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.