Free Writing 4

(This is free writing. It's generally fiction. It's generally nonsensical. If you don't know me, it'll just be weird, and that's fine. I hope you find some entertainment value out of it. If you do know me, please don't read anything into it, because it is nonsensical. Just letting the subconscious fire off random ideas. Again... Fiction.)

I'm not sure, but I clicked 'like' because I
Hoped you'd notice. I know five other guys
Did the same, but you should know mine matters
More because mine has special meaning to
Which I hope you figure out. Words are hard
To express, and when I see that you take
The time to respond to my comment I
Get a little giddy. Don't mistake my
Intentions as trying too hard as I
Don't want to scare you away with my hope
For us. It's all because I can't find much
In expression with words, or without words.

Free Writing 3

(This is free writing. It's generally fiction. It's generally nonsensical. If you don't know me, it'll just be weird, and that's fine. I hope you find some entertainment value out of it. If you do know me, please don't read anything into it, because it is nonsensical. Just letting the subconscious fire off random ideas. Again... Fiction.)

Welcome to my home! You're here, finally.
I'm glad you're here. But we all know the real reason I wanted you here.
Make yourself comfortable. Don't fucking touch anything.
I hope all is well. I know you don't give a shit about me.
Where are my manners? Can I get you a drink? Or maybe my fist?
I've been so busy these past few weeks! Every waking moment with you in my head.
He seems like such a great guy! But we all know he's a cunt.
I'm glad he takes such good care of you. It won't be good enough.
Are you enjoying dinner? Choke on it and die.
How about some dessert? Just let me go and get it.
You better have save some room! Don't look at what's behind my back.
Oh, I'll be careful. It's not too sharp. Don't just love cake?
You need to go? Sit your ass down!
Let me get the door. But I locked it.
Shhhh. Don't scream.













(I'm not gonna lie.... This one was kind of messed up. Sorry.)

Free Writing 2

(This is free writing. It's generally fiction. It's generally nonsensical. If you don't know me, it'll just be weird, and that's fine. I hope you find some entertainment value out of it. If you do know me, please don't read anything into it, because it is nonsensical. Just letting the subconscious fire off random ideas. Again... Fiction.)

Where are his shoes? It's infuriating. And disgusting. He has the feet of an orangutan. They even have an inordinate amount of hair on them. And it's like this disgusting train wreck that I can't take my eyes off of because all I see are tons of minute, wiry hairs that twist up together to form this sort of tree-like surface on his toes that reminds of hearing about Jack and the Beanstalk as a child.

Seriously, I'd love for him to put on some shoes. It's not that this lack of shoe-wearing is causing me to go homicidal or anything truly dramatic, but it does make me want to vomit. Repeatedly. The way he walks, as well. The ways toes bend with each step. It drives me insane. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't stop. I have to see because I have to feel this anger that must be justified. It must be justified because look at how disgusting he is.

Those feet. Those monstrosities that should be attached to no human. I feel faint just thinking about them. Perhaps he'll put on some socks. That would be a good compromise. I'd still have to see those annoying steps he takes, but at least the leathery flesh of his awful walking tools would be masked from my sensitive sight, and I wouldn't have to feel as nauseous as I frequently do in his presence.

I often wonder why he walks barefoot in the rocks. It's like he's making a point, but I can't tell what that point is, but he's clearly trying to make it. I mean, look how smug he is. Each step filled with this audacious arrogance like somehow he's doing something that everyone would obviously do if they were given the chance. I think it's disgusting.

Perhaps his feet are just massive calluses by this point. The way he just stomps roughly over sharp edged rocks is disturbing, but he does so without even raising a single cry. Must have the toughest feet in the world. But that's not a point of admiration. You may not be able to tell, but my words are dripping with the most absolute disgust imaginable.

Just find some shoes, please!

Free Writing 1

(This is free writing. It's generally fiction. It's generally nonsensical. If you don't know me, it'll just be weird, and that's fine. I hope you find some entertainment value out of it. If you do know me, please don't read anything into it, because it is nonsensical. Just letting the subconscious fire off random ideas. Again... Fiction.)

I associate her with the color purple. Not like the movie, or the current societal associations with the color, not that either are wrong or bad. Just the actual color purple. It's weird, because she never wears the color. At least not that I've seen.

The other girl I associate with no color, but I think she'll soon associate me with the concept of disappointment. It happens, but I have no other way to describe the kind of result that I'm going to give.

I'm staring right now at this image of Purple. She's smiling. Where I got this picture, I don't know. But it's a pleasant one. An innocent one. It makes me laugh because I know somewhere in that picture, beneath her smile, there's a joke that's been told that she enjoyed. See, I've gotten to the point where I can tell her smiles apart; she has one that is a residual laugh from a recent joke (like in the picture), one for when she is hiding her vulnerability (which she does often because she hates being vulnerable), one that signifies disdain, but in an appreciable way, and my favorite, her natural smile, which is when something makes her genuinely happy. I strive for the latter, but usually get Residual Laugh and Disdain.

Disappointment looks at me expectantly. But I've already failed her. Purple looks at me with no expectations, though there is also a shield up that confuses me, which I think is calculated and the point. The substance of their glances, and there seems to be a great deal of substance to each glance, is thick and filled with unspoken subtext. But the substance is too thick usually, and the subtext is lost in the foggy plastic substance of their constant looks.

Purple avoids me frequently. Not at the beginning of any meeting. But she quickly leaves towards the end. I think I'm now associating the color orange with her. No reason. Just like there was no reason for Purple. She wears neither color.

Disappointment has now changed moods. Sorrow. But I can't tell if she's feeling sorry for herself... Or for me.

Insomniac Nights, or "Letting the mind race through the paths of unclosed thoughts."

I need to be asleep. I should be laying down and have my eyes closed.

But I'm afraid of the world tonight. It happens sometimes.

I'm a pretty happy guy. Almost all the time. I think it disgusts some people. And it's not a facade. But that doesn't mean I'm not unhappy sometimes. Or scared.

I'm not depressed. Just like I'm not truly an insomniac. Insomnia and depression are very real ailments, and I suffer from neither. But I'm sometimes very sad. And when I am I often can't sleep when feeling this way. In some ways, I'm terrified.

I'm terrified about letting my kids be in a world where I'm not with them all the time. And it's not a matter of distrust of their mother. She's a good mom. And she and I love share a love for our children that is very deep and very powerful. She wouldn't let anything happen to them just as I wouldn't. But I don't trust the world. And the horrible people that sometimes populate it.

I imagine that somehow my presence around the children will shield them from the horrible people and events. It's irrational. But it's what I feel. I know Adian feels the same way.

I'm terrified that all the endeavors I've taken on are going to fail. That I'm going to be nothing. This is also irrational, especially considering how much I'm trying to get everyone else to see the light of what we are doing. Because what we do here is great. The work, the film work, is spectacular and getting better. This is truly something special. And it's about to take off. I'm not psychic. I don't believe in that nonsense. But I can read a situation. I'm very good at reading situations and people. So much so that I often find myself acting out so I can see where a situation will lead me that might be different from the norm. But I've seen where things are headed. And all we need is a bit more time, and a bit more out there for the world to see. And it will start to happen.

Still, almost a year after the fall out over the creation of the podcast, I'm terrified of failure. And I'm scared of others pointing at me, accusing me of betrayal. That wound still stings. It's almost been a year and it still stings to be thought of like that. It's like they forgot everything I said, the ideas I had, the fact that they took my ideas as their own. Well, he did. She did not. What's worse is I don't even care about who had ideas or didn't. I don't care that several eyewitnesses almost two years ago recall me suggesting the very idea that I would later be accused of stealing. I don't care about any of that. I care that I lost friends for no reason. I hate things beyond my control. Failure that I couldn't do anything about.

I hate how much I can't control. I don't want to control people. I don't want to control free will. I just want to make sure that the good things that can happen do, and the bad things that can happen don't. I know that's what everyone wants. I know that this lesson is all too often learned the hard way; our lack of control and how we must deal with it. But I love stacking the odds in our favor.

This is why I shouldn't write late at night. This is why I shouldn't blog when I'm this bummed out.

I wish my friend Eugene was here, too. I miss him. I miss him more than he knows. I hope he's doing okay. Because life without him sucks. Life without my children sucks.

Okay. It's time to stop writing this before I go into complete self-pity mode.

Because I need to be asleep.

The Art of Originality, or "Being Unique is not being you."

If I could give anybody one piece of advice... Don't try to be unique. Be an individual.

I know that runs contrary to what we're taught. That being unique is great. That everyone is unique and that this very thought is what makes the world go round. That being unique and being an individual are the same thing. But what we are actually doing is simply mixing a couple of thoughts and trying to shoehorn them into one ideal. In reality, being individuals and being unique are absolutely two very distinct things.

Being unique seems to be an obsession these days. It's what lead to the hipster movement. It's what leads people to hold disdain for popular movies or other forms of entertainment. "Oh, I loved that song until everyone else started liking it." It leads to pathological liars and idiots that think they introduced the world to a style of music. It's stupid.

Just the other day, I witnessed someone complaining about those memes that have propped up recently, the ones where it usually shows a job at the top, then shows pictures of different elements of society's views of what someone actually does at that job ("what my mom thinks I do" "what my friends think I do"). The person in question was trying to be "nice" about it, basically condescending to all of her followers that they could do better. Ultimately, I agree. But instead of complaining about the posts, I just hid them. Because that's an option on Facebook. Which led me to wonder why she even bothered posting anything about it at all.

And it became obviously fairly quick. I know this person pretty well, and though we don't really speak very much these days, I know her mindset. She was always one of the first to point out annoying trends or things that were rapidly getting popular, and then endlessly discuss them even though she claimed to hold them in the attention of the greatest vitriol. She would say how much she loved songs until they showed up on "Glee" and then would complain that Glee ruined the song. She also hates hipsters, which is ironic because she is one. The thing about hipsters is that they rarely wear that label on purpose.

And it fits in with the idea of being unique. Everyone jumps on memes all the time. They get popular, they have their time in the sun, and, with the exception of extreme rare cases of the truly funny ones, they fade out and are used only on occasion to annoy someone. Or by that guy who can't let things go. Even he's not unique in that regard.

Being unique, or striving for it, leads to extremely artificial emotions and ideas. Not enjoying something because someone else likes it, when you too liked it prior, is idiotic. Complaining that your favorite "indie" song is now going to be known because of "Glee" is idiotic for several reasons: That artist was probably ecstatic that he or she is now going to get some national recognition and more people will be enjoying that artist because of it. Which, in my mind, can only be a good thing.

Oh, but you wanted to be the first to know about that artist. You want everyone to know you liked that artist before they were popular. Exactly what the hell does that accomplish? Striving for that is insane. If you are desperate to make sure your friends know that you introduced them to a band, you really need to reexamine your role in that artist's success. You neither produced the music or did any -mass- distribution. If anything, if your friends just copy your CD, you've contributed to piracy and have taken money out of the artist's pocket, thus eliminating incentive for them to continue producing the music. And if you did convince your friends to buy the music, then your role in this is still small, given for that amount to really matter would mean LOTS of people told their friends, meaning you still aren't the unique little snowflake you fancy yourself to be.

This same person, hater of memes, also once claimed that "being individual" was a fad, being sang about by the likes of Kesha and whoever else. I didn't have the words for it, but even then I subconsciously could see that she, like so many other people, failed to see the distinction between two different philosophies on life. None of those songs were really talking about individuality. They were about being unique and different, and different for the sake of being different, which is ultimately pointless.

I have a good friend that strives for uniqueness. So much so that he's become, for all intents and purposes, a pathological liar. And I love this guy to death, but the stories he tells have gone from cute little embellishments to outright absurd statements. And it's clear where it comes from. His quest for uniqueness comes from a place of low-self esteem, and he feels he has to compensate for his perceived, either consciously or subconsciously, shortcomings with these stories. He's younger than me, but has claimed on more than one occasion as to having a PhD, no simple feat (an understatement.) He's claimed to have performed surgery on people (which I thought required an MD, but I could be mistaken) and has said that he's a black belt in countless martial arts (which actually seems to be a common claim among those with tall tales.)

He knows of my love for film and filmmaking, so he's recently sought to outdo me on that. Now, if there's one thing I know you can't be unique at, it's indie filmmaking. Because there are a lot of us out there. But it's also one of the most supportive communities of creative people so that's quite alright. But this friend has really tried to make it sound like he's great at editing and has edited several films (of which I've never seen.) And that's fine, but combined with some of his more egregious claims and his lack of knowledge of such things as what a reverse shot is or why you don't "cross the line" while shooting, I'm forced to question his claims again.

All because of a pursuit of being unique.

And then there is being an individual. What's the difference? Well, for starters, you're not trying to make decisions about your existence based on the actions or decisions of others. You like a movie? Everyone else does too? Who gives a crap? Like the movie too.

As well, you really learn to appreciate you. You're not trying to fit into anyone else's schemes or ideas. You're not out to impress. You're not trying to make yourself into something that doesn't work for you. You're an individual. Are you similar to others? Sure. But that's not a bad thing. Remember, it sucks to be alone, and one of the most fundamental elements of friendship is sharing joys with like-minded people.

And by the very nature of genetics, you are inherently unique. That should be enough.

So, instead of trying to make it like you introduced the world to dubstep (because you didn't) and caring so much about how you were listening to your favorite band before everyone you knew, maybe just be happy with the fact that you like them. And that should be good enough.

A bit from my NaNoWriMo book so far, or "Peering into the depth of madness."

Just a small, random segment from the book for NaNoWriMo:


Doing a breath check (You know. That thing that doesn't actually work where you breath quickly into your palm and smell it to determine your breath quality.) and straightening my hair with my other hand, I was hopefully presentable enough. Not for Mrs. Zheng's eye, because she never really seemed to care about my appearance, but because Anya was invariably with her, and... Well, you can probably guess. Anya's only the most beautiful woman in the world. Just saying.

I opened the door to reveal Mrs. Zheng, Anya, and... Her boyfriend. Yeah, I forgot to mention him. Arnold. Jerk. The worst person on the planet. Scum. Satan. Seriously, Anya could do better. Ignore the fact that he's the starting quarterback at his school and will probably play professional football the moment he's out of school. Ignore his good looks and charm. And muscles. Ignore those too. He's just a real jerk. And a jock. I don't understand why she's so in love with him. Well, she's not in love with him. She just likes him a lot. He's cute.

Not that she's superficial. She's not. She's amazing. Intelligent. Beautiful. Cute. Everything. And he's an idiot. Ugh.

Mrs. Zheng got out of the passenger side of the dark red Buick holding a massive pot filled with the chicken soup she'd mentioned. At least, Arnold not withstanding, I would get the world's best chicken soup out of the deal. Anya, amazing, wonderful, beautiful, perfect Anya got out of the driver's side, with stupid, ugly, moronic, insipid Arnold getting out of the back driver's side. It's like he wears shirts that his muscles squeeze out of on purpose.

Not that I'm some horribly scrawny guy. I mean I mostly am. But that's not the point. It doesn't matter how much someone has good looks. It doesn't even matter how much money someone has, though both Arnold's parents and myself have it. It matters what kind of person you are. Arnold is a douchebag.

The three of them, now outside of the vehicle, began walking to my house, which is not a mansion, just so you know. Yes, I have a security gate, but my house is only three stories. That's still big, I get it, but there's only so much room one man can handle.

Mrs. Zheng was always the first through the door to any house she visited, having a distinct dislike of being outdoors at all. She gave me her usual nod she was already inside. And though I tried to take the pot of soup from her, she gave me a look, a quick one, that told me if I so much as touched the pot my hands would be removed from my wrists and she'd use her teeth to do it. Anya followed her and gave me that damn smile.

It's the kind of smile that makes you forget about the world around you. Where even the simplest movements of her mouth make me think she created that very smile for me, and for me alone. It is, without a doubt, the world's most amazing smile. And every time I see her even grin a little, I fall into a near trance of giddiness hoping to never have to come out of it, hoping that if I do come out of it, she'll be there waiting to embrace me and we can run off into the sunset for our wonderfully cliché and cheesy declaration of love.

And nothing punctures that bubble better than the burly form of Arnold walking with his self-righteous strut behind the perfect woman he so thanklessly calls his girlfriend. God. I hate him. And his stupid knowing nod that he always gives me. Which he gave me then. With that grin.

See, look who I'm dating, his eyes silent say to me.

Yeah, she's a catch, my eyes say pathetically in return. But what I'm really thinking is:

Go die in a fire, you ugly jock piece of crap.