I default to blogging when I have nothing interesting to say, except that I am once again embroiled in the daily chaos that is working at Theatre at Sea, and then going to stage manage for Musicals Tonight. I observed to my coworkers, in a fashion that can really only be described as slightly whiny, that I've stage managed about eight shows since graduating from AADA, but I've only acted in one. By the time May rolls around, I'll have stage managed fourteen (yes, I've committed myself to stage managing another six bloody shows between now and the end of April) shows, and in all likelihood...I'll still have only acted in one.
Great googly moogly, what's wrong with me?
It feels a little bit like the universe is trying to tell me something, and I'm too thick-skulled to listen. Ha. See, actually, that I'm acknowledging this information already means that I'm listening, but there's a big difference between listening up here and listening down here. Higher. No, higher still. Get your mind out of the gutter, you perverts. I'm talking about head and heart, not head and...yeah, that.
I love acting. I love being on stage, and performing. It still feels nerve-wracking while I'm up there, but it's like...I can safely access parts of myself I'd never allow myself to experience while I'm on stage.
That said, however, I often wonder...I've been wondering a great deal lately whether I might not have been happier trying to make my way as a writer instead. At the risk of sounding like an arrogant ass...well, okay, I already am an arrogant ass, but at the risk of sounding like an even more arrogant ass, I'm a damn fine writer. If I do say so myself. A much better writer, I tend to think, then I am an actor.
Or maybe this is how it gets you, the negativity. The sensation that maybe, just maybe, that's not enough. Confidence and support from your friends and family isn't enough. Even determination isn't enough. Everything starts fraying at the edges, like a soft fruit tossed into a vat of acid, and it's only so long before the world starts eating into you, seeping in the soft center...
Ha! I'm unduly influenced by a horror story I've been writing lately, heavily influenced by Lovecraftian themes. I just had...sort of an argument earlier this evening with Whally (hey Whally!) about how I'd smother his cynicism with light and hope and peace. It's hard to remain optimistic some days, but I generally manage the fortitude of spirit. Then again, arguably...I've also had it pretty easy, as far as my theatrical pursuits have gone, at any rate.
I do have a rather spectacular piece of news - I got accepted as a writer for a gay sci-fi/fantasy/horror site, called www.doorq.com. Now, I know there are dozens of instances out there where some random site or place wants you to write for free, and can't offer anything except exposure. But...this just feels...different. I don't really know why. Maybe it's because I've felt sort of...alienated...from the gay community for a long time. Once again, at the risk of sounding arrogant...I'm not your stereotypical gay man. I'm not very flamboyant (except when I'm dancing. Hoo boy.) I like technical stuff in addition to art. I like rock music, and I don't know the bloody first thing about interior decoration. I dress like a total dork, and it shows. God, how it shows. I mean...Myia had to pick out the most "stylish" pieces of my wardrobe. I'm going to have to ask Kevin or Jason - two straight friends - to help me pick out my new wardrobe when I go shopping. Did we all hear that? My straight male friends have better taste in clothing than I do.
I'm a horrendous gay man. About the only thing that qualifies me, really, is the fact that I like guys. I really like guys. And I don't dig girls, like, at all. I mean, I'm friends with Darien and Myia, and they're easily two of the most attractive women I've ever met. I love them both dearly, but...I'm about as attracted to them as I am to a kumquat. Although a kumquat doesn't feel as nice if it were to hug me.
How fortunate it is that liking guys is the only real requirement for being gay. Thank god.
Oh, yeah - doorq.com. It's filled with gay sci-fi/fantasy/horror geeks. You heard me. There are more of us.
And it's like...for the first time ever, I really, really feel like I belong in a community. That I have people who understand me on more than just the level of "we're both dorks" or "we both like guys" or "Star Wars is better than Star Trek, and I'll Death Star your ass if you don't agree with me." (I don't, by the way. Star Wars might be "cooler," but Star Trek is way more pertinent.) It's a warm feeling. A really warm feeling.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
On wit
I had a sort of epiphany today. It happened just as I was talking to someone online, actually. It's long been a matter of some distress to me that my wit tends to come and go, rather like a cheap hustler. I could not, for the life of me, figure out what sort of currency would convince the little hussy to stay for a while, as I enjoy having her around. I pause in an aside to note how interesting it is that my wit seems to be female. Normally when I think of wittiness, I consider that paragon of mental agility, Oscar Wilde. I had thought that the personification of that rather fleeting aspect of my personality to be a British gentleman in a finely tailored suit, making snide remarks while eating cucumber sandwiches. But no, my wit wears a black and red bustier, and she is not afraid of showing off her more prominent attributes.
So epiphany, yes! I've discovered that at least one secret ingredient is cynicism. That's it. Nothing terribly esoteric about it. I'm a fairly observant person, when I want to be, and I'm dreadfully creative when I feel like it as well. It is, I think, the optimism that's the problem. A rapier wit usually isn't used to encourage someone to strive for their dreams. Speaking poinards, as it were, is somewhat detrimental when you're urging the chubby girl to shake her bon bons, baby! If that's her dream. Unless you're being cruel, and I'd sooner spoon out my eyes than be intentionally cruel. There's more than enough of that to go around as it is.
Maybe that's why I can verbally spar with my Blacksburg crew so much. The closer I feel to someone, the freer I feel about making fun of him mercilessly. Particularly if his name starts with a C, ends with a y, and he refuses to respond with a barb as pointed as mine. Except that one time, when the Battle of Midway was apparently between Godzilla and Alexi's Mom. But that's a story for another evening.
So I just have to tempt out my sultry inner wench of wit using a sufficiently bleak world view. Ahmmmm...let's see. There is no ultimate meaning behind everything, no place under Heaven, no plan external to what we have to make for ourselves. For better for worse, our meaning and our place in the universe is what we make of ourselves. Even if the insensate stars are ultimately uncaring, it is enough that there are people down here who do care for us, and care deeply, and for their sake we have to make as good a go of it as we can. We will determine ourselves whether our legacy is one of hatred and violence, or one of tolerance and understanding.
Huh. I think that kinda backfired. I was going more for an angsty sort of, "Life is pain. We suck. Rock on!"....damn! Where did that come from? I don't think "Rock on" is part of the goth creed.
Ah well. Even if I must surrender a bit of the edge on my words, I guess for now I'll stay a tried and true optimist.
So epiphany, yes! I've discovered that at least one secret ingredient is cynicism. That's it. Nothing terribly esoteric about it. I'm a fairly observant person, when I want to be, and I'm dreadfully creative when I feel like it as well. It is, I think, the optimism that's the problem. A rapier wit usually isn't used to encourage someone to strive for their dreams. Speaking poinards, as it were, is somewhat detrimental when you're urging the chubby girl to shake her bon bons, baby! If that's her dream. Unless you're being cruel, and I'd sooner spoon out my eyes than be intentionally cruel. There's more than enough of that to go around as it is.
Maybe that's why I can verbally spar with my Blacksburg crew so much. The closer I feel to someone, the freer I feel about making fun of him mercilessly. Particularly if his name starts with a C, ends with a y, and he refuses to respond with a barb as pointed as mine. Except that one time, when the Battle of Midway was apparently between Godzilla and Alexi's Mom. But that's a story for another evening.
So I just have to tempt out my sultry inner wench of wit using a sufficiently bleak world view. Ahmmmm...let's see. There is no ultimate meaning behind everything, no place under Heaven, no plan external to what we have to make for ourselves. For better for worse, our meaning and our place in the universe is what we make of ourselves. Even if the insensate stars are ultimately uncaring, it is enough that there are people down here who do care for us, and care deeply, and for their sake we have to make as good a go of it as we can. We will determine ourselves whether our legacy is one of hatred and violence, or one of tolerance and understanding.
Huh. I think that kinda backfired. I was going more for an angsty sort of, "Life is pain. We suck. Rock on!"....damn! Where did that come from? I don't think "Rock on" is part of the goth creed.
Ah well. Even if I must surrender a bit of the edge on my words, I guess for now I'll stay a tried and true optimist.
On chaos
Chaos, in a primordial sort of way. The Greeks regarded Chaos not in the modern connotation of the term, as a mass of confusion, but as the endless void. The infinite nothing from which spawned everything. Chaos is more appropriately written Ka-os, pronounced Kah-aws. The break in the middle, the awkward hesitation, the actual phonetic representation of that momentary lapse in sound, is actually of greater significance than most laymen realize. Although the word signifies the meaning, the break is representative of Chaos in a more accurate way than the word itself.
In the Theogony, written by Hesiod, after Chaos came Eros, Gaia, and Tarteros. It is an important note to mention that it was not Chaos that birthed Eros, Gaia, and Tarteros, but in fact the three came into existence on their own. They willed themselves into being, if you will (no pun intended). Although, if one stops and really examines the situation, creating oneself into the void, an infinite span of ultimate nothingness, can only be likened to being birthed by the void. There's nothing there to give birth to you, so only Nothing could have given birth to you. Or is that arguing semantics?
I imagine, were I a much better philosopher, or perhaps a much more competent abstract thinker, I could find the distinction between the two. Perhaps it's really a matter of power, the kind that occurs when something gives birth to another, or when something forces itself into a space that (if we may assume, in this train of thought) didn't want the intrusion.
Nevertheless, I've always found it a point of fascination that Hesiod chose Love, the Earth, and the Pit of Ultimate Suffering to be the three primordial entities after the void. Love, in particular, as the other three can arguably be described as places. I do think it significant, however, that even as early as Hesiod a place of punishment was considered a primal aspect of creation.
At any rate, I think it is perhaps an indication of what a tumultous force Love was, to the ancient Greeks. The God of Love was nothing less than one of the first four entities responsible for creation, and the Goddess of Love the result of a rather violent struggle for power, a betrayal of a particularly intimate sort, and the emasculation of the very Sky. Love is powerful, creational, promordial, and therefore also dangerous and potentially ruinous.
And then, somewhere in the order of the 12th century or so, the bloody French came along and turned the whole thing romantic in the worst sort of way. The noble knight, forever adoring his lady from afar, doomed to love her but never able to claim her. Perhaps she returns his love, but, alas, even if she weren't wedded to the lord, or baron, or marquis, she was still a noblewoman, and therefore as out of his reach as the stars in the sky. A romantic notion, maybe, but ultimately a foolish one.
Is there a point to this? Ha. Yes, actually, but not for anyone but myself. Read the subtext, if you like - I'm just writing to add a layer of serenity to a rather disheveled me.
In the Theogony, written by Hesiod, after Chaos came Eros, Gaia, and Tarteros. It is an important note to mention that it was not Chaos that birthed Eros, Gaia, and Tarteros, but in fact the three came into existence on their own. They willed themselves into being, if you will (no pun intended). Although, if one stops and really examines the situation, creating oneself into the void, an infinite span of ultimate nothingness, can only be likened to being birthed by the void. There's nothing there to give birth to you, so only Nothing could have given birth to you. Or is that arguing semantics?
I imagine, were I a much better philosopher, or perhaps a much more competent abstract thinker, I could find the distinction between the two. Perhaps it's really a matter of power, the kind that occurs when something gives birth to another, or when something forces itself into a space that (if we may assume, in this train of thought) didn't want the intrusion.
Nevertheless, I've always found it a point of fascination that Hesiod chose Love, the Earth, and the Pit of Ultimate Suffering to be the three primordial entities after the void. Love, in particular, as the other three can arguably be described as places. I do think it significant, however, that even as early as Hesiod a place of punishment was considered a primal aspect of creation.
At any rate, I think it is perhaps an indication of what a tumultous force Love was, to the ancient Greeks. The God of Love was nothing less than one of the first four entities responsible for creation, and the Goddess of Love the result of a rather violent struggle for power, a betrayal of a particularly intimate sort, and the emasculation of the very Sky. Love is powerful, creational, promordial, and therefore also dangerous and potentially ruinous.
And then, somewhere in the order of the 12th century or so, the bloody French came along and turned the whole thing romantic in the worst sort of way. The noble knight, forever adoring his lady from afar, doomed to love her but never able to claim her. Perhaps she returns his love, but, alas, even if she weren't wedded to the lord, or baron, or marquis, she was still a noblewoman, and therefore as out of his reach as the stars in the sky. A romantic notion, maybe, but ultimately a foolish one.
Is there a point to this? Ha. Yes, actually, but not for anyone but myself. Read the subtext, if you like - I'm just writing to add a layer of serenity to a rather disheveled me.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
On revision
Sometimes, we become so focused on what is far away that we completely miss what is in front of us. Thus it is with me, particularly in realms wherein I have little experience, and little I may use to guide me.
I am told that I should be more forgiving of myself when I make mistakes. I think I'm going to take that advice.
I am told that I should be more forgiving of myself when I make mistakes. I think I'm going to take that advice.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
On rollercoasters
Ah, hello blog.
First off, I've decided to move my little pet project to a different forum. It simply seemed much more appropriate to section off that aspect of my life from this one, which I think I will continue to use as a public method of complaining.
My stories may now be found on http://dispater27.blogspot.com/
That's for those of you who are actually interested in the stories I'm writing. Even if you're not, let's just pretend that you are and go with that. Salvage my ego!
So, here we are again. It is once again stupidly late at night, or insanely early in the morning, depending on your point of view. My soapbox looks dusty, and my spotlight could probably use a bulb replacement, but here I am again, ready to sing my grievances into an unhearing world. Perhaps I believe, in my own way, that if I cast my hopes into the vasty dark long enough, they'll somehow finally reach the one for whom they are intended, as he stands on a distant shore listening for my voice.
A decidedly romantic notion, no?
I was talking with a friend tonight, and we touched briefly upon the subject of optimism. He's been disappointed a great deal in his life, and his optimism is ebbing, although he remains at heart a romantic. I've suffered a great deal of disappointment as well, but I still remain a tried and true optimist. I believe, truly believe, that things will work out, and by extension, I suppose, that means that I ultimately do have faith in mankind. In spite of all our idiocies, I think we do learn from our mistakes, eventually. I choose to believe that we'll overcome our worse natures in the end.
But that's not really the reason I'm discussing this topic. On a random aside (you all should be well used to these by now), I suddenly had the mental image of a penguin as a lounge singer, as an almost direct result of my choice to use the words "sing my grievances." I do not know why I choose the penguin, save that I find them rather ridiculous birds. I certainly don't ordinarily associate myself with the penguin, nor do I sing in lounges. It might be fun to be a penguin, however, particularly if I get to be the mascot for Linux. I could lounge around all day while nerds with computers feed me fish. Oh yeah, baby! Nerds with fish! It might also be fun to sing in lounges, but I'm not sure I could resist the urge to wear a sparkly, sequined dinner jacket. Yes, that's tackier than minute-long superglue. Hell, it's tackier than David Hasslehoff. Good God, I've just admitted to being tackier than David Hasslehoff.
Segue! Segue! Oh my God, I need a segue!
Ummmm...modern comics! Yes, I read comics, and I think I've mentioned this in my profile. Just another way that I escape into something that nevertheless has real life pertinence at times. It's interesting, when you stop and think about it, how comics reflect a shifting attitude in American culture - particularly about illustrated stories. They've gone from generally being extraordinarily campy, even goofy, to stories that can have a truly visceral impact, with some incredibly sophisticated ideas behind them. I point out the Grant Morrison run of New X-Men as a particularly fine example of this.
Hrm. I didn't give that a very good run, now did I? To be honest, I wasn't really prepared to engage in a discussion about the artistic integrity of comic books. I just wanted to completely leave behind the idea that I might actually be cheesier than David Hasslehoff.
Alright, I should get to the real reason I'm typing tonight. I think it's because I've allowed myself to hope again, knowing full well that the odds of those hopes being met, or even heard, are probably somewhat worse than the odds on the New York Powerball Lottery. I said to my friend earlier that it may be because actors are peculiar creatures - we have a certain masochistic streak when it comes to our emotions. I'd rather have my hopes get trampled, then allow myself to hope again, then to retreat away. Maybe it's because retreating is what I would have done, years ago.
Bah. This is gotten decidedly taciturn and just a little morbid. I seem to have become rather morose, and I must conclude that I don't look good in morose. I'm much more of a...benignly amused. And in a state of benign amusement, I shall go to bed.
First off, I've decided to move my little pet project to a different forum. It simply seemed much more appropriate to section off that aspect of my life from this one, which I think I will continue to use as a public method of complaining.
My stories may now be found on http://dispater27.blogspot.com/
That's for those of you who are actually interested in the stories I'm writing. Even if you're not, let's just pretend that you are and go with that. Salvage my ego!
So, here we are again. It is once again stupidly late at night, or insanely early in the morning, depending on your point of view. My soapbox looks dusty, and my spotlight could probably use a bulb replacement, but here I am again, ready to sing my grievances into an unhearing world. Perhaps I believe, in my own way, that if I cast my hopes into the vasty dark long enough, they'll somehow finally reach the one for whom they are intended, as he stands on a distant shore listening for my voice.
A decidedly romantic notion, no?
I was talking with a friend tonight, and we touched briefly upon the subject of optimism. He's been disappointed a great deal in his life, and his optimism is ebbing, although he remains at heart a romantic. I've suffered a great deal of disappointment as well, but I still remain a tried and true optimist. I believe, truly believe, that things will work out, and by extension, I suppose, that means that I ultimately do have faith in mankind. In spite of all our idiocies, I think we do learn from our mistakes, eventually. I choose to believe that we'll overcome our worse natures in the end.
But that's not really the reason I'm discussing this topic. On a random aside (you all should be well used to these by now), I suddenly had the mental image of a penguin as a lounge singer, as an almost direct result of my choice to use the words "sing my grievances." I do not know why I choose the penguin, save that I find them rather ridiculous birds. I certainly don't ordinarily associate myself with the penguin, nor do I sing in lounges. It might be fun to be a penguin, however, particularly if I get to be the mascot for Linux. I could lounge around all day while nerds with computers feed me fish. Oh yeah, baby! Nerds with fish! It might also be fun to sing in lounges, but I'm not sure I could resist the urge to wear a sparkly, sequined dinner jacket. Yes, that's tackier than minute-long superglue. Hell, it's tackier than David Hasslehoff. Good God, I've just admitted to being tackier than David Hasslehoff.
Segue! Segue! Oh my God, I need a segue!
Ummmm...modern comics! Yes, I read comics, and I think I've mentioned this in my profile. Just another way that I escape into something that nevertheless has real life pertinence at times. It's interesting, when you stop and think about it, how comics reflect a shifting attitude in American culture - particularly about illustrated stories. They've gone from generally being extraordinarily campy, even goofy, to stories that can have a truly visceral impact, with some incredibly sophisticated ideas behind them. I point out the Grant Morrison run of New X-Men as a particularly fine example of this.
Hrm. I didn't give that a very good run, now did I? To be honest, I wasn't really prepared to engage in a discussion about the artistic integrity of comic books. I just wanted to completely leave behind the idea that I might actually be cheesier than David Hasslehoff.
Alright, I should get to the real reason I'm typing tonight. I think it's because I've allowed myself to hope again, knowing full well that the odds of those hopes being met, or even heard, are probably somewhat worse than the odds on the New York Powerball Lottery. I said to my friend earlier that it may be because actors are peculiar creatures - we have a certain masochistic streak when it comes to our emotions. I'd rather have my hopes get trampled, then allow myself to hope again, then to retreat away. Maybe it's because retreating is what I would have done, years ago.
Bah. This is gotten decidedly taciturn and just a little morbid. I seem to have become rather morose, and I must conclude that I don't look good in morose. I'm much more of a...benignly amused. And in a state of benign amusement, I shall go to bed.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
On first dates
Now I can't bloody sleep.
So this is what the teenage years I missed out on feels like.
Hell and damnation.
So this is what the teenage years I missed out on feels like.
Hell and damnation.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
On many sudden returns...
Ah, online blog...how I've missed you.
I've found an interesting blurb from an online from about what it means to be a Libra - in a nutshell, although many people think about the scales as being particularly balanced, it's worth remembering that most scales, before finding that rare moment of perfect balance, spend quite some time shifting wildly from one side to the other. Kind of like a particularly funky philosophical roller coaster.
As it applies to me - I think I blogged almost continuously for several months, and then went on a five-month hiatus. Extremes much? Maybe it's time to find that nice even balance.
One thing that's punctuated my writing recently is rather more troubling. I've noted a certain...hesitancy to my work. Words don't seem to come as easily as they used to - I don't mean inspired passages or that sudden flash of particularly well-constructed prose. I seem to forget synonyms, lose entire words, and have to sit there trying to remember what perfect word fits into this sentence. I'm aware it happens to everyone, but it's generally be a rare occurrance for me, and twenty-five seems rather young to be suddenly going senile.
I'm putting it down as being rusty...really rusty...
But in an effort to de-rust myself, I've decided to start writing more. Even if it's bad. That's a key point, is to write even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad, because hey, that's one more terrible story that's no longer in your system. It's worth noting, however, that being an only child and a borderline genius has made me, paradoxically, both emphatically lazy and neurotically perfectionist. Which, basically, means that I never get anything done because it takes too much effort to make it perfect.
Hmmmm...I was kinda aiming for a joke in there somewhere, and it saddens me a bit that the last statements are neither humorous nor, unfortunately, particularly untrue. Well, okay, I might be exaggerating with the borderline genius part...but only a little! Don't take away my delusions, dammit! It's one of the few things I have left to hold on to! *sob*
Once again, I segue. I'm thinking that, for an exercise, I'll write one short story a week. Just one. Won't matter how long it is, won't matter how crappy it is, but just write it. Might even have it be a sort of "stream of conscious" sort of deal where I just start writing the first thing that comes to mind, and hammer it out as the week goes on. Exactly one week, and no revisiting when I discover the inevitable grammatical errors.
I think I will also take long walks on the beach and go visit the Museum of Sex.
I've found an interesting blurb from an online from about what it means to be a Libra - in a nutshell, although many people think about the scales as being particularly balanced, it's worth remembering that most scales, before finding that rare moment of perfect balance, spend quite some time shifting wildly from one side to the other. Kind of like a particularly funky philosophical roller coaster.
As it applies to me - I think I blogged almost continuously for several months, and then went on a five-month hiatus. Extremes much? Maybe it's time to find that nice even balance.
One thing that's punctuated my writing recently is rather more troubling. I've noted a certain...hesitancy to my work. Words don't seem to come as easily as they used to - I don't mean inspired passages or that sudden flash of particularly well-constructed prose. I seem to forget synonyms, lose entire words, and have to sit there trying to remember what perfect word fits into this sentence. I'm aware it happens to everyone, but it's generally be a rare occurrance for me, and twenty-five seems rather young to be suddenly going senile.
I'm putting it down as being rusty...really rusty...
But in an effort to de-rust myself, I've decided to start writing more. Even if it's bad. That's a key point, is to write even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad, because hey, that's one more terrible story that's no longer in your system. It's worth noting, however, that being an only child and a borderline genius has made me, paradoxically, both emphatically lazy and neurotically perfectionist. Which, basically, means that I never get anything done because it takes too much effort to make it perfect.
Hmmmm...I was kinda aiming for a joke in there somewhere, and it saddens me a bit that the last statements are neither humorous nor, unfortunately, particularly untrue. Well, okay, I might be exaggerating with the borderline genius part...but only a little! Don't take away my delusions, dammit! It's one of the few things I have left to hold on to! *sob*
Once again, I segue. I'm thinking that, for an exercise, I'll write one short story a week. Just one. Won't matter how long it is, won't matter how crappy it is, but just write it. Might even have it be a sort of "stream of conscious" sort of deal where I just start writing the first thing that comes to mind, and hammer it out as the week goes on. Exactly one week, and no revisiting when I discover the inevitable grammatical errors.
I think I will also take long walks on the beach and go visit the Museum of Sex.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
On the musings of a fevered mind
And here we are again, once again writing without knowing anything about what I want to write about, save that there is the urge to rattle away at the keys and let the little narrative in my head out.
I have a thought about what the little narrative in my head looks like. It's a little purple and blue fuzzball made of rubber, with googly eyes and a set of incongruous, yet wicked-looking claws about sixteen inches long. It peeks out every now and again when my skull unhinges. It's mostly harmless, most of the time. It gets surly when you prod it, though, and I don't recommend feeding it leetspeak. Nor do I recommend telling it that warlocks are overpowered, 'cause they're NOT, dammit, and people only think so because they need to l2play!
New York and living by myself has done something kind of unusual to me. I've always fancied myself insular, very much an introvert, but I'm starting to suspect that's more of an imposed introversion rather than a natural state of being, set into place by a combination of factors ranging from moving at an early age to a country where I didn't speak the language, to my parents' very messy separation. Of course, my nigh-constant insistance that being anti-social is my natural state of being really doesn't help either. That's another matter that needs some addressing - taking responsibility for my actions and decisions, regardless of what I determine to be my "natural state of being" - but that's also a matter for another day.
Random aside. God, I'm going to be an alcoholic when I'm forty. I can feel it.
Anyway, it's interesting to me that people who are generally social outcasts, loners, insular, or whatnot tend to find outlet in artistic activities. What's more stereotypical than the image of the goth sitting all by himself, writing poetry or doing artwork that is charitably described as fucking depressing? Yet, the very act of writing poetry or doing artwork is a means of self-expression and thus, I think, a means of being social when ordinary methods of being social are unusable or unacceptable. Or, for that matter, undoable. Which brings us back to the tremendous balancing act that is being a social individual. Just as I have this urge to type out, oh I don't know, SOMETHING when I don't have any qualifiably useful to say, for no other reason than because I have something I want to say and the cockroaches in my room aren't the best audience. And although I believe in a form of God, he's unfortunately just not responsive enough to make a very good confidante. Or maybe I feel silly talking to God. I haven't decided yet.
Oh, and yes, there appear to be cockroaches in my room. This is a rather unfortunate development that occurred either a) fairly recently, b) over the course of the last several decades, or c) over the course of several geological eras, depending on your outlook on the matter. Then again - this IS New York, after all, and I rather doubt there are any apartments here, no matter how immaculate, that don't have a cockroach or two hiding in the spaces between the walls.
Regardless, they're making their presence known to me now, and it's starting to, how do you say, ick me out just a little. I don't really have much against cockroaches - I'm not really that susceptible to your average set of creepy crawlies with (number of legs > 4), but I do have a rather horrendous mental image that I'm going to open my bag of Home Pride Honey Oak Wheat Bread and be greeted by a torrent of brown carapaces and scuttling legs.
Ick.
I don't mind creepy crawlies - I'd just prefer that they keep to their corner, let me have mine, and stay the hell out of my food.
My final aside (although it does occur to me that my asides tend to overwhelm my main points. I think my asides actually ARE my main points, and my main points are actually my asides, and I do this because I'm a tricky, tricky bastard) is how ironic it would be if this cold I have complicated into something else at the start of the new year. Because guess what - the medical insurance that I was under (i.e. Mom's medical benefits) has offically declared that I'm too old to be covered. I'm fine with that and I can understand that. I'd just be annoyed if opportunistic infections decided that the moment I officially become the uninsured artist is the perfect time to floor me and shove me into a hospital.
'Cause that would just, ya know, be mean.
Cheers, mates. (And I'm not even British!)
I have a thought about what the little narrative in my head looks like. It's a little purple and blue fuzzball made of rubber, with googly eyes and a set of incongruous, yet wicked-looking claws about sixteen inches long. It peeks out every now and again when my skull unhinges. It's mostly harmless, most of the time. It gets surly when you prod it, though, and I don't recommend feeding it leetspeak. Nor do I recommend telling it that warlocks are overpowered, 'cause they're NOT, dammit, and people only think so because they need to l2play!
New York and living by myself has done something kind of unusual to me. I've always fancied myself insular, very much an introvert, but I'm starting to suspect that's more of an imposed introversion rather than a natural state of being, set into place by a combination of factors ranging from moving at an early age to a country where I didn't speak the language, to my parents' very messy separation. Of course, my nigh-constant insistance that being anti-social is my natural state of being really doesn't help either. That's another matter that needs some addressing - taking responsibility for my actions and decisions, regardless of what I determine to be my "natural state of being" - but that's also a matter for another day.
Random aside. God, I'm going to be an alcoholic when I'm forty. I can feel it.
Anyway, it's interesting to me that people who are generally social outcasts, loners, insular, or whatnot tend to find outlet in artistic activities. What's more stereotypical than the image of the goth sitting all by himself, writing poetry or doing artwork that is charitably described as fucking depressing? Yet, the very act of writing poetry or doing artwork is a means of self-expression and thus, I think, a means of being social when ordinary methods of being social are unusable or unacceptable. Or, for that matter, undoable. Which brings us back to the tremendous balancing act that is being a social individual. Just as I have this urge to type out, oh I don't know, SOMETHING when I don't have any qualifiably useful to say, for no other reason than because I have something I want to say and the cockroaches in my room aren't the best audience. And although I believe in a form of God, he's unfortunately just not responsive enough to make a very good confidante. Or maybe I feel silly talking to God. I haven't decided yet.
Oh, and yes, there appear to be cockroaches in my room. This is a rather unfortunate development that occurred either a) fairly recently, b) over the course of the last several decades, or c) over the course of several geological eras, depending on your outlook on the matter. Then again - this IS New York, after all, and I rather doubt there are any apartments here, no matter how immaculate, that don't have a cockroach or two hiding in the spaces between the walls.
Regardless, they're making their presence known to me now, and it's starting to, how do you say, ick me out just a little. I don't really have much against cockroaches - I'm not really that susceptible to your average set of creepy crawlies with (number of legs > 4), but I do have a rather horrendous mental image that I'm going to open my bag of Home Pride Honey Oak Wheat Bread and be greeted by a torrent of brown carapaces and scuttling legs.
Ick.
I don't mind creepy crawlies - I'd just prefer that they keep to their corner, let me have mine, and stay the hell out of my food.
My final aside (although it does occur to me that my asides tend to overwhelm my main points. I think my asides actually ARE my main points, and my main points are actually my asides, and I do this because I'm a tricky, tricky bastard) is how ironic it would be if this cold I have complicated into something else at the start of the new year. Because guess what - the medical insurance that I was under (i.e. Mom's medical benefits) has offically declared that I'm too old to be covered. I'm fine with that and I can understand that. I'd just be annoyed if opportunistic infections decided that the moment I officially become the uninsured artist is the perfect time to floor me and shove me into a hospital.
'Cause that would just, ya know, be mean.
Cheers, mates. (And I'm not even British!)
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)