odious." I was remarking to Lyle only earlier today that our modern sense of language is decidedly unpoetic.
So. What does this indicate? I think it suggests a rather profound shift in my way of thinking since my younger days. Things, even things I love, take too much time these days. The idea of going back over this idea that I've already hammered over for something like an hour and a half in my head, and writing it out before going to bed just seems utterly tedious. Before I started attending college, such an activity would've seemed...well, fun. That's a bit worrying. I feel like I don't enjoy writing as much as I used to, and the work involved in hammering out anything of even acceptable quality is growing too substantial. There always seems to be something else that needs to be done.
Hah. If Jackie were reading this, she'd probably tell me that it's because I'm not in the moment.
Was there any point to this? Well, I could feed my arrogant side. I could say it's because I'm wondering whether or not pieces of particularly insightful or eloquent work were left unwritten simply because their authors got lazy or possessive. Certainly the likes of Einstein, Thoreau, and Faulker wrote great works, but what more lay unrevealed in the depths of their minds? Could they have kept the greatest treasures of their imaginings to themselves, never to grace the light of day? Does it matter?
But actually, I think it's just because I wanted to write, and to share what I wrote.
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