My god! He does it twice in the same month! Shock! Insanity! Horror! Madness! Steamed Vegetables! Potatoes! With cheese! And a nice juicy steak done medium rare, I think. I'd add some kind of wine as well, if I knew anything about wines, but worst comes to worst I can always e-mail Geoffrey and ask for his suggestion. The man can rattle off a wine description off the top of his head that means as much to me as if I were to rattle off the specs to my optimal gaming machine to the nearest mountain goat.
That would suppose that I'd find a mountain goat somewhere in Manhattan. Weirder things have happened, I'm sure.
Anyway, taking a short break from the grindstone (Ow! My nose!), I'm rather pleased to report that Homecoming, Part Two: Lost, is actually coming along rather nicely. I've gotten a few more pages done, and it doesn't sound retarded in my head, which is always a good thing. The funny thing is that I already know the climax of the story - I wonder if that's true of most writers when they begin on something new. Certainly, a common method (as I understand) is to take a seed scene - something really interesting happening, a point of high drama - and then to build the rest of the story around that. Multiple seed scenes, of course, need only to be linked so that the story follows in an interesting, consistent manner.
The climactic scene to Homecoming has been...hrm...directed, for lack of a better word, in my head already. It's the scene that, theoretically, should make everybody reading the story jump out of their seats and scream, "Oh my God! G, you bastard! I hate you!" I confess I take a certain sadistic delight in contemplating my audience's reaction to the story's ending, at least partially because as things currently stand...well...aheheheheh...
Actually, I lie like a dirty mangy dog begging food from an abusive, alcoholic master, who in this case is probably my muse. (Oh god! I'm sorry! I'll write more often and more consistently! Please don't make me write crappy yaoi romance!) I'm quite torn about Homecoming's ending, as I actually have two of them envisioned. One is actually sort of an addendum to the other.
One is much more appropriate to the nature of Homecoming as a horror story, and a semi-Lovecraftian one at that. The other, however, fulfills my own vision of the world, and of relationships, in a much more satisfying way. They both have their merits, and they both have their flaws. I find myself unable to choose between them, because they appeal to two equally strong, and vastly different, aspects of my personality.
Perhaps, in the course of writing part 3, the most appropriate ending will come to me.
Oh, and yeah...I occasionally use my lunch breaks at work to write. Wanna make something of it? Huh? Want a little taste of the Chinese ninja skills? A little bit of thunder and lightning to brighten up your day? Yeah, I didn't think so. Move along, move along.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
On magnifying the situation
So I just went to see Definitely, Maybe, and while it was in most ways fairly standard chick flick fare, it was rather exceptionally well done chick flick fare. Well, the movie was slightly unusual in that it started with the end of a relationship - a divorce, to be precise - and moves from there through varying stages into love and happiness of varying degrees and types. It has, of course, a happy ending, but we all knew that. The presence of Ryan Reynolds may also have had a factor in how much I enjoyed the movie, because I think he, with his combination of flippant humor and charm, was perfect for the movie. Chris Evans has sort of a similar appeal, but probably would have seemed entirely too young for the role.
Okay, okay - and Ryan Reynolds is unreasonably attractive. As is Chris Evans.
At any rate, what's more striking is that as Luis (yes, we're still friends) and I walked out of the movie theatre, my reaction was a combination of, "What a lovely movie," and a sort of resigned, "Now if only reality actually worked that way." Since I'm almost constantly looking at and evaluating my own reactions to things, my second response was, "Huh...when did I become a cynic?"
I say this because the events of the movie happen over the course of...actually, over the course of over a decade. That's a very long time for relationships to evolve, for that happy ending to come, and so it's probably even a fairly realistic look at the deal. We fall in love with people, but circumstances aren't right. People fall in love with us, but for whatever reason we feel we can't reciprocate that love. We fall out of love with people whom we've loved for years. We fall back in love with people who now are attached to others. The movie - almost all movies, really - supposes that somewhere along the line, we find somebody that will make us happy, and vice versa. For the rest of our lives.
And...I know I used to believe that back in high school. I certainly believed it in college as well. But somewhere between college and now, possibly when I came to New York, all these doubts started sinking in. Kind of like particles of dust and ash that slowly stain a white (or mostly white) sheet, and suddenly one day you look up and realize the sheet has turned more of a...peppery gray, than the color it used to be. Somehow, my initial reaction isn't to say, "Oh yes, true love, the kind of love that lasts, is possible for everyone" anymore. And, what bugs me is that this happened without my conscious realization. I just sort of looked up from my life today and realized that somewhere along the lines my response to happy endings went from "how cute" to "how unrealistic."
I'm certainly not bitter (at least...not as far as I'm aware). I'm still certainly hopeful, and thus optimistic. I don't really think I've gotten cynical, and yet...there it is. Or maybe it's just this introduction of a middle level, because I'm inclined to believe that even the most jaded cynic still believes in love and happiness, kind of like jewelry that becomes tarnished and encrusted with grime over the course of varying ages. Or, hell, maybe it's just all the things that have surfaced in my life lately, all sort of happening at once.
Or perhaps I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Or an antmound, for that matter. I've been told that I do that.
Because I suddenly feel considerably better. Once again, the power of writing, folks.
Okay, okay - and Ryan Reynolds is unreasonably attractive. As is Chris Evans.
At any rate, what's more striking is that as Luis (yes, we're still friends) and I walked out of the movie theatre, my reaction was a combination of, "What a lovely movie," and a sort of resigned, "Now if only reality actually worked that way." Since I'm almost constantly looking at and evaluating my own reactions to things, my second response was, "Huh...when did I become a cynic?"
I say this because the events of the movie happen over the course of...actually, over the course of over a decade. That's a very long time for relationships to evolve, for that happy ending to come, and so it's probably even a fairly realistic look at the deal. We fall in love with people, but circumstances aren't right. People fall in love with us, but for whatever reason we feel we can't reciprocate that love. We fall out of love with people whom we've loved for years. We fall back in love with people who now are attached to others. The movie - almost all movies, really - supposes that somewhere along the line, we find somebody that will make us happy, and vice versa. For the rest of our lives.
And...I know I used to believe that back in high school. I certainly believed it in college as well. But somewhere between college and now, possibly when I came to New York, all these doubts started sinking in. Kind of like particles of dust and ash that slowly stain a white (or mostly white) sheet, and suddenly one day you look up and realize the sheet has turned more of a...peppery gray, than the color it used to be. Somehow, my initial reaction isn't to say, "Oh yes, true love, the kind of love that lasts, is possible for everyone" anymore. And, what bugs me is that this happened without my conscious realization. I just sort of looked up from my life today and realized that somewhere along the lines my response to happy endings went from "how cute" to "how unrealistic."
I'm certainly not bitter (at least...not as far as I'm aware). I'm still certainly hopeful, and thus optimistic. I don't really think I've gotten cynical, and yet...there it is. Or maybe it's just this introduction of a middle level, because I'm inclined to believe that even the most jaded cynic still believes in love and happiness, kind of like jewelry that becomes tarnished and encrusted with grime over the course of varying ages. Or, hell, maybe it's just all the things that have surfaced in my life lately, all sort of happening at once.
Or perhaps I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Or an antmound, for that matter. I've been told that I do that.
Because I suddenly feel considerably better. Once again, the power of writing, folks.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
On endings and new beginnings
I got to thinking this morning about the cris-crossing threads of our lives, the people that we meet and form connections to, the things we do that may extend with far-reaching consequences we're never even aware of, the subtle influences we exert simply by existing, by dreaming, by reaching for some misty, elusive goal of happiness that we may not even recognize when we achieve it. Happiness is a rather abstract concept, after all, and both very relative and very subjective, lacking definition if taken out of context.
This reminds me of a talk I had with Myia, actually, wherein she said that life can't be just one big high, or it loses context. It has be a rollercoaster ride, with some deep troughs and long, flat stretches of middling interest, if the highs are to have any sort of meaning. The points of light are only interesting if they stand out from the patches of shadow.
Of course, inherent in that is the thought that we can't really sustain happiness. It comes and it goes, flickering flashes of light to illuminate a journey otherwise shrouded in twilight. And we walk from point to point, constantly aiming for these little motes, these little fireflies in the night, following them toward a destination that is still largely abstract.
Regardless of the incredible stresses that came with it, I was happy working on the Wild Party. I didn't really think about it that much at the time, because the commute and the hours were utterly horrendous, making the thing sort of a mixed pleasure, but I found a certain measure of peace working with the cast and seeing the show each night. It culminated and flared with a spectacular, wild (hardy har har), and utterly insane cast party afterward, wherein I consumed ENTIRELY too much alcohol for my own good. And now it's over, the lights are dimmed, and the fires have burned down into a pile of cold ashes. I'm saddened by it, but knowing that it had to come to an end eventually, I also have faces, moments, scents, and laughter stored away now. Motes to keep me warm.
I hope I'll get to see them all again, in the meandering, wandering threads of our lives. In the meantime, Musicals Tonight starts up again next week. I thought I'd be happy for a week off...but right now I'm just wishing that next Monday would hurry up and arrive already.
This reminds me of a talk I had with Myia, actually, wherein she said that life can't be just one big high, or it loses context. It has be a rollercoaster ride, with some deep troughs and long, flat stretches of middling interest, if the highs are to have any sort of meaning. The points of light are only interesting if they stand out from the patches of shadow.
Of course, inherent in that is the thought that we can't really sustain happiness. It comes and it goes, flickering flashes of light to illuminate a journey otherwise shrouded in twilight. And we walk from point to point, constantly aiming for these little motes, these little fireflies in the night, following them toward a destination that is still largely abstract.
Regardless of the incredible stresses that came with it, I was happy working on the Wild Party. I didn't really think about it that much at the time, because the commute and the hours were utterly horrendous, making the thing sort of a mixed pleasure, but I found a certain measure of peace working with the cast and seeing the show each night. It culminated and flared with a spectacular, wild (hardy har har), and utterly insane cast party afterward, wherein I consumed ENTIRELY too much alcohol for my own good. And now it's over, the lights are dimmed, and the fires have burned down into a pile of cold ashes. I'm saddened by it, but knowing that it had to come to an end eventually, I also have faces, moments, scents, and laughter stored away now. Motes to keep me warm.
I hope I'll get to see them all again, in the meandering, wandering threads of our lives. In the meantime, Musicals Tonight starts up again next week. I thought I'd be happy for a week off...but right now I'm just wishing that next Monday would hurry up and arrive already.
Monday, February 25, 2008
On finishing last
I know this is true. I know we do. I know that the world generally tears us apart, chews up the pieces, and spits out the bones. I know it's thankless. I know it's mostly unappreciated. I know that, in all likelihood, I'll be bitter and regretful when I'm fifty.
I also know it's necessary. I know I can't see a friend walk home when I could pay for the cab ride. I know I can't ignore it, when a friend is in pain, and I can do anything at all to help.
I have to believe the world needs us. That we make a difference, however small. That we make an impact, somehow. I have to believe that we have meaning, that all things we do have meaning, with or without a God to watch over us, and that to do the right thing is important not because it ensures a place in some paradisial afterlife, but because the world is made a better place because of it.
I was reading "A People's History of America" today - borrowed slightly from Jeremy - and I need to believe that in spite of our...self-centeredness, our greed, our pride, our egocentrism, somewhere deep inside we all of us know what's right, and we all of us are ultimately important in a deep and personal way.
I also know it's necessary. I know I can't see a friend walk home when I could pay for the cab ride. I know I can't ignore it, when a friend is in pain, and I can do anything at all to help.
I have to believe the world needs us. That we make a difference, however small. That we make an impact, somehow. I have to believe that we have meaning, that all things we do have meaning, with or without a God to watch over us, and that to do the right thing is important not because it ensures a place in some paradisial afterlife, but because the world is made a better place because of it.
I was reading "A People's History of America" today - borrowed slightly from Jeremy - and I need to believe that in spite of our...self-centeredness, our greed, our pride, our egocentrism, somewhere deep inside we all of us know what's right, and we all of us are ultimately important in a deep and personal way.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
On dodging responsibility
[singsong]
Iiiii'm blogging at wooooork...
[/singsong]
My officemates leave tomorrow to manage the cruise to the Amazon, and I'm staying here to (finally) do proper maintenance on the two computers that we have. If that sounds like I got gypped...I really didn't. As interesting as it might be to visit the Amazon, I think I'd be much happier doing it by myself or with a select group of friends than with the hundred-odd extraordinarily wealthy and equally extraordinarily crotchety people our group director will have to handle. She's decided she's going to be drunk for the next two weeks, and having dealt with many of these people over the phone the last month...I frankly don't blame her. Rich people really suck sometimes.
Anyway, as one might imagine, it's been insanity today, with people calling left and right asking for confirmations and tickets and final updates and chickens and black lambs and the lost headdress of Ramses II. Despite being busy with a number of things, I've still managed to feel a profound sensation of discontent the majority of the day. I could, of course, ascribe this to the fact that there just wasn't enough work for my ginormous brain to handle, but more likely it's the result of a) not knowing where "Homecoming, Part 2" is going, b) the sheer number of phone calls I was getting, thereby interrupting me roughly every 10 minutes, c) having to suddenly take on extra work I knew almost nothing about because Jessica (my group director) was already overloaded with handling last-minute details (including the fact that the INS sucks monstrous donkey anus, and therefore her husband can't go with her on the cruise), and...
Of course, d) my recent talk with Luis. That's a kicker right there.
I actually don't think anything has necessarily changed. There is only, perhaps, a mindset shift on my part. I realized that, despite my intention of just taking the relationship one day at a time, I still managed to have certain expectations. I guess I'd hardly be human if I didn't, entering into a relationship for the very first time. And Luis didn't mirror them. A little disappointing, perhaps, but I'm certainly not going to fault him for it (I know you read this blog occasionally, Luis. Despite all my incessant wrangling and slightly masturbatory contemplations, I really am fine with where we are. Really. Honestly. Promise. Stop staring at me like that. *Poke*).
What is contributing to the general malaise, however, is a sensation of overall purposelessness that not even writing has been able to altogether dispel. I'm partially inclined to think that maybe, just maybe, it's a result of seeing so many of my friends achieve a measure of success that I just haven't been able to manage. It's a bit of a blow to the ego, despite my acceptance of the vicissitudes involved in a theatre career (Yay! I got to use the word "vicissitude"!) And...maybe a good part of it is also that I keep having this inclination to look ahead, I mean years ahead, and wonder whether I'll be in effectively the same place that I am now. That would be a decidedly unattractive view.
You can't do that, I think, in a theatre career. You can't honestly plan more than a few months ahead (unless you're a bigshot with some true leverage, at which point I wouldn't even be thinking about this crap.) My attempts to take each day as it comes are generally foiled by this itching need to tiptoe over to the wall and look over, even when I know there's a good possibility that somebody's waiting on the other side with a big-ass can of Mace and a penchant for dissuading guys like me from trying to look too far ahead.
Oh well. I'm having lunch with Darien tomorrow, and we haven't really even talked in such a long time, and I'm going to have cheesecake, dammit, and we'll talk and laugh and fend off a zombie apocalypse with nothing but a rolling pin and a pair of heavy-duty steel spatulas. Woot!
I actually feel better already. Writing really does make everything better!
Iiiii'm blogging at wooooork...
[/singsong]
My officemates leave tomorrow to manage the cruise to the Amazon, and I'm staying here to (finally) do proper maintenance on the two computers that we have. If that sounds like I got gypped...I really didn't. As interesting as it might be to visit the Amazon, I think I'd be much happier doing it by myself or with a select group of friends than with the hundred-odd extraordinarily wealthy and equally extraordinarily crotchety people our group director will have to handle. She's decided she's going to be drunk for the next two weeks, and having dealt with many of these people over the phone the last month...I frankly don't blame her. Rich people really suck sometimes.
Anyway, as one might imagine, it's been insanity today, with people calling left and right asking for confirmations and tickets and final updates and chickens and black lambs and the lost headdress of Ramses II. Despite being busy with a number of things, I've still managed to feel a profound sensation of discontent the majority of the day. I could, of course, ascribe this to the fact that there just wasn't enough work for my ginormous brain to handle, but more likely it's the result of a) not knowing where "Homecoming, Part 2" is going, b) the sheer number of phone calls I was getting, thereby interrupting me roughly every 10 minutes, c) having to suddenly take on extra work I knew almost nothing about because Jessica (my group director) was already overloaded with handling last-minute details (including the fact that the INS sucks monstrous donkey anus, and therefore her husband can't go with her on the cruise), and...
Of course, d) my recent talk with Luis. That's a kicker right there.
I actually don't think anything has necessarily changed. There is only, perhaps, a mindset shift on my part. I realized that, despite my intention of just taking the relationship one day at a time, I still managed to have certain expectations. I guess I'd hardly be human if I didn't, entering into a relationship for the very first time. And Luis didn't mirror them. A little disappointing, perhaps, but I'm certainly not going to fault him for it (I know you read this blog occasionally, Luis. Despite all my incessant wrangling and slightly masturbatory contemplations, I really am fine with where we are. Really. Honestly. Promise. Stop staring at me like that. *Poke*).
What is contributing to the general malaise, however, is a sensation of overall purposelessness that not even writing has been able to altogether dispel. I'm partially inclined to think that maybe, just maybe, it's a result of seeing so many of my friends achieve a measure of success that I just haven't been able to manage. It's a bit of a blow to the ego, despite my acceptance of the vicissitudes involved in a theatre career (Yay! I got to use the word "vicissitude"!) And...maybe a good part of it is also that I keep having this inclination to look ahead, I mean years ahead, and wonder whether I'll be in effectively the same place that I am now. That would be a decidedly unattractive view.
You can't do that, I think, in a theatre career. You can't honestly plan more than a few months ahead (unless you're a bigshot with some true leverage, at which point I wouldn't even be thinking about this crap.) My attempts to take each day as it comes are generally foiled by this itching need to tiptoe over to the wall and look over, even when I know there's a good possibility that somebody's waiting on the other side with a big-ass can of Mace and a penchant for dissuading guys like me from trying to look too far ahead.
Oh well. I'm having lunch with Darien tomorrow, and we haven't really even talked in such a long time, and I'm going to have cheesecake, dammit, and we'll talk and laugh and fend off a zombie apocalypse with nothing but a rolling pin and a pair of heavy-duty steel spatulas. Woot!
I actually feel better already. Writing really does make everything better!
Monday, February 18, 2008
On change
So, Luis and I have decided to be just friends, for now. And...although I'm a bit saddened, I am rather surprised to find that I'm hardly devastated or heartbroken over it. I'm disinclined to overanalyze my own reaction too much in this, excepting possibly that if I can take it so calmly, maybe it wasn't mean to be after all. My voice of insecurity is, of course, trying to come up with all sorts of reasons why it might have happened this way, but I'm happily and quite stolidly ignoring it. In the end, I'm okay with where we are.
That said, however, I'm wobbling between vaguely desirous and utterly disdainful of rejoining the dating pool. I don't particularly feel like trying to start up another relationship anytime soon...or even dating anyone casually, for that matter. Maybe I'll feel differently in a few months. Or if the right guy happens to suddenly show up, I suppose.
In other news...there actually isn't much in the way of other news. Still working on bloody Homecoming, Part 2, and the story is sounding sillier and sillier in my head the more I review it.
That said, however, I'm wobbling between vaguely desirous and utterly disdainful of rejoining the dating pool. I don't particularly feel like trying to start up another relationship anytime soon...or even dating anyone casually, for that matter. Maybe I'll feel differently in a few months. Or if the right guy happens to suddenly show up, I suppose.
In other news...there actually isn't much in the way of other news. Still working on bloody Homecoming, Part 2, and the story is sounding sillier and sillier in my head the more I review it.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
On reconciliations
I was thinking, sitting on the john today, that part of being happy in life is reconciling the degree to which you are lucky, and the degree to which you have put in effort. We are all of us fortunate, in some degrees, and with the fortune of what we are given, what we may accomplish in a lifetime is then measured by the amount of effort that we exert. The question then, I suppose, becomes how much may be accomplished through sheer effort, given however much luck, seredipity, or fate intercedes in our lives. It seems a fairly simple equation, but the dynamics end up being incredibly complicated when measured over the course of even a few years, much less a lifetime.
For example, my being here in New York, I ascribe to my decision to try out for a role in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," some six years ago, in which I got the role of Theseus. However, I would never have even contemplated trying out for a role if a) I weren't a part of the Writing Minor's mailing list and b) we hadn't just seen "Much Ado About Nothing" a week earlier as a class field trip in my critical reading class. Of course, then it may be said that I certainly wouldn't have chosen to be a part of the mailing list if I hadn't developed a love and appreciation for writing back in the fifth grade. This, in turn, was actually the result of playing entirely too much Nintendo, and reading a stupid number of those "Worlds of Power" novelizations back in grade school. The actual catalyst for the writing, however, was a snowy Thanksgiving day, wherein I got the idea in my head to write my own "World of Power" book, based upon a video game (or several video games, rather), with a much maligned hero rather similar to me, adventuring in video games not covered by the Worlds of Power series. But then, I wouldn't have been playing Nintendo in the first place if my father hadn't been one of two people to place extremely highly in a regional English competition back in China, and who were elected to come to the US to study as a result. The progression continues, in an endless chain, back to that mysterious moment when a superdense molecule of matter decided it would become a universe.
Sounds rather like fate, doesn't it?
Then again, we hardly know, do we? We have never experienced the alternatives, so of course in a certain sense the progression of events seems to be locked into a rail. As Neil Gaiman puts it, and so eloquently, the Garden of Destiny forks many times, with each path opening up countless others, but at the end of your life you will turn back and see but a single path extending behind you.
Existing in a closed system, as we do, we can hardly extricate ourselves to observe the situation from a truly objective standpoint. It's Shroedinger's Cat on a cosmic sort of scale, and the only one who can really observe the state of matters without entrenching himself into the mess is...well, God, of course.
Is there a point to all this? Not particularly. I was just thinking, as I often do, and following this flickering trail of considerations into whatever wacky places they might choose to take me.
On a somewhat more grounded note, "The Wild Party" is going rather well, and it's hard to believe we're nearing the end of our second week. Saturday matinee shows start tomorrow, and Luis is coming to see it in the afternoon. I wonder if we can catch a movie tomorrow night after the show...*ponder ponder*
For example, my being here in New York, I ascribe to my decision to try out for a role in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," some six years ago, in which I got the role of Theseus. However, I would never have even contemplated trying out for a role if a) I weren't a part of the Writing Minor's mailing list and b) we hadn't just seen "Much Ado About Nothing" a week earlier as a class field trip in my critical reading class. Of course, then it may be said that I certainly wouldn't have chosen to be a part of the mailing list if I hadn't developed a love and appreciation for writing back in the fifth grade. This, in turn, was actually the result of playing entirely too much Nintendo, and reading a stupid number of those "Worlds of Power" novelizations back in grade school. The actual catalyst for the writing, however, was a snowy Thanksgiving day, wherein I got the idea in my head to write my own "World of Power" book, based upon a video game (or several video games, rather), with a much maligned hero rather similar to me, adventuring in video games not covered by the Worlds of Power series. But then, I wouldn't have been playing Nintendo in the first place if my father hadn't been one of two people to place extremely highly in a regional English competition back in China, and who were elected to come to the US to study as a result. The progression continues, in an endless chain, back to that mysterious moment when a superdense molecule of matter decided it would become a universe.
Sounds rather like fate, doesn't it?
Then again, we hardly know, do we? We have never experienced the alternatives, so of course in a certain sense the progression of events seems to be locked into a rail. As Neil Gaiman puts it, and so eloquently, the Garden of Destiny forks many times, with each path opening up countless others, but at the end of your life you will turn back and see but a single path extending behind you.
Existing in a closed system, as we do, we can hardly extricate ourselves to observe the situation from a truly objective standpoint. It's Shroedinger's Cat on a cosmic sort of scale, and the only one who can really observe the state of matters without entrenching himself into the mess is...well, God, of course.
Is there a point to all this? Not particularly. I was just thinking, as I often do, and following this flickering trail of considerations into whatever wacky places they might choose to take me.
On a somewhat more grounded note, "The Wild Party" is going rather well, and it's hard to believe we're nearing the end of our second week. Saturday matinee shows start tomorrow, and Luis is coming to see it in the afternoon. I wonder if we can catch a movie tomorrow night after the show...*ponder ponder*
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
On another edition of late-night rambling
So, here we are again. Blogging late at night is awfully peculiar sometimes, because for reasons stated in an earlier blog, I feel like I'm a completely different individual very late in the evening. Which, I suppose, I am - tucked away in the quiet darkness after a day's rush, with only the pale monitor light and the flickering orange sodium glare to keep me company...I can put away the spiked armor for a while.
It was snowing earlier today, and as a result the lamplights outside have that peculiar fuzziness to it, a kind of luminous ambiance that only happens when the light bounces off the newly fallen snow. I can look out the window and see that much of it has already been plowed away - the streets are just glistening black asphalt and the sidewalk this pitted mass of slushy gray - but it feels, nevertheless...serene. First snowfall of the year. How lovely.
I'm actually blogging now because I can't sleep, and I don't particularly feel like doing any of the other non-constructive things I do when I can't sleep. I'm fairly sure I'm to blame for this one. I got home incredibly late after going to Jonathan's party, so woke rather later this past morning than I'd have liked. I ended up napping on the subway, but chose to bed incredibly early tonight. I'm inclined to think there were also dreams involved somewhere in there, and that they were a fairly standard chaotic mess with just enough subconscious meaning to make me wake and wonder, "What the hell was that?" I wish I could remember - they may even have been important.
After my Eberron session this past Sunday, I related an anecdote to my group about the way I tend to react to things. Or, rather, how my mother told me I reacted to things when I was a child. When my cousin and I were both very young, we were virtually inseparable, although we had vastly different personalities. If she, or any of my aunts, crossed my cousin, my cousin would cry and scream and stomp her feet and do everything in her power to make sure everyone knew the extent of her displeasure, for however long she remained displeased. I, on the other hand, would seem to shrug off the offense as something of no particular moment. I would then flush my mom's earrings down the toilet when she wasn't home.
Mom always said she wasn't sure which reaction she preferred, but mine was definitely the more disconcerting of the two.
My friends laughed when they heard the story, but Kay mentioned a rather peculiar angle that I hadn't even considered before.
"You know what's weird," she said, "is that your cousin reacts in a stereotypical guy way, and your reaction is exactly what we'd think of as a stereotypical girl reaction."
I just nodded, and made a mental note to kill off her character next session.
No, not really, but it DID strike me as a rather interesting observation. I'm not really prone to machinations or subtle plotting, nor to thoughts of dire vengeance, but as I mentioned to my group, I have noticed that sometimes I do things subconsciously that, after the cogs fall into place, shock me with how utterly calculated and manipulative they seem. But I think that's hardly unique to me, and in fact is a sort of universal truth. We orchestrate things and people in our lives, trying to structure them in a way that makes sense to us, knowing exactly what we're doing all the while, but rarely allowing ourselves to consciously accept our subtle manipulations. It reminds me of this statement I read in the Sandman, where Death proclaimed that we really know everything, but pretending we don't is the only thing that makes life bearable.
I segue here into a tangent, owing its roots to a pair of stories Luis sent me earlier tonight. Two pieces of queer fiction, the links to which I have unfortunately forgotten. Both were very well-written, but the first dealt with an extremely worldly guy being dealt, as it were, his first bout of real romance instead of the series of anonymous flirtations he was used to. The second concerned a rather violent response to infidelity. I liked the first a great deal, but the second struck me as rather...unrealistic, I guess, with an ending I can only describe as peculiar. The stories, nevertheless, got me thinking, which is always a hallmark of good writing. Or maybe not - even terrible writing gets me thinking, most days.
I never went through a slutty phase. Or maybe it was just a really, really diluted slutty phase phase compared to every other one I hear about, in that it consisted of maybe three guys over the course of about a year. I don't really regret this - I came out of it, after all, without any lingering presents from those sporadic one-night stands, and in the end I consider them fairly educational. I occasionally wonder what it might've been like - what I might've been like, actually - if the practical portion of my sex education were more inspiring, but that's mostly water long gone out to sea. It does, however, highlight another pecularity of mine (or maybe not so peculiar, but I'm going to avoid that until juuuuust a little later).
I've noted that when I have a crush on someone, I very, very rarely wonder what it might be like to get him in bed. That's just not where my mind goes, initially. Instead, I wonder what it might be like to hold him, to be held by him, and knowing that it's exactly where he wants to be right now. I wonder what it might be like to lie in his arms as we watch a movie on the couch or in bed, or to run along the river in the summer while it's pouring rain. To hear him whisper my name while we stand on his (or my) doorstep after a particularly inspiring night out. In short, I wonder what it might be like to have a relationship with that man.
I wonder whether a slutty phase would've broken this trend, or whether it's a much more deeply enmeshed part of my personality. Myia and Darien have both told me that's rather sweet, because it suggests that what I really want is affection, not just another guy I can hop into bed with, and most days I think it's a good thing that I don't...jump...for a physical encounter. Or, at least, the physical encounter being merely an extension of the emotional involvement. At the same time, however, I think it's possibly one of the more dangerous parts of being me - that I don't really do casual flirtations. That I simply don't become physically involved with someone without becoming emotionally entrenched as well.
Hrm. Well...that was kind of unpleasant. It's hardly a new revelation, but still not an aspect of me I particularly enjoy scrutinizing. I wonder why I do it so often?
Oh fuck me. I know why I've been hovering around this topic. How searingly obvious. Valentine's Day is coming up VERY shortly...and this will be my first of any significance whatsoever.
Bah. I'm going back to bed.
It was snowing earlier today, and as a result the lamplights outside have that peculiar fuzziness to it, a kind of luminous ambiance that only happens when the light bounces off the newly fallen snow. I can look out the window and see that much of it has already been plowed away - the streets are just glistening black asphalt and the sidewalk this pitted mass of slushy gray - but it feels, nevertheless...serene. First snowfall of the year. How lovely.
I'm actually blogging now because I can't sleep, and I don't particularly feel like doing any of the other non-constructive things I do when I can't sleep. I'm fairly sure I'm to blame for this one. I got home incredibly late after going to Jonathan's party, so woke rather later this past morning than I'd have liked. I ended up napping on the subway, but chose to bed incredibly early tonight. I'm inclined to think there were also dreams involved somewhere in there, and that they were a fairly standard chaotic mess with just enough subconscious meaning to make me wake and wonder, "What the hell was that?" I wish I could remember - they may even have been important.
After my Eberron session this past Sunday, I related an anecdote to my group about the way I tend to react to things. Or, rather, how my mother told me I reacted to things when I was a child. When my cousin and I were both very young, we were virtually inseparable, although we had vastly different personalities. If she, or any of my aunts, crossed my cousin, my cousin would cry and scream and stomp her feet and do everything in her power to make sure everyone knew the extent of her displeasure, for however long she remained displeased. I, on the other hand, would seem to shrug off the offense as something of no particular moment. I would then flush my mom's earrings down the toilet when she wasn't home.
Mom always said she wasn't sure which reaction she preferred, but mine was definitely the more disconcerting of the two.
My friends laughed when they heard the story, but Kay mentioned a rather peculiar angle that I hadn't even considered before.
"You know what's weird," she said, "is that your cousin reacts in a stereotypical guy way, and your reaction is exactly what we'd think of as a stereotypical girl reaction."
I just nodded, and made a mental note to kill off her character next session.
No, not really, but it DID strike me as a rather interesting observation. I'm not really prone to machinations or subtle plotting, nor to thoughts of dire vengeance, but as I mentioned to my group, I have noticed that sometimes I do things subconsciously that, after the cogs fall into place, shock me with how utterly calculated and manipulative they seem. But I think that's hardly unique to me, and in fact is a sort of universal truth. We orchestrate things and people in our lives, trying to structure them in a way that makes sense to us, knowing exactly what we're doing all the while, but rarely allowing ourselves to consciously accept our subtle manipulations. It reminds me of this statement I read in the Sandman, where Death proclaimed that we really know everything, but pretending we don't is the only thing that makes life bearable.
I segue here into a tangent, owing its roots to a pair of stories Luis sent me earlier tonight. Two pieces of queer fiction, the links to which I have unfortunately forgotten. Both were very well-written, but the first dealt with an extremely worldly guy being dealt, as it were, his first bout of real romance instead of the series of anonymous flirtations he was used to. The second concerned a rather violent response to infidelity. I liked the first a great deal, but the second struck me as rather...unrealistic, I guess, with an ending I can only describe as peculiar. The stories, nevertheless, got me thinking, which is always a hallmark of good writing. Or maybe not - even terrible writing gets me thinking, most days.
I never went through a slutty phase. Or maybe it was just a really, really diluted slutty phase phase compared to every other one I hear about, in that it consisted of maybe three guys over the course of about a year. I don't really regret this - I came out of it, after all, without any lingering presents from those sporadic one-night stands, and in the end I consider them fairly educational. I occasionally wonder what it might've been like - what I might've been like, actually - if the practical portion of my sex education were more inspiring, but that's mostly water long gone out to sea. It does, however, highlight another pecularity of mine (or maybe not so peculiar, but I'm going to avoid that until juuuuust a little later).
I've noted that when I have a crush on someone, I very, very rarely wonder what it might be like to get him in bed. That's just not where my mind goes, initially. Instead, I wonder what it might be like to hold him, to be held by him, and knowing that it's exactly where he wants to be right now. I wonder what it might be like to lie in his arms as we watch a movie on the couch or in bed, or to run along the river in the summer while it's pouring rain. To hear him whisper my name while we stand on his (or my) doorstep after a particularly inspiring night out. In short, I wonder what it might be like to have a relationship with that man.
I wonder whether a slutty phase would've broken this trend, or whether it's a much more deeply enmeshed part of my personality. Myia and Darien have both told me that's rather sweet, because it suggests that what I really want is affection, not just another guy I can hop into bed with, and most days I think it's a good thing that I don't...jump...for a physical encounter. Or, at least, the physical encounter being merely an extension of the emotional involvement. At the same time, however, I think it's possibly one of the more dangerous parts of being me - that I don't really do casual flirtations. That I simply don't become physically involved with someone without becoming emotionally entrenched as well.
Hrm. Well...that was kind of unpleasant. It's hardly a new revelation, but still not an aspect of me I particularly enjoy scrutinizing. I wonder why I do it so often?
Oh fuck me. I know why I've been hovering around this topic. How searingly obvious. Valentine's Day is coming up VERY shortly...and this will be my first of any significance whatsoever.
Bah. I'm going back to bed.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
On short posts
Went to Jonathan's for a "not really the cast party, but...yeah, kinda" party and discovered that I kind of suck a big one at Guitar Hero. Well, okay - maybe not a big one. Maybe just a reasonably average one that you wouldn't write home or talk about to your friends in moments of drunken frenzy unless the the rest of the package was highly impressive. Damn medium mode and its blue button of inconvenient placement.
Also discovered that it's possible to be a stage manager (or ASM) and actually hang out with the cast and not be totally weird. Who knew, right? Isn't there some kind of law against this sort of thing? Objectivity and all that? Ha, like I exert any authority.
Also discovered that Jonathan, Zak, and Jeremy form this bizarre trifecta of Guitar Hero balance (but only on medium mode.) I am substantially more impressed now by that 100% Freebird on expert mode video I saw on Youtube...although I'm not sure that I have more respect for that/those individuals. Playing enough Guitar Hero to nab 100% on something that insane-looking seems to just require too much time and effort for a diversion.
Also discovered that I'm a bloody idiot for blogging at 5 in the morning. (Well, more like re-discovered. I have plenty of 5 am blogs.)
Also discovered that it's possible to be a stage manager (or ASM) and actually hang out with the cast and not be totally weird. Who knew, right? Isn't there some kind of law against this sort of thing? Objectivity and all that? Ha, like I exert any authority.
Also discovered that Jonathan, Zak, and Jeremy form this bizarre trifecta of Guitar Hero balance (but only on medium mode.) I am substantially more impressed now by that 100% Freebird on expert mode video I saw on Youtube...although I'm not sure that I have more respect for that/those individuals. Playing enough Guitar Hero to nab 100% on something that insane-looking seems to just require too much time and effort for a diversion.
Also discovered that I'm a bloody idiot for blogging at 5 in the morning. (Well, more like re-discovered. I have plenty of 5 am blogs.)
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
On defenses
Will this actually be a normal blog, instead of the weird, twisting, semi-philosophical hedge maze that I usually manage to work myself into? Probably not, since it certainly hasn't bloody started that way.
Luis was working tonight at XES, which is the only place he works at that I can actually reasonably meet him, so I decided to go after I got off work. We've seen each other for all of four hours the past month, and even though we talk just about every evening, I was, and still am, really feeling his physical absence. (Come to think of it...I can't really recall an evening recently where we didn't talk in one way or another...even if it was just me complaining endlessly about how stupidly difficult Zodiark is. Which he is, by the way. I'd go so far as to say retardedly difficult. There is simply no reason something should be able to whack you repeatedly without a cooldown, and then launch Darkja when you've just barely managed to recover from the last time it happened. Even with Demon Shields / Black Masks equipped, the silly thing managed to wipe my entire party in a single hit. MY ENTIRE PARTY! With dark-absorbing equipment equipped! SILLINESS! At least Final Eclipse is worth it - for the cutscene alone, in fact, which is a good thing as Zodiark got stomped when I whipped him out against The Undying. F'ing Terraflare.)
Anyway, XES was at that pleasant medium between uncomfortably packed and utterly empty and me, being the somewhat anti-social individual that I am, just sort of settled down to have a quiet drink and get snatches of Luis where I could. That somehow managed to radiate the message, "Come talk to me, oh loud-and-obnoxious-individual-drunk-off-your-ass-at-7pm! I'm entirely too polite to tell you off!" Which, of course, one did, and I, of course, was too polite to tell him off. He did, however, also hand me one of those black plastic bases disguising a fairly powerful magnet, and a large collection of flat metal slivers shaped like stylized people. I proceeded to focus my attention on building something relatively aesthetically pleasing, in a symmetrical sort of way, and seeing how high I could stack the slivers on edge.
Said drunk individual then proceeded to explain to me the concept of magnetism, why my endeavors were largely futile, and why I ought to just throw them into a pile and play with them as an infant might squiggle in a pile of mud. I was mildly inclined to snap something along the lines of, "I broke the curve in my E&M class, you atrocious boor! I know how fucking magnetism works, and I don't need your parochial sense of aesthetics telling me what to do!" It's possibly fortunate that my patience wasn't quite that frayed.
At any rate, he eventually turned his attention to someone else, and I eventually made my way to the counter so as to better intercept Luis during his rounds between the bar and the downstairs storage. After a brief, somewhat banal conversation with the cocktail waiter, whose name is Derek, I met Luis's friend Francis.
That turned out to be quite a highlight. Francis is an extremely interesting individual, in the course of our conversation and we touched on topics ranging from events in China and Africa to personal traumas and philosophy. We meandered a great deal, as slightly tipsy conversations often do, and at one point my defenses slipped in a really drastic way. He told me a story - two stories, actually, horrific and touching, and I actually teared up hearing them. The alcohol probably had something to do with it, but that was still kind of a shock. Anyway, Francis said a few more things, words of advice on relationships, and on being yourself, and on letting people in. On the whole, it was an extremely engaging conversation - one of the best I've had recently - and I was utterly stunned when Luis told me it was half past eleven.
Half past bloody farking eleven! I'd been in XES for four hours and it felt like a quarter that amount!
It left me ruminating about various and sundry things, but the most pertinent was a piece of parting advice from Francis, regarding letting my defenses down. That it was something I needed to do, and should do, more often. That it's healthy, and that it's not a matter of weakness.
Which was something about me I'd been contemplating for a while - really since my second year at the Academy, but much more so since I came back from B'burg last summer, and decided that I would give dating a real, serious try. I've been scathed a fair amount in my life, and the worst of the damage was dealt by the two people who were supposed to protect me from getting hurt, at least until I'd gotten old enough to deal with the world in a manner less...self-destructive than my chosen method for the last 13 years or so. I've generally come to terms and to peace with that, and with them, but the defenses have already been erected and they don't come down easily at all.
Myia actually pointed it out, some time ago, all the things I do without even realizing to protect myself. Keeping my cards close. Keeping people at a distance. Keeping my opinions on anything that really matters to myself. Adopting a neutral stance, in all matters of substance. To the point where...I do it instinctively, where I don't even realize that I'm talking without doling out a single piece of personal information. I think everybody does that, to some extent, but her observation seemed...peculiarly sobering, for some reason. Then again, she has a way of doing that.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, and writing it now. Just things I was thinking about, on the subway, on the way home. A bit of introspection, a bit of self-criticism, a bit of consideration. Ways that I could be...a better person, maybe, than I am now. I don't know.
Ha. I suddenly realize I kind of did exactly what I was talking about earlier. Waffling around all over the place being somewhat witty before getting to the point. And the really fun part is...I actually haven't even gotten to the real point...
Luis was working tonight at XES, which is the only place he works at that I can actually reasonably meet him, so I decided to go after I got off work. We've seen each other for all of four hours the past month, and even though we talk just about every evening, I was, and still am, really feeling his physical absence. (Come to think of it...I can't really recall an evening recently where we didn't talk in one way or another...even if it was just me complaining endlessly about how stupidly difficult Zodiark is. Which he is, by the way. I'd go so far as to say retardedly difficult. There is simply no reason something should be able to whack you repeatedly without a cooldown, and then launch Darkja when you've just barely managed to recover from the last time it happened. Even with Demon Shields / Black Masks equipped, the silly thing managed to wipe my entire party in a single hit. MY ENTIRE PARTY! With dark-absorbing equipment equipped! SILLINESS! At least Final Eclipse is worth it - for the cutscene alone, in fact, which is a good thing as Zodiark got stomped when I whipped him out against The Undying. F'ing Terraflare.)
Anyway, XES was at that pleasant medium between uncomfortably packed and utterly empty and me, being the somewhat anti-social individual that I am, just sort of settled down to have a quiet drink and get snatches of Luis where I could. That somehow managed to radiate the message, "Come talk to me, oh loud-and-obnoxious-individual-drunk-off-your-ass-at-7pm! I'm entirely too polite to tell you off!" Which, of course, one did, and I, of course, was too polite to tell him off. He did, however, also hand me one of those black plastic bases disguising a fairly powerful magnet, and a large collection of flat metal slivers shaped like stylized people. I proceeded to focus my attention on building something relatively aesthetically pleasing, in a symmetrical sort of way, and seeing how high I could stack the slivers on edge.
Said drunk individual then proceeded to explain to me the concept of magnetism, why my endeavors were largely futile, and why I ought to just throw them into a pile and play with them as an infant might squiggle in a pile of mud. I was mildly inclined to snap something along the lines of, "I broke the curve in my E&M class, you atrocious boor! I know how fucking magnetism works, and I don't need your parochial sense of aesthetics telling me what to do!" It's possibly fortunate that my patience wasn't quite that frayed.
At any rate, he eventually turned his attention to someone else, and I eventually made my way to the counter so as to better intercept Luis during his rounds between the bar and the downstairs storage. After a brief, somewhat banal conversation with the cocktail waiter, whose name is Derek, I met Luis's friend Francis.
That turned out to be quite a highlight. Francis is an extremely interesting individual, in the course of our conversation and we touched on topics ranging from events in China and Africa to personal traumas and philosophy. We meandered a great deal, as slightly tipsy conversations often do, and at one point my defenses slipped in a really drastic way. He told me a story - two stories, actually, horrific and touching, and I actually teared up hearing them. The alcohol probably had something to do with it, but that was still kind of a shock. Anyway, Francis said a few more things, words of advice on relationships, and on being yourself, and on letting people in. On the whole, it was an extremely engaging conversation - one of the best I've had recently - and I was utterly stunned when Luis told me it was half past eleven.
Half past bloody farking eleven! I'd been in XES for four hours and it felt like a quarter that amount!
It left me ruminating about various and sundry things, but the most pertinent was a piece of parting advice from Francis, regarding letting my defenses down. That it was something I needed to do, and should do, more often. That it's healthy, and that it's not a matter of weakness.
Which was something about me I'd been contemplating for a while - really since my second year at the Academy, but much more so since I came back from B'burg last summer, and decided that I would give dating a real, serious try. I've been scathed a fair amount in my life, and the worst of the damage was dealt by the two people who were supposed to protect me from getting hurt, at least until I'd gotten old enough to deal with the world in a manner less...self-destructive than my chosen method for the last 13 years or so. I've generally come to terms and to peace with that, and with them, but the defenses have already been erected and they don't come down easily at all.
Myia actually pointed it out, some time ago, all the things I do without even realizing to protect myself. Keeping my cards close. Keeping people at a distance. Keeping my opinions on anything that really matters to myself. Adopting a neutral stance, in all matters of substance. To the point where...I do it instinctively, where I don't even realize that I'm talking without doling out a single piece of personal information. I think everybody does that, to some extent, but her observation seemed...peculiarly sobering, for some reason. Then again, she has a way of doing that.
I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, and writing it now. Just things I was thinking about, on the subway, on the way home. A bit of introspection, a bit of self-criticism, a bit of consideration. Ways that I could be...a better person, maybe, than I am now. I don't know.
Ha. I suddenly realize I kind of did exactly what I was talking about earlier. Waffling around all over the place being somewhat witty before getting to the point. And the really fun part is...I actually haven't even gotten to the real point...
Monday, January 28, 2008
On return visits
Some days, I find that returning to blogging is of a great comfort to me, like visiting an old, dear friend whom I haven't seen in a goodly long time. This is often the case, in fact, as I now discover I don't tend to blog unless something is bothering me, and, as we've often noticed in the past, I will dance around the topic like a centipede with tap shoes on a hotplate. We shall also ignore all the logical inconsistencies of the metaphor I've just written, and instead applaud it as a reasonably clever use of imagery. (On a semi-tangential note, William recently mentioned to me a string of words to the effect of, "blows like a Hoover in reverse," which, I've decided, I like a great deal, despite a certain...inelegance to their arrangement.)
God, I really am a pompous ass some days.
I've lost what I was planning to say. I think it was somewhat insightful, to me, at least, and that is, of course, what ultimately matters in writing something like a blog on Myspace. Writing a Myspace blog is a little like masturbating in public, I think. It requires a certain exhibitionism to really be successful, and unless you are gratified by the process itself you just end up with a soggy sort of mess at the end.
I am here reminded that Isti and John Brooker, back in my AP Chemistry days as a high school junior, actually laughed in my face when I proclaimed, in a slightly offended tone of voice, "I'm rational!" (I'm not particularly sure why this occurs to me. I know perfectly well why they laughed in my face).
Ah. For a moment, I actually recollected what I was planning to talk about, but once again, it vanishes like smoke in a stiff breeze. Bloody hell.
Tangent. The Wild Party, which is the show I'm currently ASM'ing, is going extremely well. The cast is very skilled (note here that I prefer the term 'skilled' to 'talented' when it comes to trained actors. Talent without skill is, in my opinion, something of a tragedy.) The direction and choreography are superb, and the composition, for those of you Philistines who don't actually know anything about Andrew Lippa's The Wild Party, is quite marvelous. I will indulge a moment in hypocrisy here as well, because until I actually started working on The Wild Party, the only song I knew was "Life of the Party," and I remembered that I wasn't altogether all THAT fond of it. I do admit that I have a certain fondness now, however, for "Maybe I like it this way" and "What is it about her?" or, as they tend to appear in my notes, "Militw" and "Wiiah". Like a couple of incredibly unfortunate individuals with truly sadistic parents.
I could waffle some more, but I'm modestly tired and a bit frustrated with...life, the universe, and everything! No, not really, but...with myself, perhaps. Some days I'm quite pleased with myself in all my aspects. This is not one of those days.
God, I really am a pompous ass some days.
I've lost what I was planning to say. I think it was somewhat insightful, to me, at least, and that is, of course, what ultimately matters in writing something like a blog on Myspace. Writing a Myspace blog is a little like masturbating in public, I think. It requires a certain exhibitionism to really be successful, and unless you are gratified by the process itself you just end up with a soggy sort of mess at the end.
I am here reminded that Isti and John Brooker, back in my AP Chemistry days as a high school junior, actually laughed in my face when I proclaimed, in a slightly offended tone of voice, "I'm rational!" (I'm not particularly sure why this occurs to me. I know perfectly well why they laughed in my face).
Ah. For a moment, I actually recollected what I was planning to talk about, but once again, it vanishes like smoke in a stiff breeze. Bloody hell.
Tangent. The Wild Party, which is the show I'm currently ASM'ing, is going extremely well. The cast is very skilled (note here that I prefer the term 'skilled' to 'talented' when it comes to trained actors. Talent without skill is, in my opinion, something of a tragedy.) The direction and choreography are superb, and the composition, for those of you Philistines who don't actually know anything about Andrew Lippa's The Wild Party, is quite marvelous. I will indulge a moment in hypocrisy here as well, because until I actually started working on The Wild Party, the only song I knew was "Life of the Party," and I remembered that I wasn't altogether all THAT fond of it. I do admit that I have a certain fondness now, however, for "Maybe I like it this way" and "What is it about her?" or, as they tend to appear in my notes, "Militw" and "Wiiah". Like a couple of incredibly unfortunate individuals with truly sadistic parents.
I could waffle some more, but I'm modestly tired and a bit frustrated with...life, the universe, and everything! No, not really, but...with myself, perhaps. Some days I'm quite pleased with myself in all my aspects. This is not one of those days.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
On nothing at all
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.
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.
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
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