I almost cried when I read about Haiti today. It happened yesterday and I only found out today. I feel guilty of something, but I'm not sure of what. Of being somewhere else?
I almost cheered when I watched Keith Olbermann tear into a pair of calloused, blithering excuses for human beings, as many talking heads are. At the same time, I don't want his reaction to other peoples' stupidity to be mine, not without witnessing their foolishness first-hand. Which I'm not going to do.
What I hate is watching people, particularly on television, who have no right to be there, excepting that they are the greasiest cogs in the machine, which lets them stand out. Jon Stewart hates this too, I guess, but all he does is point and laugh. Many of us are just as content to do the same thing, and it's come to the point, it seems, where leaders can say or do anything--once it's out we are entertained (by virtue of inundation, too) by the ridiculously embarrassing situation that somebody has to publicly deal with. Thank God it's him and not me, right? Along with everything else, we've turned politics into a reality show.
Which means we don't take it seriously. I mean, I know we don't, that's what I've been saying. But I try to think of it like this. You listen to music, right? Do you ever think of the human element in the song you're listening to--that it was conceived and perfected (it must have been perfect to some one) by another person, recorded; that it reflects a single perfect instance, or a delicately polished collection of perfect instances, if it's a good mix; that so much creativity and willpower went into whatever's tickling your earbud. Never think of it? Take it for granted? You're not going to meet these people, anyway, right? Even if you see them live, are you thinking, "Gee, those are the guys that WROTE it? I wonder what inspired them? I wonder what the minutes, the hours that went into that song were actually like? I wonder what they were thinking, or doing, at the exact moment this song came into being?"
If I had to guess, odds are you don't really want to know, or won't care. "Yes, I wrote it, but kinda offhand, while I was drinking, or was I watching me soaps? Maybe both. Anyway, me mate wrote the lyrics in the shower while he girlfrien' blew 'em. It was pretty much done the next week, we didn't think much of it then. People seem to dig it now." The course of history is mind boggling--can you imagine what it must be to watch something, say, something marginal that you've written, as it goes from being a little draft in your hands to an insatiable best-seller? Something you've struggled with for months or years, a physical extension of yourself torn from your gut, is now out among people, who are convinced by your talent that you're worth something in the world. And then, of course, you're changed by your success, because those little elements of struggle that kept you up while your poured your undiscovered soul into your work are no longer with you. I guess that's why so many bands fall off after four or fives albums. More time spent touring and promoting then actually just playing.
Because practicing his how you get the good stuff. Sitting around and just doing it. Not overthinking it. Complex simplicity. Like the Beatles. Not great musicians, really, but the greatest song-making machine we've had so far, because their material is so simple at its face, and so complicated when you look closely. Writing is the same way--don't construct it, just let it come out. And, for Zadie Smith's sake, edit. Carefully.
The complexity is an afterthought. The more critical we are of a song, or story, or movie, or play--the more we read into a piece of work, interpret it--the more we are inspired. That's why Shakespeare's so sacred, I think. We've had four hundred years for thousands of scholarly-types to tear his body of work apart, and synthesize SO many conclusions. A few good observations are bound to come out of it. Shakespeare was so prolific, though; there's no way he gave second thought to what he was writing, he didn't have Word, he had a quill and friggin' ink. He was attuned to his self, though, his wiring, and he could let it right out, and the rest is history.
What if Shakespeare was only subpar? Imagine that, over the course of the next few hundred years, KISS is the only band any one listens to, because other recorded music has been lost or destroyed. Our descendants will no doubt build intellectual metropolises of Gene Simmons' basslines, and, God forbid, his lyrics.
Assuming this isn't the case, Shakespeare had something going on. I wish TV heads were that way. Conscious, I mean. Turns out they're not, they're pretty much the common ignorant, with personality, I guess, which probably translates to enough asshole in them to command attention (a confused sense of respect), and, importantly, they're beautiful. So they get seated down in front of a camera with a few other people just like them and they're aired to the world. I wonder if they realize they get paid to spew shit. I fear they don't. They lucky fuckers, though, the rest of us gotta do it for free.
There are people out there that deserve credit and never get it. We don't give it to them because it's an extra effort--money use to make up the difference, and now even that's endangered etiquette. Have we forgotten our hospitality, our mortality? We watch, or listen, judge, with no regard to the manpower that crafted that movie I just didn't like. And, on that note, there's no fear of God anymore: We eat without considering for a moment what's in the food, pop pills without considering if we should; bind ourselves to the efficiency of machines, and contractual sedentary lifestyle, forcing us to make time for healthy, natural releases that we used to get during the course of an average day anyway.
Why are 100,000 possibly dead in the Western Hemisphere's poorest country? Why are comment boards on CNN and USA Today fueled by people who advise prayer, but not money, and people who advise money, but criticize prayer?
Because let's face it. We're back to a pagan society: We worship the God McDonald, and Starbucks, and Windows, and Google, among others. And uniting them all, their king, is the God US Dollar. If you're going to pray for the misfortuned, that's fine, as long as that's all you've got. If you can't spare money, you're probably not much better off than they are--with room for translation, of course. If you want to make a difference, psychic suggestion, in a world where we forsake God by forsaking each other, won't go nearly as far as a few bucks.
I do wonder if, back in the day, when religious arguments were settled with a club or sword, if we weren't more pragmatic then, than we assume ourselves to be in our civilized ways are now.
*
He did see a shooting star last night. Her message is "Defying Gravity," by Idina Menzel. Defying Gravity.
Now what?
Wednesday
The Shooting Star He Saw
Let's try to get a lot covered in a short amount of time.
In my life, I've seen an episode and a half of Gundam Wing. This does not effect the fact that when, in what I've dubbed the "Traveling Bus Incident", I lost forever my copy of Endless Waltz, the feature movie, which was all I knew of the series.
The as-yet-mystery girl at work shot a star through the heavens tonight when she remarked off-hand that, come Valentine's Day, her boy will be, quote, "Long gone." Granted, I caught only this small piece of what I'm sure is a contextual disappointment. Still, one smiles, doesn't one?
"This Tornado Loves You," one of my new favorite songs, came on the Chain's radio shortly thereafter, renewing my faith in the people paid to find the new music partly responsible for the contemporary, upbeat atmosphere our customers ABSOLUTELY WANT to bathe in. Yes, it's sarcasm.
Also, Verde scores the laugh of the day, maybe the week. Around attractive coworkers I am obliged, while distributing silverware, to present a particular instrument and ask, point blank, "Wanna fork?" To which she answered, quite unexpectedly, "No thanks, I'm full." Perfect, perfect. Spike Mulligan is satisfied.
Resurrected some old poetry and a short story that could potentially place my mind, Where is my mind?, among the celebrated ranks of Lewis Carrol's madness. I'm a little sleep deprived, which probably contributed to my appreciation of the works, but perhaps I'll polish them off and throw them up here, for any body's future...well, whatever. When I'm taking shortcuts I remember the shortcuts I took, and things I did on purpose before are only emphasized now. I remember reading the poetry on a well-rested afternoon and writing it off.
Katharine did not ask me out to the bar tonight, because she went home with her once-again-not-ex. I had a small crush on Katharine--you can read about her back in November. If I had done something about it, I might have spared her another bout of heartbreak or two. Or not. You never know. What I am saying is that the opportunity for Lovely and I to repeat Katharine's now classic example is past, for a fairly specific reason.
The Shooting Star He Saw. I don't want to reach up and touch that star, I'm happy basking in it's warm, friendly glow. But that doesn't mean I don't entertain the thought of taking aim and overextending myself, you know.
In my life, I've seen an episode and a half of Gundam Wing. This does not effect the fact that when, in what I've dubbed the "Traveling Bus Incident", I lost forever my copy of Endless Waltz, the feature movie, which was all I knew of the series.
The as-yet-mystery girl at work shot a star through the heavens tonight when she remarked off-hand that, come Valentine's Day, her boy will be, quote, "Long gone." Granted, I caught only this small piece of what I'm sure is a contextual disappointment. Still, one smiles, doesn't one?
"This Tornado Loves You," one of my new favorite songs, came on the Chain's radio shortly thereafter, renewing my faith in the people paid to find the new music partly responsible for the contemporary, upbeat atmosphere our customers ABSOLUTELY WANT to bathe in. Yes, it's sarcasm.
Also, Verde scores the laugh of the day, maybe the week. Around attractive coworkers I am obliged, while distributing silverware, to present a particular instrument and ask, point blank, "Wanna fork?" To which she answered, quite unexpectedly, "No thanks, I'm full." Perfect, perfect. Spike Mulligan is satisfied.
Resurrected some old poetry and a short story that could potentially place my mind, Where is my mind?, among the celebrated ranks of Lewis Carrol's madness. I'm a little sleep deprived, which probably contributed to my appreciation of the works, but perhaps I'll polish them off and throw them up here, for any body's future...well, whatever. When I'm taking shortcuts I remember the shortcuts I took, and things I did on purpose before are only emphasized now. I remember reading the poetry on a well-rested afternoon and writing it off.
Katharine did not ask me out to the bar tonight, because she went home with her once-again-not-ex. I had a small crush on Katharine--you can read about her back in November. If I had done something about it, I might have spared her another bout of heartbreak or two. Or not. You never know. What I am saying is that the opportunity for Lovely and I to repeat Katharine's now classic example is past, for a fairly specific reason.
The Shooting Star He Saw. I don't want to reach up and touch that star, I'm happy basking in it's warm, friendly glow. But that doesn't mean I don't entertain the thought of taking aim and overextending myself, you know.
Tuesday
Monday
knots.
"Knots..."
...is the story if identical twins Mitch and Jimmie. Jimmie is getting married, but gets blasted at his bachelor party the night before. Mitch faithfully takes his brother's place as the groom, but also ends up with Monica on the honeymoon--trapped on a cruise ship, he meets Courteney, and now Jimmie has to juggle both the love of his life and his brother's betrothed before either figure out what's going on.
This was the original pitch for the first screenplay I'm trying to complete. A while ago, I was assigned to a blog of my making, for the sole purpose of keeping an updated report of my progress. This plan, obviously, was flawed, but only on this end of the string telephone, where my cup was gettin' messages but was still just too damned empty ("I say, boy, I say! I ain't a schnook!")
I'm moving pre-production work to something else, to give my teacher a chuckle but more importantly to condense my journal contributions onto one website. Also, I'm trying to ditch a Follower who doesn't need to know that this blog exists, because she's a character on it (Mad Dame, if you're curious. Let's be buddies and not tell her the password into the clubhouse, yeah?)
In addition to KNOTS I hope to be reporting on, with significantly more enthusiasm, REVOLT OF THE LIVING DEAD!, and if they don't let me write that, then I'll be working on it anyway. So there.
ps. Middle Cyclone? The last track is thirty minutes of frogs croaking and crickets chirping, for those of you meditating and/or dreaming to this album.
It's just like every blissful night I ever had before I came to live within this wretched metroshadow of the world. Thank you, Neko Case, for understanding.
...is the story if identical twins Mitch and Jimmie. Jimmie is getting married, but gets blasted at his bachelor party the night before. Mitch faithfully takes his brother's place as the groom, but also ends up with Monica on the honeymoon--trapped on a cruise ship, he meets Courteney, and now Jimmie has to juggle both the love of his life and his brother's betrothed before either figure out what's going on.
This was the original pitch for the first screenplay I'm trying to complete. A while ago, I was assigned to a blog of my making, for the sole purpose of keeping an updated report of my progress. This plan, obviously, was flawed, but only on this end of the string telephone, where my cup was gettin' messages but was still just too damned empty ("I say, boy, I say! I ain't a schnook!")
I'm moving pre-production work to something else, to give my teacher a chuckle but more importantly to condense my journal contributions onto one website. Also, I'm trying to ditch a Follower who doesn't need to know that this blog exists, because she's a character on it (Mad Dame, if you're curious. Let's be buddies and not tell her the password into the clubhouse, yeah?)
In addition to KNOTS I hope to be reporting on, with significantly more enthusiasm, REVOLT OF THE LIVING DEAD!, and if they don't let me write that, then I'll be working on it anyway. So there.
ps. Middle Cyclone? The last track is thirty minutes of frogs croaking and crickets chirping, for those of you meditating and/or dreaming to this album.
It's just like every blissful night I ever had before I came to live within this wretched metroshadow of the world. Thank you, Neko Case, for understanding.
This Tornado Loves You, and, 02/15
Right. Cheers, 2010, we've made it this far! Kids, in 2009 your dad was in love with a bright, sexy woman, but things didn't work out. I guess in the end every little detail counts, but needless to say, Lovely isn't your mother. Unless some unforeseen event is about to rock the scriptwriters' plan for season six.
Nope. In late 2009 I was twenty-two, trying to figure out how to get away from Lovely. Because I knew that our relationship had run its course. Maybe this doesn't make sense to you now, but I expect that some day it will. I just hope that day, that wisdom, comes without the additional expense of a divorce and/or child support payments.
But I wasn't just a miserable wreck because of one turn of events, no sir. You see, I was also in school at the time. College. The one I probably graduated from in summer 2010, if the money holds out and my teachers are supportive. But I wasn't feeling too hot in late 2009, I was reeling from an enrollment issue, of which I only ever disclosed full details of to pretty much just myself, and had to pay a fair share of money to get myself back in business. Which is why your old dad doesn't have as big a savings account now as he could of, if he has one at all. But it's all in the past.
Kids, there are a lot of things that I can teach you about life and mortal projectiles, but odds are, you're not experienced enough to understand, which means you're not listening to anything I say, which means you'll figure these things out for yourself one day, and all I can do is hope that you've retained enough of my advice to be thankful for it later. That fall/winter, 2009, I ended my second long-term relationship, and I was only twenty-two! I didn't hand in hard copies of two final essays, and of those two, the English essay in its final form wasn't even properly cited. I forfeited a lot of work for each of my required classes because I was depressed, exhausted, and drunk.
Well kids, I probably still drink, I'm sure you've seen it, but if I'm a decent parent I've you've never seen me drunk; excepting that, if you're old enough, I've always got a beer for you, and we've gotten soused together. I'm probably still exhausted, because I do too much. But I'm not depressed, because I've got you. And, of course, your Mother.
Kids, don't let this story's conclusion inform some of the less important decisions you make in the future. I got good grades that quarter, despite everything I didn't do, but I still failed the one class, which I passed the very next term, anyway, providing the teachers let me sign up for it within the next week. What I do want you to understand is this: I was pretty low for a while. I felt guilty for letting Lovely down, because that's how you feel when an important relationship ends. You want to blame yourself, because that's the only way to explain what's gone wrong. The truth is, it's both of your faults, but what's most important is that you'll never learn just when your life ends. If it feels like you can't go on then by all means, pause to breath. But don't stop when you do, or you may end up there.
Lovely and I tore me to pieces, kids. It changed me, and it didn't necessarily make me a better person. But if that hadn't happened I would have never met your Mother.
*
Right, I'm not going to edit tonight, just scan and laugh at myself in the morning. Hullo!
I'm listening to Neko Case, a folk musician, which is the one attribute that makes her work utterly incomparable to the likes of Jem. Nothing against folk, Neko Case has certainly grown up on her Joni Mitchell and Linda Ronstadt, and even VU and most definitely probably Joan Baez. I haven't absorbed Joan Baez, so I can't really say. But she has the same contemporary haunt to her voice and melodies that Jem does. Jem's older sister, I guess, or a conservative twin sister who sips JD on the rocks instead of sucking down shots in a rave somewhere. I like this album, Middle Cyclone, it's called. It's on loan from Skip; that's his girlfriend's nickname, not mine, but it'll do in a pinch. On New Years I crashed on his couch: I'm baptized by fresh music and a defined sneer, but that's a few side anecdotes for another time or two.
It's getting late and I start Spanish tomorrow morning, in addition to the bank visit I've put off for too long and a few butterflies in the name of my college education.
I had sex Friday night, with a name I've dropped casually in older posts. It was good. Not great: I've done better, and better's been done. But, the wake of feelings that have stabilized me in the interim period have been invigorating, and...no, get it out of your pants! Ha ha, double entente est amusement, non? Gad, just think: one day I may be able to speak French!
I don't want this to be the famed "rebound-type incident", because I like this girl, and while I don't expect a repeat, I certainly wouldn't mind writing more about her in the future. But, ladies AND gentlemen: Give your crumbling relationship, your ravished love, your tattered hearts, only so much time to despair, and then do what I did: Get buzzed with an attractive friend and, in my unfashionably passive way, let her start on you. I wish I could have finished her, in my proud tradition I vastly unperformed (go on, roles your eyes, but if you were being this explicit how would you handle it?), but my attic was dry and the need for water became unbearable. Two days later and I'm stiffer than the plywood we where splayed over, among other obligatory comparisons. I'm still thinking about it too much. And, she's been dating a friend of mine for months.
Which is why today's post, the first of the year, is subtitled February 15th. Because that's Her birthday too, and I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for stabbing her boyfriend in the back. On the other hand, their relationship could have used the finishing touch, so to speak, and I think by that time we were pretty much overextending an already exaggerated friendship.
On the other hand, can you expect any less from a devout 'Rumours' fan? Don't answer that. I'm happy, and I think It's about damned time.
Coming soon: Senior Project. And then, all those obliged to read those posts can delve into my pathetic archive and learn too much about me. Hope this post kept you interested!
Nope. In late 2009 I was twenty-two, trying to figure out how to get away from Lovely. Because I knew that our relationship had run its course. Maybe this doesn't make sense to you now, but I expect that some day it will. I just hope that day, that wisdom, comes without the additional expense of a divorce and/or child support payments.
But I wasn't just a miserable wreck because of one turn of events, no sir. You see, I was also in school at the time. College. The one I probably graduated from in summer 2010, if the money holds out and my teachers are supportive. But I wasn't feeling too hot in late 2009, I was reeling from an enrollment issue, of which I only ever disclosed full details of to pretty much just myself, and had to pay a fair share of money to get myself back in business. Which is why your old dad doesn't have as big a savings account now as he could of, if he has one at all. But it's all in the past.
Kids, there are a lot of things that I can teach you about life and mortal projectiles, but odds are, you're not experienced enough to understand, which means you're not listening to anything I say, which means you'll figure these things out for yourself one day, and all I can do is hope that you've retained enough of my advice to be thankful for it later. That fall/winter, 2009, I ended my second long-term relationship, and I was only twenty-two! I didn't hand in hard copies of two final essays, and of those two, the English essay in its final form wasn't even properly cited. I forfeited a lot of work for each of my required classes because I was depressed, exhausted, and drunk.
Well kids, I probably still drink, I'm sure you've seen it, but if I'm a decent parent I've you've never seen me drunk; excepting that, if you're old enough, I've always got a beer for you, and we've gotten soused together. I'm probably still exhausted, because I do too much. But I'm not depressed, because I've got you. And, of course, your Mother.
Kids, don't let this story's conclusion inform some of the less important decisions you make in the future. I got good grades that quarter, despite everything I didn't do, but I still failed the one class, which I passed the very next term, anyway, providing the teachers let me sign up for it within the next week. What I do want you to understand is this: I was pretty low for a while. I felt guilty for letting Lovely down, because that's how you feel when an important relationship ends. You want to blame yourself, because that's the only way to explain what's gone wrong. The truth is, it's both of your faults, but what's most important is that you'll never learn just when your life ends. If it feels like you can't go on then by all means, pause to breath. But don't stop when you do, or you may end up there.
Lovely and I tore me to pieces, kids. It changed me, and it didn't necessarily make me a better person. But if that hadn't happened I would have never met your Mother.
*
Right, I'm not going to edit tonight, just scan and laugh at myself in the morning. Hullo!
I'm listening to Neko Case, a folk musician, which is the one attribute that makes her work utterly incomparable to the likes of Jem. Nothing against folk, Neko Case has certainly grown up on her Joni Mitchell and Linda Ronstadt, and even VU and most definitely probably Joan Baez. I haven't absorbed Joan Baez, so I can't really say. But she has the same contemporary haunt to her voice and melodies that Jem does. Jem's older sister, I guess, or a conservative twin sister who sips JD on the rocks instead of sucking down shots in a rave somewhere. I like this album, Middle Cyclone, it's called. It's on loan from Skip; that's his girlfriend's nickname, not mine, but it'll do in a pinch. On New Years I crashed on his couch: I'm baptized by fresh music and a defined sneer, but that's a few side anecdotes for another time or two.
It's getting late and I start Spanish tomorrow morning, in addition to the bank visit I've put off for too long and a few butterflies in the name of my college education.
I had sex Friday night, with a name I've dropped casually in older posts. It was good. Not great: I've done better, and better's been done. But, the wake of feelings that have stabilized me in the interim period have been invigorating, and...no, get it out of your pants! Ha ha, double entente est amusement, non? Gad, just think: one day I may be able to speak French!
I don't want this to be the famed "rebound-type incident", because I like this girl, and while I don't expect a repeat, I certainly wouldn't mind writing more about her in the future. But, ladies AND gentlemen: Give your crumbling relationship, your ravished love, your tattered hearts, only so much time to despair, and then do what I did: Get buzzed with an attractive friend and, in my unfashionably passive way, let her start on you. I wish I could have finished her, in my proud tradition I vastly unperformed (go on, roles your eyes, but if you were being this explicit how would you handle it?), but my attic was dry and the need for water became unbearable. Two days later and I'm stiffer than the plywood we where splayed over, among other obligatory comparisons. I'm still thinking about it too much. And, she's been dating a friend of mine for months.
Which is why today's post, the first of the year, is subtitled February 15th. Because that's Her birthday too, and I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for stabbing her boyfriend in the back. On the other hand, their relationship could have used the finishing touch, so to speak, and I think by that time we were pretty much overextending an already exaggerated friendship.
On the other hand, can you expect any less from a devout 'Rumours' fan? Don't answer that. I'm happy, and I think It's about damned time.
Coming soon: Senior Project. And then, all those obliged to read those posts can delve into my pathetic archive and learn too much about me. Hope this post kept you interested!
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