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.
Friday, December 09, 2005
On breathing deeply
Once again, I post when I should be in bed, but sometimes I just can't help myself. I'm feeling angry tonight - mostly with myself, some with my Movement partner, and a little with the state of the world. Acting has...not been fun for me lately. In all honesty, I don't think I've committed myself to the work as much as I should be, and I think that if I could, it might be fun again. It's just...hard...personalizing the lines, the imagery, and trying to get everything in order so that they happen in a way that's at least appropriate to the script. I really don't know why it always seem so difficult to find personalizations that seem to affect me...I keep meaning to try using a bit of music to help me relax into it. Perhaps I'll wake early tomorrow in order to do so.
Anyway, I'm currently angry with myself because I'm such a damn pushover. I want people to like me, and I hate doing things that may make people DISLIKE me. I know - it's sad. I can rationalize it all I want - I can say I don't confront my partner because I don't want to make working with her any more difficult and trying than it already is - but the fact is I just don't like confronting people. Especially when they are trying to make it work out, or at least seem like they are. If she were unceasingly difficult, that would make it much easier to just call her out on it. Bah! Part of me just wants to go to the instructor and say, "It's been an incredible hell of a time trying to get together with her, work with her, and generally just agree to something," but I keep feeling like that's a betrayal of...something. I dunno. I'm always entirely too eager to take things upon myself rather than let them go where they most logically should go.
Aagh! I'm just so damn FRUSTRATED with everything! I mean EVERYTHING! Part of me wonders what the hell I'm doing in second year. Why am I here?! Do I belong here? I look at every other scene around me and it's like everyone is getting SOMETHING, some aspect of their work that's making them stronger actors, and I am just stuck. I say to my acting teacher: "I think I'm making some progress," but I am getting to believe that less and less. Acting just doesn't feel as...smooth...to me as it used to. And if Todd (my quirky, Freudian Acting Styles instructor) is to be believed, a large part of that is because my emotional prep isn't helping me. Well, I knew that. My prep has never helped me. Trying to get into my prep is an exercise in futility. Trying to find something that actually affects me on an emotional level is like chipping away at an ice berg with a toothpick. GRAAAGH! (Hmmmmm...where DID
Yes, I can see the irony of this, thank you. I think I just need to relax. That's the key to everything. Relax and breathe from the core, and focus on the images for just a bit, and maybe...just maybe...they'll be there for me. Take what I need off my partner, and hopefully everything will be fine. Commit - commit to SOMETHING, and...it will be okay. Everything will be okay. Optimism wins out over everything, in the end.
Anyway - off to bed with me. Six hours of sleep isn't bad.
Anyway, I'm currently angry with myself because I'm such a damn pushover. I want people to like me, and I hate doing things that may make people DISLIKE me. I know - it's sad. I can rationalize it all I want - I can say I don't confront my partner because I don't want to make working with her any more difficult and trying than it already is - but the fact is I just don't like confronting people. Especially when they are trying to make it work out, or at least seem like they are. If she were unceasingly difficult, that would make it much easier to just call her out on it. Bah! Part of me just wants to go to the instructor and say, "It's been an incredible hell of a time trying to get together with her, work with her, and generally just agree to something," but I keep feeling like that's a betrayal of...something. I dunno. I'm always entirely too eager to take things upon myself rather than let them go where they most logically should go.
Aagh! I'm just so damn FRUSTRATED with everything! I mean EVERYTHING! Part of me wonders what the hell I'm doing in second year. Why am I here?! Do I belong here? I look at every other scene around me and it's like everyone is getting SOMETHING, some aspect of their work that's making them stronger actors, and I am just stuck. I say to my acting teacher: "I think I'm making some progress," but I am getting to believe that less and less. Acting just doesn't feel as...smooth...to me as it used to. And if Todd (my quirky, Freudian Acting Styles instructor) is to be believed, a large part of that is because my emotional prep isn't helping me. Well, I knew that. My prep has never helped me. Trying to get into my prep is an exercise in futility. Trying to find something that actually affects me on an emotional level is like chipping away at an ice berg with a toothpick. GRAAAGH! (Hmmmmm...where DID
Yes, I can see the irony of this, thank you. I think I just need to relax. That's the key to everything. Relax and breathe from the core, and focus on the images for just a bit, and maybe...just maybe...they'll be there for me. Take what I need off my partner, and hopefully everything will be fine. Commit - commit to SOMETHING, and...it will be okay. Everything will be okay. Optimism wins out over everything, in the end.
Anyway - off to bed with me. Six hours of sleep isn't bad.
Monday, November 21, 2005
On possible bellyflops
It's 4:51 am, and I have to be at school in exactly 4 hours, 9 minutes. I have, in theory, three hours and 5 minutes to sleep, assuming I want to catch the 8 am subway and I pack everything I need well ahead of time.
Why am I typing instead of going to bed? Some weird sense of masochism, undoubtedly. I think it's also because when I'm suffering the effects of sleep deprivation, my inner censors go into standby, and I become much more likely to just type whatever comes into my head without wondering whether it's really the right thing to say. And some days, I just want to talk.
I was thinking about writing earlier today, which isn't surprising since I was reading Stephen King's book "On Writing." As usual, the most prominent detail is that in order to become a good writer, one must write. Simple, no? And also a matter of common sense, since one can hardly get better at something one doesn't do. What it ultimately brings back, however, is the simple fact that a) I have but so many hours in the day and b) I'm a lazy, procrastinating bastard. A is not easily solved, unless someone out there knows a way to build a time machine from home appliances. B, however...well...B isn't easily solved either, as I find the will the change can be a remarkably difficult thing to muster. Change doesn't come easily to me, particularly not changes in habits, and to start writing again - writing properly - would require me to abandon a lot of vices I seem to have accumulated since I moved out of my mother's house. Every part of me recognizes what a wonderful thing it would really be, to be writing again...but I'm scared of it.
So there, total honesty. I'm scared I'm going to fall flat on my face, and write crap. All evidence points to the contrary, that I am actually a rather competent writer with enough talent to become a good (possibly even great) one. But I'm afraid to take that step, and commit. It's like I'm standing on the edge of a ten meter platform, looking down at that teal blue water, and feeling my heart clinging onto my esophagus for dear life. A bellyflop at this distance would hurt...a lot. And I'm so very tired of getting hurt.
I should be to bed.
Why am I typing instead of going to bed? Some weird sense of masochism, undoubtedly. I think it's also because when I'm suffering the effects of sleep deprivation, my inner censors go into standby, and I become much more likely to just type whatever comes into my head without wondering whether it's really the right thing to say. And some days, I just want to talk.
I was thinking about writing earlier today, which isn't surprising since I was reading Stephen King's book "On Writing." As usual, the most prominent detail is that in order to become a good writer, one must write. Simple, no? And also a matter of common sense, since one can hardly get better at something one doesn't do. What it ultimately brings back, however, is the simple fact that a) I have but so many hours in the day and b) I'm a lazy, procrastinating bastard. A is not easily solved, unless someone out there knows a way to build a time machine from home appliances. B, however...well...B isn't easily solved either, as I find the will the change can be a remarkably difficult thing to muster. Change doesn't come easily to me, particularly not changes in habits, and to start writing again - writing properly - would require me to abandon a lot of vices I seem to have accumulated since I moved out of my mother's house. Every part of me recognizes what a wonderful thing it would really be, to be writing again...but I'm scared of it.
So there, total honesty. I'm scared I'm going to fall flat on my face, and write crap. All evidence points to the contrary, that I am actually a rather competent writer with enough talent to become a good (possibly even great) one. But I'm afraid to take that step, and commit. It's like I'm standing on the edge of a ten meter platform, looking down at that teal blue water, and feeling my heart clinging onto my esophagus for dear life. A bellyflop at this distance would hurt...a lot. And I'm so very tired of getting hurt.
I should be to bed.
Monday, October 10, 2005
On petty aggravations
Grraaagggghhhhhh! I knew it! I knew it! I knew something was going to happen. I could feel it when I got up - that sense of general wrongness when my microcosm decides to realign itself. Okay, it's fine. I KNEW this was going to happen, sooner or later. It was an eventuality that I just didn't allow myself to consciously allow, and therefore it's come back to bite me on the ass. Well IT'S OKAY, because I'm FINE with it. I will simply adjust, and that will be that.
The situation? Basically, I've been subletting from someone. It probably isn't legal, but hell, it is cheap. So be it. Anyway, the guy is apparently now POSSIBLY getting evicted due to his propensity to sublet, and something about "undue wear and tear" from his landlord. Yeah, whatever. Anyway...okay, it's probably too soon to jump to conclusions, but I think this is basically my second cosmic warning (my first being a possible inspection from the landlord some two or three months ago for which I decided to depart the apartment for the time being). So anyway, I'm not really supposed to be here, and he's not really supposed to allow me to be here, and I've just got too much crap in the room to easily move elsewhere. So I think it's time to pack up everything that I don't use, or even can use but not on a regular basis, and prepare myself to vacate the premises on VERY short notice. Same day, if necessary. Shuffle some of my things into storage, and others into a cab if I have to. Thank God some of my things are in my locker at the school, and therefore saves me a box or two.
The key thing here is books and clothes. Maybe leave a week's worth of clothes lying out for general use, and pack all the rest for that eventuality when I have to hastily depart. Ugh. I hate uprooting myself, but I was just remarking only a (okay, something like nine) months ago how most of my worldly belongings could fit into a van if I needed them to. Well, it's entirely probable that I will now need them to. I'm not gonna move out immediately, and if the worst happens I DO have friends I can crash with for at least a little while am I'm looking for a place, or I can stay at a hostel...but I can't begin to emphasize how much things like this grate on my nerves. I'm in a constant balance between statis and dynamism, and I don't mind it so much while on the move but the need to go from stasis TO dynamism irritates me. Always. I hate transition periods if I don't have a solid grounding somewhere, with the grounding in this case being a place to live.
I'll talk to my landlord tomorrow, see what I might need to do. Perhaps I'll make up a checklist so I don't have to keep reminding myself of what needs to be done. I have no idea who at the school is still looking for a place to live, and I REALLY don't want to announce myself to someone I barely know...but ugh! Okay. I shall continue to rant as I see fit to maintain my cool exterior in the physical world, and proceed with a) getting a good night's rest and b) starting to pack my unnecessaries tomorrow. And sticking them into storage if need be.
The situation? Basically, I've been subletting from someone. It probably isn't legal, but hell, it is cheap. So be it. Anyway, the guy is apparently now POSSIBLY getting evicted due to his propensity to sublet, and something about "undue wear and tear" from his landlord. Yeah, whatever. Anyway...okay, it's probably too soon to jump to conclusions, but I think this is basically my second cosmic warning (my first being a possible inspection from the landlord some two or three months ago for which I decided to depart the apartment for the time being). So anyway, I'm not really supposed to be here, and he's not really supposed to allow me to be here, and I've just got too much crap in the room to easily move elsewhere. So I think it's time to pack up everything that I don't use, or even can use but not on a regular basis, and prepare myself to vacate the premises on VERY short notice. Same day, if necessary. Shuffle some of my things into storage, and others into a cab if I have to. Thank God some of my things are in my locker at the school, and therefore saves me a box or two.
The key thing here is books and clothes. Maybe leave a week's worth of clothes lying out for general use, and pack all the rest for that eventuality when I have to hastily depart. Ugh. I hate uprooting myself, but I was just remarking only a (okay, something like nine) months ago how most of my worldly belongings could fit into a van if I needed them to. Well, it's entirely probable that I will now need them to. I'm not gonna move out immediately, and if the worst happens I DO have friends I can crash with for at least a little while am I'm looking for a place, or I can stay at a hostel...but I can't begin to emphasize how much things like this grate on my nerves. I'm in a constant balance between statis and dynamism, and I don't mind it so much while on the move but the need to go from stasis TO dynamism irritates me. Always. I hate transition periods if I don't have a solid grounding somewhere, with the grounding in this case being a place to live.
I'll talk to my landlord tomorrow, see what I might need to do. Perhaps I'll make up a checklist so I don't have to keep reminding myself of what needs to be done. I have no idea who at the school is still looking for a place to live, and I REALLY don't want to announce myself to someone I barely know...but ugh! Okay. I shall continue to rant as I see fit to maintain my cool exterior in the physical world, and proceed with a) getting a good night's rest and b) starting to pack my unnecessaries tomorrow. And sticking them into storage if need be.
Friday, September 30, 2005
On good film
Serenity was incredibly, incredibly good. Ah, where do I begin? The acting was superb, the storyline spectacular, and the technical stuff rather good. I say only rather good because the cinematography and camera work felt shaky, and the first 15 minutes or so was wobbly. I wouldn't put it at jello wobbly, though. More like...Italian cheese cake wobbly. So it was a little soft, but moist and oh so delectable.
I get off topic. What I really like about it, I think, is that it's not one of those black and white action sci-fi movies. It has implications, and impact, and levels. Sometimes they seem painfully obvious, but the more I sit on it the more texture the movie seems to acquire. The characters, of course, are absolutely loveable in their utter humanity. Their heroism, their virtues, their idiosyncrasies, and their flaws. I love them. I find something totally enjoyable and fascinating about each of the characters - even the ones with but a little air time seems to me people with depth and meaning. Joss Whedon's directorial abilities may not be top notch, but his vision is definitely engaging.
This is one of those few movies that I will definitely buy on DVD.
I get off topic. What I really like about it, I think, is that it's not one of those black and white action sci-fi movies. It has implications, and impact, and levels. Sometimes they seem painfully obvious, but the more I sit on it the more texture the movie seems to acquire. The characters, of course, are absolutely loveable in their utter humanity. Their heroism, their virtues, their idiosyncrasies, and their flaws. I love them. I find something totally enjoyable and fascinating about each of the characters - even the ones with but a little air time seems to me people with depth and meaning. Joss Whedon's directorial abilities may not be top notch, but his vision is definitely engaging.
This is one of those few movies that I will definitely buy on DVD.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
On upheavals
This is absolutely surreal, like watching the Twin Towers fall again in slow motion. The last time I felt like this...okay, the last time I felt like this was when I momentarily became convinced that all my views about the world were actually wrong: that the world really isn't ultimately a...fair place? Something like that. Or maybe just that people ultimately only look out for themselves, not for anyone else, and all of my optimism up to this point was just childish bullshit. My sense of the universe, of my own self-worth, and of the worthiness of everything momentarily become completely skewed, and I think I actually fell into a state of despair for the first time in...well, a long time. I desperately, desperately wanted someone to talk to, and wouldn't you know it but it was three AM and none of my friends were online.
I rode it out, as I do all my little emotional ups and downs, and I remain happily optimistic.
Seems like complete tripe right now. I can't even place this. 80% of New Orleans is underwater. Bodies piling up in the streets. People shooting at the helicopters, just so someone would actually come and help their families. I mean, holy hell in a bloody fucking handbasket. Is this the US? We who have mastery of everything that is, was, and shall be? Jesus Christ.
I donated some money to the Red Cross, but it seems woefully inadequate. I can rationalize it, of course - I'm a student at a very expensive school, making just enough money every month to cover my rent and expenses. I donated some of what I had after rent, food, and so forth...but not all of it. And I have credit cards. I can stand dumping a little more into them - my credit line is ridiculously good for a student, after all.
It's totally irrational, but I find myself halfway contemplating the merits of hopping a plane down into the region of New Orleans and joining the Red Cross. Maybe if I weren't convinced that I'd have no idea what to do or where to go, and that I'd probably just end up being more of a hazard than a help to the people around me. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that so I don't feel like such a shit for NOT actually hopping a plane, flying down to New Orleans, and fucking ladling soup to people. Or maxxing out my credit cards on the Red Cross. Shit. I don't know.
God, I'm whining, and I'm not even IN New Orleans. Fuck this.
I rode it out, as I do all my little emotional ups and downs, and I remain happily optimistic.
Seems like complete tripe right now. I can't even place this. 80% of New Orleans is underwater. Bodies piling up in the streets. People shooting at the helicopters, just so someone would actually come and help their families. I mean, holy hell in a bloody fucking handbasket. Is this the US? We who have mastery of everything that is, was, and shall be? Jesus Christ.
I donated some money to the Red Cross, but it seems woefully inadequate. I can rationalize it, of course - I'm a student at a very expensive school, making just enough money every month to cover my rent and expenses. I donated some of what I had after rent, food, and so forth...but not all of it. And I have credit cards. I can stand dumping a little more into them - my credit line is ridiculously good for a student, after all.
It's totally irrational, but I find myself halfway contemplating the merits of hopping a plane down into the region of New Orleans and joining the Red Cross. Maybe if I weren't convinced that I'd have no idea what to do or where to go, and that I'd probably just end up being more of a hazard than a help to the people around me. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that so I don't feel like such a shit for NOT actually hopping a plane, flying down to New Orleans, and fucking ladling soup to people. Or maxxing out my credit cards on the Red Cross. Shit. I don't know.
God, I'm whining, and I'm not even IN New Orleans. Fuck this.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
On pretty pretty templates
The template I have decided to use is so...so...clean! I love it! I'm sure 248,148,171 other people have also decided to use said template, but I can't help it. There's just that attracts me to it. It's so preeetttttyyyy...
I think I've said everything I wanted to say today already, so let me just inaugurate the commencement of this, what I consider to be my online journal and commentary when I really want to write a lot very quickly, as in much faster than I could possibly do by hand and remain legible. I shall also inaugurate this as the commencement of many long, complex, and highly run-on sentences. They are a favorite of mine, a bad habit, and something I fully intend to divest myself of given much time and writing experience. It just so happens that every now and again, I do want to write simply for the sake of writing, and not say say something like, "He waved his hand with frightening casualness. The earth tore, and the sky burst into flames." I'm obviously very fond of a) godlike powers and b) purple prose. You end up with very purple gods doing things to entire worlds that, were they done by human hands, would be proclaimed wildly homosexual.
Speaking of wildly homosexual, I think I need an enterprising gay man to go through my closet. There are unspeakable things in there - things that must never again be shown the light of day. The safest thing to do is to burn them, mix the ashes into concrete, and then encase the whole thing in a foot of lead before burying them in a secret storage chamber underneath the Sierra Nevada mountains. I can see the movie title already: "Tacky Jeans from the Deep!" I would do it myself if I weren't very lazy and, ultimately, largely indifferent to the way I look.
Consistency is for small minds.
I think I've said everything I wanted to say today already, so let me just inaugurate the commencement of this, what I consider to be my online journal and commentary when I really want to write a lot very quickly, as in much faster than I could possibly do by hand and remain legible. I shall also inaugurate this as the commencement of many long, complex, and highly run-on sentences. They are a favorite of mine, a bad habit, and something I fully intend to divest myself of given much time and writing experience. It just so happens that every now and again, I do want to write simply for the sake of writing, and not say say something like, "He waved his hand with frightening casualness. The earth tore, and the sky burst into flames." I'm obviously very fond of a) godlike powers and b) purple prose. You end up with very purple gods doing things to entire worlds that, were they done by human hands, would be proclaimed wildly homosexual.
Speaking of wildly homosexual, I think I need an enterprising gay man to go through my closet. There are unspeakable things in there - things that must never again be shown the light of day. The safest thing to do is to burn them, mix the ashes into concrete, and then encase the whole thing in a foot of lead before burying them in a secret storage chamber underneath the Sierra Nevada mountains. I can see the movie title already: "Tacky Jeans from the Deep!" I would do it myself if I weren't very lazy and, ultimately, largely indifferent to the way I look.
Consistency is for small minds.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
On leaving blankets behind
I hate moving. Hell, I hate traveling, and I'm generally pretty fond of seeing new places and new things. I am, you see, a big fan of stability and the uprooting that is necessary for moving, or in a small way, for traveling, upsets my sense of equilibrium. I could easily get all psychotherapist on the issue. My distaste for travel probably stems from my household insecurities, themselves derived from my childhood in a bitterly dysfunctional family. Or, perhaps, it has its origins in having to uproot myself at the tender age of six and moving away from all the warmth and family that I had ever known in China to the far more lonely, terrifyingly alien Maryland. It didn't, of course, help matters any when I had to leave Maryland yet again after just four years.
Those of you who've had to travel a great deal in your childhoods are likely a) unsympathetic or b) highly sympathetic. I'm either whining about some inevitabilities, or sharing a pain you understand keenly. In many ways, however, staying in one place just long enough to make friends is more even more painful than not staying long enough to really meet anyone. If you haven't put down roots, after all, there's nothing to tear up when it's time to go. I loved China, I loved Maryland, and even now I love Blacksburg. I have memories and friends here - twelve years worth, in fact - and I know the streets as intimately and reflexively as I know the cliche that is the back of my hand. The town is a warm blanket I've wrapped around myself over the years. I know its scent. The way its texture changes from South Main to Downtown is second nature to me now. It hurts to be thrust from this intimate familiarity into that terribly lonely, terrifyingly alien place that is New York City.
And yet, that is what I have chosen. Nobody told me, really, to go. If I so choose, I could stay in Blacksburg forever and earn well enough to keep me content. Given time and even a little effort, I might even be able to find love here...or at least within the region. Being a college town, after all, there are plenty of people my age. But blankets, no matter how varied in their colors and textures and scents, are still small spaces, and we cannot grow if we constrict ourselves in them. Many of the kids I grew up with find the town suffocating, and that's true as well. Even more than China or Maryland, however, I feel that my childhood lies within this sleepy little college town. And as any college student may appreciate, that moment when you leave a childhood home behind, well, that's an event both jarring and liberating, bringing with it equal measures grief and anticipation. It's a necessary pain, I suppose, in a world that promises far greater bumps and bruises and, yeah, deeper wounds to come. It's funny, how pain is somehow an inevitable part of growth.
So I choose to leave, to accept this pain, and hopefully, to grow. I continue to think of Blacksburg as a secure little blanket, waiting any time I need it, whenever the world gets too alien and too terrifying to bear. And I leave childhood behind.
Those of you who've had to travel a great deal in your childhoods are likely a) unsympathetic or b) highly sympathetic. I'm either whining about some inevitabilities, or sharing a pain you understand keenly. In many ways, however, staying in one place just long enough to make friends is more even more painful than not staying long enough to really meet anyone. If you haven't put down roots, after all, there's nothing to tear up when it's time to go. I loved China, I loved Maryland, and even now I love Blacksburg. I have memories and friends here - twelve years worth, in fact - and I know the streets as intimately and reflexively as I know the cliche that is the back of my hand. The town is a warm blanket I've wrapped around myself over the years. I know its scent. The way its texture changes from South Main to Downtown is second nature to me now. It hurts to be thrust from this intimate familiarity into that terribly lonely, terrifyingly alien place that is New York City.
And yet, that is what I have chosen. Nobody told me, really, to go. If I so choose, I could stay in Blacksburg forever and earn well enough to keep me content. Given time and even a little effort, I might even be able to find love here...or at least within the region. Being a college town, after all, there are plenty of people my age. But blankets, no matter how varied in their colors and textures and scents, are still small spaces, and we cannot grow if we constrict ourselves in them. Many of the kids I grew up with find the town suffocating, and that's true as well. Even more than China or Maryland, however, I feel that my childhood lies within this sleepy little college town. And as any college student may appreciate, that moment when you leave a childhood home behind, well, that's an event both jarring and liberating, bringing with it equal measures grief and anticipation. It's a necessary pain, I suppose, in a world that promises far greater bumps and bruises and, yeah, deeper wounds to come. It's funny, how pain is somehow an inevitable part of growth.
So I choose to leave, to accept this pain, and hopefully, to grow. I continue to think of Blacksburg as a secure little blanket, waiting any time I need it, whenever the world gets too alien and too terrifying to bear. And I leave childhood behind.
Friday, October 01, 2004
On The Suffering
Allow me to begin by stating that I am quite fond of horror - all horror media, whether it is written, painted, or filmed. I get a perverse thrill out of scaring the bejesus out of myself. Those of you who enjoy horror understand. Those of you who don't...well, don't and probably never will. I find that for the most part, the enjoyment of fear, unlike beer and living in New York, is not an acquired taste.
That said, I would like to express the sensation of disturbance I get from playing The Suffering. For those of you who don't know or don't care, The Suffering is a video game on the Playstation 2 console. In it, you take the role of a convicted killer named Torque - a man who supposedly beat his own wife to death, then drowned one of his children in a bathtub and threw the other out of a window. In other words, a thoroughly pleasant individual and someone who undoubtedly voted for Bush in the last election (ooh! Political barb! Political barb!) The kicker is that he doesn't remember what happened - he blacked out the entire incident. Well, as a game character states, conviction and guilt are two different things. The truth of the matter becomes a central focus throughout the game.
At any rate, no sooner does Torque arrive in his cell that all Hell breaks loose. Horrific creatures suddenly begin spewing out of the darkness like an army of distorted, altogether creepy and terribly disgusting ants. Your job, of course, is to simply make it out of there alive. Killing lots of demons in the process. Now, I'm sure you're all thinking, "Yeah, okay, so..." Of course, there is always a but. As Torque proceeds through the dark, ratty prison, he is frequently beset by visions of his dead wife and children who obliquely hint at how they died and what sort of person you are. You will also, as Torque, encounter circumstances that require a moral judgment call. For example: you find a corrections officer cowering underneath a staircase. Your wife's voice pleads that he's defenseless and needs help, while a grating, sinister voice growls that he's so much excess baggage whose only use is being a repository for bullets. Your moral quandary, then, is to decide whether to help this man or to gut him like a fish. Okay, so it's really only a moral quandary if you like dropping kittens into boiling water and eviscerating puppies, but you've got the option nevertheless. Protect the man, and your wife is so impressed by your strength of character that you can almost feel your faith in humanity increasing. Kill him, and you're rewarded with a lovely image of a blood-stained bathtub and an angry wife wondering why she married a sick bastard like you.
You get the idea. Moral "dilemmas" continue, your character develops, and by the end of the game you know whether or not Torque actually killed his wife and kids. So what's the problem? The game is involving...extremely involving...and I found myself coming to care a great deal for Torque and his family. Yeah, I can hear you saying, "Dude...it's just a game." True enough, but I can't see how anyone could argue that the games we play are not a reflection of ourselves. And since this is my blog, I'm allowed to be as damned sentimental as I want. So I came to care for Torque and for the status of his soul, and I genuinely wanted him to be a good person in spite of his remarkable dexterity with bladed weapons and firearms. And never mind the whole turning into a demon thing. Needless to say, I was quite the angel throughout the game, performing every good deed available to me and feeling mildly happier every time Torque's wife reaffirmed her faith in him.
You're probably really wondering now, "So what's the problem...?!" Well, by the time that I finished, being the anal perfectionist that I am, my curiosity was tugging at me more insistently than a grumpy six year-old. I wanted to see the other endings. This, then, meant that I would have to go through the game. And kill people. And find out that Torque isn't such a nice guy after all. Okay, okay, I get it: "It's just a game." Nevertheless, as I ran through the game a second time slaughtering people like so many lambs, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable, even disturbed. True, it's just a game, but it's also a game that tells a definite story, and I am not an individual who enjoys finding out the protagonist of a story is a child-killer. And in a weak sort of way, the forced detachment I felt gunning people down - people who are begging for their lives - seems distantly related to the detachment a real killer must feel. I'm not going to pretend I understand what a killer feels like - I cringe to see injured insects thrashing; however, it simply seems that a killer must possess a certain degree of either detachment or psychosis...or else eventually come to possess the latter anyway. Perhaps it is a statement of my endless optimism that I have to believe most people would feel the same way. Although I can just imagine some thirteen year-old laughing at the guards he just detonated with a stick of dynamite, I still have to believe that only a truly damaged, malfunctioning human being could kill another without that twisting sensation inside his gut. Power, pleasure, the rush of the kill - all of that aside, I still have to believe that something inside screams for them to stop, and that the faces of those they've harmed haunt their dreams at night.
So in the end, what did I get for slowly throttling pieces of my own soul? An ending I didn't really want to see anyway, a rotten sort of taste in my mouth, the vague sensation of needing to go drown myself in the toilet, and six bucks out of my pocket to rent another game (Prince of Persia in this case) to cleanse myself of the mental abattoir I just dragged myself through. Pixelated faces didn't haunt my dreams, but I'm certainly haunted by something today. Maybe it's me.
That said, I would like to express the sensation of disturbance I get from playing The Suffering. For those of you who don't know or don't care, The Suffering is a video game on the Playstation 2 console. In it, you take the role of a convicted killer named Torque - a man who supposedly beat his own wife to death, then drowned one of his children in a bathtub and threw the other out of a window. In other words, a thoroughly pleasant individual and someone who undoubtedly voted for Bush in the last election (ooh! Political barb! Political barb!) The kicker is that he doesn't remember what happened - he blacked out the entire incident. Well, as a game character states, conviction and guilt are two different things. The truth of the matter becomes a central focus throughout the game.
At any rate, no sooner does Torque arrive in his cell that all Hell breaks loose. Horrific creatures suddenly begin spewing out of the darkness like an army of distorted, altogether creepy and terribly disgusting ants. Your job, of course, is to simply make it out of there alive. Killing lots of demons in the process. Now, I'm sure you're all thinking, "Yeah, okay, so..." Of course, there is always a but. As Torque proceeds through the dark, ratty prison, he is frequently beset by visions of his dead wife and children who obliquely hint at how they died and what sort of person you are. You will also, as Torque, encounter circumstances that require a moral judgment call. For example: you find a corrections officer cowering underneath a staircase. Your wife's voice pleads that he's defenseless and needs help, while a grating, sinister voice growls that he's so much excess baggage whose only use is being a repository for bullets. Your moral quandary, then, is to decide whether to help this man or to gut him like a fish. Okay, so it's really only a moral quandary if you like dropping kittens into boiling water and eviscerating puppies, but you've got the option nevertheless. Protect the man, and your wife is so impressed by your strength of character that you can almost feel your faith in humanity increasing. Kill him, and you're rewarded with a lovely image of a blood-stained bathtub and an angry wife wondering why she married a sick bastard like you.
You get the idea. Moral "dilemmas" continue, your character develops, and by the end of the game you know whether or not Torque actually killed his wife and kids. So what's the problem? The game is involving...extremely involving...and I found myself coming to care a great deal for Torque and his family. Yeah, I can hear you saying, "Dude...it's just a game." True enough, but I can't see how anyone could argue that the games we play are not a reflection of ourselves. And since this is my blog, I'm allowed to be as damned sentimental as I want. So I came to care for Torque and for the status of his soul, and I genuinely wanted him to be a good person in spite of his remarkable dexterity with bladed weapons and firearms. And never mind the whole turning into a demon thing. Needless to say, I was quite the angel throughout the game, performing every good deed available to me and feeling mildly happier every time Torque's wife reaffirmed her faith in him.
You're probably really wondering now, "So what's the problem...?!" Well, by the time that I finished, being the anal perfectionist that I am, my curiosity was tugging at me more insistently than a grumpy six year-old. I wanted to see the other endings. This, then, meant that I would have to go through the game. And kill people. And find out that Torque isn't such a nice guy after all. Okay, okay, I get it: "It's just a game." Nevertheless, as I ran through the game a second time slaughtering people like so many lambs, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable, even disturbed. True, it's just a game, but it's also a game that tells a definite story, and I am not an individual who enjoys finding out the protagonist of a story is a child-killer. And in a weak sort of way, the forced detachment I felt gunning people down - people who are begging for their lives - seems distantly related to the detachment a real killer must feel. I'm not going to pretend I understand what a killer feels like - I cringe to see injured insects thrashing; however, it simply seems that a killer must possess a certain degree of either detachment or psychosis...or else eventually come to possess the latter anyway. Perhaps it is a statement of my endless optimism that I have to believe most people would feel the same way. Although I can just imagine some thirteen year-old laughing at the guards he just detonated with a stick of dynamite, I still have to believe that only a truly damaged, malfunctioning human being could kill another without that twisting sensation inside his gut. Power, pleasure, the rush of the kill - all of that aside, I still have to believe that something inside screams for them to stop, and that the faces of those they've harmed haunt their dreams at night.
So in the end, what did I get for slowly throttling pieces of my own soul? An ending I didn't really want to see anyway, a rotten sort of taste in my mouth, the vague sensation of needing to go drown myself in the toilet, and six bucks out of my pocket to rent another game (Prince of Persia in this case) to cleanse myself of the mental abattoir I just dragged myself through. Pixelated faces didn't haunt my dreams, but I'm certainly haunted by something today. Maybe it's me.
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