(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!
Monday, April 9, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
NaNoWriMo
So... I'm doing it. I will be, for the first time, participating in National Novel Writing Month.
Last year, around this time, I was suffering from heart break after being jilted by someone I erroneously considered to be the mystical "One", was hating the fact that I wasn't getting to see my kids for the holidays, and floundering in general misery, compounded by a pair of friends who felt that the world was a place where their problems (however minuscule they were in the grand scheme of everything) were of everyone's sole and intense concern. October, going into November last year, was crap.
That said, it wasn't like my problems were grandiose or anything like that. Except for missing my children, I was actually doing okay for myself. Just miserable in a way that really isn't that important.
But this year, things changed. I'm happier, though not perfectly happy. Maybe happy isn't even the right word. I'm driven. By something that resembles insanity. Megalomania. Zeal.
This year, I get my kids for the holidays, a true blessing, and I've found myself in a group of creative people that have the sense of drive I've been having myself for some time. And they want to do things. They don't want to sit around and complain that everyone else is doing something. They want to do. I'm the kind of person who likes to accomplish things. I fit right in to this group.
Of course, this group is a filmmaking group, and I will admit that my first passion is film. The visual medium is the one that has always really appealed to me on so many levels, spiritual, psychological, physical, it doesn't matter. It fulfills everything for me.
But, that said, I'm still a writer. And I love the art of prose. And I feel like I want to do more. That no matter what I do, I'm not doing enough and that I need to keep moving. Keep creating. I shouldn't have to need an event like NaNoWriMo to motivate me, but it's a chance to get into the all important habit of not stopping. Because any moment I'm not writing or creating is a moment someone else is.
I want this to be a positive experience and I feel like I've scratched the surface, this year, of what it's like to achieve. Instead of throwing unfair hate at others for misfortune that wasn't the fault of anyone but myself, instead of wallowing in self pity because I might have been left in the dust of a great idea. In fact, I'm proud of the groups here, be it the Four Corners Filmmakers or the Void Zone crew. We've accomplished. And it's a great feeling.
But NaNoWriMo is a personal accomplishment. I won't base all my happiness on whether or not I successfully finish a novel. But I will put everything I can into it. I think I'll reserve my true happiness for my children. But my personal triumph will be centered around writing, and the continued movement forward, in both projects personal and with groups.
The future has the potential to be bright, and I feel like November has something great in store.
Last year, around this time, I was suffering from heart break after being jilted by someone I erroneously considered to be the mystical "One", was hating the fact that I wasn't getting to see my kids for the holidays, and floundering in general misery, compounded by a pair of friends who felt that the world was a place where their problems (however minuscule they were in the grand scheme of everything) were of everyone's sole and intense concern. October, going into November last year, was crap.
That said, it wasn't like my problems were grandiose or anything like that. Except for missing my children, I was actually doing okay for myself. Just miserable in a way that really isn't that important.
But this year, things changed. I'm happier, though not perfectly happy. Maybe happy isn't even the right word. I'm driven. By something that resembles insanity. Megalomania. Zeal.
This year, I get my kids for the holidays, a true blessing, and I've found myself in a group of creative people that have the sense of drive I've been having myself for some time. And they want to do things. They don't want to sit around and complain that everyone else is doing something. They want to do. I'm the kind of person who likes to accomplish things. I fit right in to this group.
Of course, this group is a filmmaking group, and I will admit that my first passion is film. The visual medium is the one that has always really appealed to me on so many levels, spiritual, psychological, physical, it doesn't matter. It fulfills everything for me.
But, that said, I'm still a writer. And I love the art of prose. And I feel like I want to do more. That no matter what I do, I'm not doing enough and that I need to keep moving. Keep creating. I shouldn't have to need an event like NaNoWriMo to motivate me, but it's a chance to get into the all important habit of not stopping. Because any moment I'm not writing or creating is a moment someone else is.
I want this to be a positive experience and I feel like I've scratched the surface, this year, of what it's like to achieve. Instead of throwing unfair hate at others for misfortune that wasn't the fault of anyone but myself, instead of wallowing in self pity because I might have been left in the dust of a great idea. In fact, I'm proud of the groups here, be it the Four Corners Filmmakers or the Void Zone crew. We've accomplished. And it's a great feeling.
But NaNoWriMo is a personal accomplishment. I won't base all my happiness on whether or not I successfully finish a novel. But I will put everything I can into it. I think I'll reserve my true happiness for my children. But my personal triumph will be centered around writing, and the continued movement forward, in both projects personal and with groups.
The future has the potential to be bright, and I feel like November has something great in store.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Quasi psuedo redundancies, or "How to spot the truth in the fiction."
After surviving drama that really belonged in a high school study hall and not in the business plans of adults, I was forced to reexamine a lot of avenues of choice in my life. After having been accused of being an idea thief and the like (although never directly, odd though that might be) and watching the seeming breakdown of sanity in someone I considered a friend, I had to think about who I was and what I wanted.
It's odd, starting out with noble intentions and realizing that your mid to late 20's were not quite the drama-free zone you'd hoped for. And I hoped it so much. I remember my early 20's, thinking that, as my big relationship of that time came to end (thankfully) this wouldn't happen again as I got older. But it did.
I was worried that after all of this, I would be fighting for my reputation with people, but that turned out not to be necessary. Quite the opposite, in fact, as I received a lot of understanding pats on the back, as many people in this area understood the individuals who were throwing this nonsense at me, and basically told me to shrug it off, this was apparently standard practice.
And, of course, in retrospect, the people involved were some of the most insecure people on the planet. And that's important later in this blog.
So, as I said, reconsidered some ideas.
I've been lucky enough to fall in with a group of people who have been making films for a while now, and doing so in the greatest and noblest of ways; by the weight of their own willpower have they made these films. Not studio, not financed. Out of their own pocket. On their strength. And I love it.
After this drama "resolved" (I unfortunately feel like I'll never get any real closure out of this) I decided I was going to become a full-fledged student to this group, and that I wasn't going to allow myself to fall in to the same misplaced egoism and sophomoric petulance that was directed at me and (most unfairly and with no justification) at my girlfriend.
So, I've been working on everything I can to help this group and to get better at all of this.
And now we get to the point of this blog. See, this won't be a vent session of the events of the Summer. Aside from the unnecessary drama, this was a good Summer. Entirely because of my kids, but still. And the individuals in question, who have piled hate on me and did so without ever addressing anything with me... I wish them the best. Ultimately, they're good people. They're just young. And we all grow differently in different areas. And, at the end of it all, I hope the best for them and that maybe, someday, we'll be friends again.
It was my own personal revelations that led me to understand something about people. It's nothing new. Psychology has already really established this. But it wasn't until I saw it first hand that I noticed it in every group; insecurity.
Every single group, clique, whatever, always has this subgroup of individuals that is so filled with insecurity that they resort to varying levels of dishonesty, sometimes with themselves, sometimes with others, sometimes both, to somehow cover their own perceived weaknesses.
And it's astonishing.
In particular, I hang out with nerds. I hate, to some extent, using that word. Partially because I constantly get corrected on the differences between nerds/geeks/dorks, and that annoys the hell out of me. (I will use nerd and geek interchangeably; if you don't like that... I don't care.) Also, I just don't like using this particular term. Just don't like. But, regardless, I hang out with nerds.
This might be something I inherited from my father, this fascination with geek culture, but it's solidly there. I don't really participate in a lot of it, but then I've not participated in much of any clique. I usually sit back and watch, recording what they do for future story ideas and the like. I just ended up liking nerds and so I spend a lot of time with them.
As a result of my self changes, I've taken to watching nerds again and observing them. I've been writing a lot, so it seemed logical to attach to a group again. And this is when I discovered the nerd version of the insecure subgroup. And they are a fascinating bunch.
Instead of the kind of self deceit others have, where they convince themselves that they aren't the problem and lie about the actions of others to justify their own actions, nerds almost seem to develop this self loathing, where they are worried they are inadequate, so much so, their friends will invariably reject them. Instead of relying on the strength of their own character, they turn themselves almost into these caricatures, telling stories about their accomplishments which they really read about on the internet, their nonexistent wealth, and how easy it is for them to meet women, though you never meet any of these girls.
At first, I was almost kind of charmed by this, in an odd, sick way. It amused me, because it only takes a bit of research to see through all of these lies, but they were so dang elaborate that I had to tip my hat to them for the orchestration of this fictional facade that could almost be believable if it wasn't so far fetched. And a few I have met are so good at it that they can throw in just enough truth that they can give their false universe some shield against pressing.
In fact, one of the more well deserved stereotypes present in nerd culture, that of intelligence, is present here as well; they are good enough at deductive reasoning to fake their way through any sort of conversation, making themselves appear experts on any given subject.
My initial interest here, before I get to my change in position on these folks, was because I needed a newer character concept that I'd never really written about before. I thought I had it here.
But as I said, at first, I was charmed by it. Later, it became almost frustrating. Because not one person was addressing this with any of them. Nobody said anything, letting these stories carry on. Except for private discussions, where they carry on about how crazy these tales are.
Being the blunt person I tend to be, I thought there was no way I could hold myself in check and thought I might speak my mind at any moment. Yet I found myself just as tight-lipped as everyone else, keeping any thoughts of telling these individuals of such fashionably fictitious lifestyles that they're full of it wrapped up in my mind and out of the real world.
And the only reason I could fathom was because of how they might react to being called out in such an obvious fashion. You see, many of them had been building up these lies about themselves up over time, stating them as fact so consistently over years (yes, years) that they've almost come to believe them themselves. You might ask, "Is that any way to live?" and you'd be asking a very valid question, because it isn't.
Yet, here they are. And I count a number among my friends. One in particular is a very good friend. And no one has ever said anything to him for fear that he might disappear forever if the lies he's constructed over the past five years were undermined. Disappear or worse.
And that's where it's a bit frightening. He's described real women that I've met as being former girlfriends. And following up, I've learned they were never anything of the sort. He's described a great many specifics about who he is, things that would be public information, but where there is no information to be found. But he's so darn insistent, not confident, but insistent that this information is fact. He's, to an actual expert's face, described information that this expert actually knew better, that this expert was patently wrong and that he actually knew something the expert didn't.
Obviously, I'm being vague in this blog. And you might ask why even blog about this? But it was a disappointment in myself and my inability to write about a subject that I specifically looked into developing a story around. I had developed a character, had back story, everything. And now I find, just as I and everyone else can't call out these people on their falsehoods, I also can't write a fiction inspired by them.
Maybe one of you out there can. And if you find writing about something this psychotic interesting, have fun. Normally I would. Psychoses often offer interesting character concepts and I enjoy exploring them. But this one just unnerved me on a personal level enough that I couldn't write about it.
And if you're worried about any of these guys, or my good friend in particular, reading this blog and realizing it's him, worry not, because;
A) He's never going to read this blog. He doesn't read blogs. And
B) He probably wouldn't realize I was talking about him. And if he did, he wouldn't acknowledge it, subconsciously hoping that I'd stick to my inability to not address it.
Is this all incredibly unhealthy?
Yes.
Is it going to change?
I don't know.
And that's the truth. Sadly.
WCB
It's odd, starting out with noble intentions and realizing that your mid to late 20's were not quite the drama-free zone you'd hoped for. And I hoped it so much. I remember my early 20's, thinking that, as my big relationship of that time came to end (thankfully) this wouldn't happen again as I got older. But it did.
I was worried that after all of this, I would be fighting for my reputation with people, but that turned out not to be necessary. Quite the opposite, in fact, as I received a lot of understanding pats on the back, as many people in this area understood the individuals who were throwing this nonsense at me, and basically told me to shrug it off, this was apparently standard practice.
And, of course, in retrospect, the people involved were some of the most insecure people on the planet. And that's important later in this blog.
So, as I said, reconsidered some ideas.
I've been lucky enough to fall in with a group of people who have been making films for a while now, and doing so in the greatest and noblest of ways; by the weight of their own willpower have they made these films. Not studio, not financed. Out of their own pocket. On their strength. And I love it.
After this drama "resolved" (I unfortunately feel like I'll never get any real closure out of this) I decided I was going to become a full-fledged student to this group, and that I wasn't going to allow myself to fall in to the same misplaced egoism and sophomoric petulance that was directed at me and (most unfairly and with no justification) at my girlfriend.
So, I've been working on everything I can to help this group and to get better at all of this.
And now we get to the point of this blog. See, this won't be a vent session of the events of the Summer. Aside from the unnecessary drama, this was a good Summer. Entirely because of my kids, but still. And the individuals in question, who have piled hate on me and did so without ever addressing anything with me... I wish them the best. Ultimately, they're good people. They're just young. And we all grow differently in different areas. And, at the end of it all, I hope the best for them and that maybe, someday, we'll be friends again.
It was my own personal revelations that led me to understand something about people. It's nothing new. Psychology has already really established this. But it wasn't until I saw it first hand that I noticed it in every group; insecurity.
Every single group, clique, whatever, always has this subgroup of individuals that is so filled with insecurity that they resort to varying levels of dishonesty, sometimes with themselves, sometimes with others, sometimes both, to somehow cover their own perceived weaknesses.
And it's astonishing.
In particular, I hang out with nerds. I hate, to some extent, using that word. Partially because I constantly get corrected on the differences between nerds/geeks/dorks, and that annoys the hell out of me. (I will use nerd and geek interchangeably; if you don't like that... I don't care.) Also, I just don't like using this particular term. Just don't like. But, regardless, I hang out with nerds.
This might be something I inherited from my father, this fascination with geek culture, but it's solidly there. I don't really participate in a lot of it, but then I've not participated in much of any clique. I usually sit back and watch, recording what they do for future story ideas and the like. I just ended up liking nerds and so I spend a lot of time with them.
As a result of my self changes, I've taken to watching nerds again and observing them. I've been writing a lot, so it seemed logical to attach to a group again. And this is when I discovered the nerd version of the insecure subgroup. And they are a fascinating bunch.
Instead of the kind of self deceit others have, where they convince themselves that they aren't the problem and lie about the actions of others to justify their own actions, nerds almost seem to develop this self loathing, where they are worried they are inadequate, so much so, their friends will invariably reject them. Instead of relying on the strength of their own character, they turn themselves almost into these caricatures, telling stories about their accomplishments which they really read about on the internet, their nonexistent wealth, and how easy it is for them to meet women, though you never meet any of these girls.
At first, I was almost kind of charmed by this, in an odd, sick way. It amused me, because it only takes a bit of research to see through all of these lies, but they were so dang elaborate that I had to tip my hat to them for the orchestration of this fictional facade that could almost be believable if it wasn't so far fetched. And a few I have met are so good at it that they can throw in just enough truth that they can give their false universe some shield against pressing.
In fact, one of the more well deserved stereotypes present in nerd culture, that of intelligence, is present here as well; they are good enough at deductive reasoning to fake their way through any sort of conversation, making themselves appear experts on any given subject.
My initial interest here, before I get to my change in position on these folks, was because I needed a newer character concept that I'd never really written about before. I thought I had it here.
But as I said, at first, I was charmed by it. Later, it became almost frustrating. Because not one person was addressing this with any of them. Nobody said anything, letting these stories carry on. Except for private discussions, where they carry on about how crazy these tales are.
Being the blunt person I tend to be, I thought there was no way I could hold myself in check and thought I might speak my mind at any moment. Yet I found myself just as tight-lipped as everyone else, keeping any thoughts of telling these individuals of such fashionably fictitious lifestyles that they're full of it wrapped up in my mind and out of the real world.
And the only reason I could fathom was because of how they might react to being called out in such an obvious fashion. You see, many of them had been building up these lies about themselves up over time, stating them as fact so consistently over years (yes, years) that they've almost come to believe them themselves. You might ask, "Is that any way to live?" and you'd be asking a very valid question, because it isn't.
Yet, here they are. And I count a number among my friends. One in particular is a very good friend. And no one has ever said anything to him for fear that he might disappear forever if the lies he's constructed over the past five years were undermined. Disappear or worse.
And that's where it's a bit frightening. He's described real women that I've met as being former girlfriends. And following up, I've learned they were never anything of the sort. He's described a great many specifics about who he is, things that would be public information, but where there is no information to be found. But he's so darn insistent, not confident, but insistent that this information is fact. He's, to an actual expert's face, described information that this expert actually knew better, that this expert was patently wrong and that he actually knew something the expert didn't.
Obviously, I'm being vague in this blog. And you might ask why even blog about this? But it was a disappointment in myself and my inability to write about a subject that I specifically looked into developing a story around. I had developed a character, had back story, everything. And now I find, just as I and everyone else can't call out these people on their falsehoods, I also can't write a fiction inspired by them.
Maybe one of you out there can. And if you find writing about something this psychotic interesting, have fun. Normally I would. Psychoses often offer interesting character concepts and I enjoy exploring them. But this one just unnerved me on a personal level enough that I couldn't write about it.
And if you're worried about any of these guys, or my good friend in particular, reading this blog and realizing it's him, worry not, because;
A) He's never going to read this blog. He doesn't read blogs. And
B) He probably wouldn't realize I was talking about him. And if he did, he wouldn't acknowledge it, subconsciously hoping that I'd stick to my inability to not address it.
Is this all incredibly unhealthy?
Yes.
Is it going to change?
I don't know.
And that's the truth. Sadly.
WCB
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