Off the Grid
Today is the fourth of July. You might be sitting there thinking to yourself "Hey, I can read! And the date on this post definitely says the fifth!!" And I suppose you'd be right. You'd be the better man--I the liar, and you the king. The king of what? Well, most likely the king of your sad, sad little world. That is why, in retrospect, it is actually I who is the better man. I am the one who doesn't care what you think. You sit alone complaining about the inaccuracies of the date given, and I sit alone dining in the splendors of humanity.
So many things have happened since the last time I entered words into this small box. I have become chronically ill. I have been halfway across the country and back (on average), twice! I have increased my merit, and my friends. I have lost some, but gained others. I could list more things, but then you'd probably start to doubt them. And doubt is for the weak. Doubt is for the dogs, the lowest of the low. Okay... I know what you are thinking again: "Doubt is all we have left. If it were not for doubt, where would science be!?" And I guess you are right. However, if you e'er doubt me I will personally look you up in the phone book, find your phone number, call information and get your address. Then I will drive my car at speeds unbeknownst to me all the way to your house, find you or someone you love inside said house, give them a huge birthday bash (on anyday except their birthday), feed them too much cake and have them vomit all over your stuff. Hope that'll teach you a lesson, you asshole.
I am really fucking pissed off right now because of your goddamn accusations and fucking unbelievable lack of common sense. So I will have to bring this entry to a close. I hope you are fucking happy. I didn't get to write about half the things I wanted. Go to hell and don't forget to worship me you filthy fucking peon.
I think I listen to the wrong type of music when I make these posts or something.
July 05, 2008
April 29, 2008
Without Dreams We Have Nothing
Here is a saved draft. I must have fallen asleep last I attempted an entry for this. All that remains of the post is the automatic save of the title "Without Dreams We Have Nothing." Had I written more? Vaguely I remember the answer being yes. It seems the title struck such truth to me that I decided it was more worthwhile to fall asleep and experience the dreams than to write about whatever I had planned. I do recall attempting to work all the names of the song titles from Ulver's 2007 release "Shadows of the Sun" into the entry. Perhaps such a rule stifled my creativity and I become stuck, deciding it wasn't worth it after all. Song titles such as "All the Love," "Like Music," and "Solitude." It would have probably made for a profound a beautiful post, a scene of those sullen grey languors I am always talking about.
The title itself, I believe, is from one of the lyrics on the album--from the song "Let the Children Go." A song title that brings forth powerful imagery. One one hand, letting the children go is a good thing. Freedom, escape from the injurious slavery of whatever kept them. On the other hand, why were they there in the first place? A Prison of Children... what a vague phrase. A prison made for children, or a prison made of chilren? The first, the most likely; the last, the most outrageous. Every mother's worst nightmare, and every day of their lives. Well, not all mothers--not in today's world. Maybe decades ago in a Catholic household filled to the brim with whining, drooling, shitting children of all ages, shapes, and genders. Truly a prison of children. Truly chilling.
Without dreams we have nothing. A very idealist phrase. A very hopeful phrase, if not a lie. We have many things without dreams. Let me rephrase that a little. With only dreams we have nothing. Try doing instead of dreaming. Try waking instead of sleeping. Try living. Life is simply there. There is nothing more to it than to live it, however you choose. Dreaming will get you nowhere, and is counteractive to the point. Life isn't a gift, don't try to come up with deeper meanings and justifications. None of that matters. Destiny, free will... moot points. You do what you will and you've done what you have. It's as simple as that. Simply do. We have a world, use it.
Here is a saved draft. I must have fallen asleep last I attempted an entry for this. All that remains of the post is the automatic save of the title "Without Dreams We Have Nothing." Had I written more? Vaguely I remember the answer being yes. It seems the title struck such truth to me that I decided it was more worthwhile to fall asleep and experience the dreams than to write about whatever I had planned. I do recall attempting to work all the names of the song titles from Ulver's 2007 release "Shadows of the Sun" into the entry. Perhaps such a rule stifled my creativity and I become stuck, deciding it wasn't worth it after all. Song titles such as "All the Love," "Like Music," and "Solitude." It would have probably made for a profound a beautiful post, a scene of those sullen grey languors I am always talking about.
The title itself, I believe, is from one of the lyrics on the album--from the song "Let the Children Go." A song title that brings forth powerful imagery. One one hand, letting the children go is a good thing. Freedom, escape from the injurious slavery of whatever kept them. On the other hand, why were they there in the first place? A Prison of Children... what a vague phrase. A prison made for children, or a prison made of chilren? The first, the most likely; the last, the most outrageous. Every mother's worst nightmare, and every day of their lives. Well, not all mothers--not in today's world. Maybe decades ago in a Catholic household filled to the brim with whining, drooling, shitting children of all ages, shapes, and genders. Truly a prison of children. Truly chilling.
Without dreams we have nothing. A very idealist phrase. A very hopeful phrase, if not a lie. We have many things without dreams. Let me rephrase that a little. With only dreams we have nothing. Try doing instead of dreaming. Try waking instead of sleeping. Try living. Life is simply there. There is nothing more to it than to live it, however you choose. Dreaming will get you nowhere, and is counteractive to the point. Life isn't a gift, don't try to come up with deeper meanings and justifications. None of that matters. Destiny, free will... moot points. You do what you will and you've done what you have. It's as simple as that. Simply do. We have a world, use it.
February 18, 2008
Take Erasive Action
So lately I've been thinking how I should get back into writing. Like short stories and things... keep up my chops. I used to use this blog here to keep those creative chops alive, but I really just spiraled into passages of intimacy so far abstracted from the reader that most likely only I understood what I was talking about. I never felt comfortable as a writer, and maybe this was the cause of me hiding my words in such flowery prose. Another thought crosses my mind: maybe I simply think too much and the ideas that spring forth are too personal for me to actually feel safe sharing with possibly the whole world. And thus I veiled my thoughts with metaphors and allusions to magicians and vikings. Most likely it was a combination of these two things. No, not a combination of magicians and vikings (there's a thought!), but a combination of insecurities as a writer and my reservations about revealing my ponderings to the user.
But a new year is upon us, and a change is overdue! After all, how can I expect a good discourse when I give nothing away to you to discourse about? There, I've done it a second time, breaking the preposition rule! I read in a book recently that sometimes you just have got to ignore that rule. I used to stick to it like a glove sticks to another glove that someone glued to it with superglue. But then that sentence would read "After all, how can I expect a good discourse when I give nothing away to you about which to discourse?" and then it becomes ugly and obvious. You'd simply stop there and close this page, thinking to yourself: "This guy can go fuck himself. Seriously."
But back to my point about getting back into writing. Short stories always used to be fun. I used to write them all the time back in high school. In college, not so much as I had friends to do things with (<---). I took a few creative writing classes to try to keep in the habit, and I churned out a few stories about zombies. But as of late I've been thinking about it more, and if I want to get serious about it I need to practice.
Reading could also help. I really really love stories, but I don't read enough. It's such a chore to begin a book. As a creative individual I prefer to create instead of actively absorb into someone else's works. That is not to say that I do not enjoy the latter. I enjoy movies and music immensely, especially those with wonderful stories and emotions. So why would it be any different with books? I have a bookshelf half-full of unread books I'm sure I'd enjoy. Perhaps I view it as research and that makes it less appealing. That's just how my mind works and I am turned off from the fact of it. But I need to learn. I need to improve. I know I am not the best writer and I've only so many years left to prepare. I have stories to tell the world. And if I expect them to listen, I'd better have damn good chops. Or at least an interesting voice.
So lately I've been thinking how I should get back into writing. Like short stories and things... keep up my chops. I used to use this blog here to keep those creative chops alive, but I really just spiraled into passages of intimacy so far abstracted from the reader that most likely only I understood what I was talking about. I never felt comfortable as a writer, and maybe this was the cause of me hiding my words in such flowery prose. Another thought crosses my mind: maybe I simply think too much and the ideas that spring forth are too personal for me to actually feel safe sharing with possibly the whole world. And thus I veiled my thoughts with metaphors and allusions to magicians and vikings. Most likely it was a combination of these two things. No, not a combination of magicians and vikings (there's a thought!), but a combination of insecurities as a writer and my reservations about revealing my ponderings to the user.
But a new year is upon us, and a change is overdue! After all, how can I expect a good discourse when I give nothing away to you to discourse about? There, I've done it a second time, breaking the preposition rule! I read in a book recently that sometimes you just have got to ignore that rule. I used to stick to it like a glove sticks to another glove that someone glued to it with superglue. But then that sentence would read "After all, how can I expect a good discourse when I give nothing away to you about which to discourse?" and then it becomes ugly and obvious. You'd simply stop there and close this page, thinking to yourself: "This guy can go fuck himself. Seriously."
But back to my point about getting back into writing. Short stories always used to be fun. I used to write them all the time back in high school. In college, not so much as I had friends to do things with (<---). I took a few creative writing classes to try to keep in the habit, and I churned out a few stories about zombies. But as of late I've been thinking about it more, and if I want to get serious about it I need to practice.
Reading could also help. I really really love stories, but I don't read enough. It's such a chore to begin a book. As a creative individual I prefer to create instead of actively absorb into someone else's works. That is not to say that I do not enjoy the latter. I enjoy movies and music immensely, especially those with wonderful stories and emotions. So why would it be any different with books? I have a bookshelf half-full of unread books I'm sure I'd enjoy. Perhaps I view it as research and that makes it less appealing. That's just how my mind works and I am turned off from the fact of it. But I need to learn. I need to improve. I know I am not the best writer and I've only so many years left to prepare. I have stories to tell the world. And if I expect them to listen, I'd better have damn good chops. Or at least an interesting voice.
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