Friday, July 30, 2010

Sticky Eyelids

No, not like that.

Several hours past bedtime, you may encounter a weird calm translated between your body and mind. Aside from fuzzy dry-eye I mean, if you're creative, if your pulled for reasons beyond your understanding, and if you're determined to believe that the fantasy of destiny is more than just a childhood wish. I get this way when I perform manual labor, or finally find the rhythm I was looking for in a school-paper, poem, stretch of fiction I was wrapping myself around all day while doing a million daily things. Usually I go to sleep before giving it a chance. I've been doing that for several years; betraying myself.

For all I know I may be writing now not to seem like the desperate schmuck throwing my guts to the wall to see what sticks (I entered info on Mike's [Michael Roderick's] tribe list with little to show for years of interest in production-value story-telling). I haven't been back to volition in a while, I miss it always though.

A friend of mind called today. We caught up. He's unemployed too, but he's bored for being in between semesters and taking Jujitsu for the last two months around 5 nights a week. I gotta admit, I'm jealous of his compulsion. I'm full of it . . . this inertia. My last semester was two semesters ago when my skull folded in like a wad of play-dough between a full-time job, my first film production class at Brooklyn college and business marketing at Phoenix U. There was a lot of resistance, the F.U. kind then. I'm recalcitrant. I think since the 4th grade.

I can't explain the downward spiral, it was subtle but my balls are somewhere out there now, rattling in the subconscious undercurrent of everything I love and hate about this world, having a great time without me and when I think about reclaiming them, it seems it'll be for a price paid by more than a few loved ones. That kind of change is spooky when everyone thought you were part of the furniture. Roland Deschain was given a similar prophesy on his own choices/sacrifices. I've been hearing songs all day easing the reality in past all the fear.

I'm 27, I've got to do something. I've got to get back to me. I've got to write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write write

Thursday, July 15, 2010

On taking an interest.

It looks like I was born with some smug apparel. I'm entertaining the idea that the reason I don't harvest respect for details is because it's someone else's details. Very little surprises or bothers me. I mostly contend with guilt when it comes to others and that's about as far as it goes.

I appreciate people as forces of nature, but not their baggage, or experiences or egos. I appreciate their living, I tolerate their character. We flip-flop between creation and destruction and get in our own way. So I don't pay attention to architecture, or all the names of the actors of the stories I can't remember fully, or how liquor is created. I don't pay attention to details, just smells, and smiles and starlight. I'm actually too reserved to be a hippy and too lazy to be conservative. I care about something but I can't name it for you, I feel passionate about mystery.

My original pangs left me believin I didn't belong, then I wanted to conquer the world as a way of making me fit here. Now I recognize bullshit when it stretches too long. I marvel at it, as if there's some gem held within that will make me see clearer. But there is no preparation for being proactive, just insanity and narcissism and belligerence.

Bah, it's late and I'm in a storm I don't quite understand. I am my own lighthouse always and this is a hint of madness with drooping eyes and a sagging frontal lobe sloshed in the mess of purposeful action. I have things to do and I'd rather exhaust my faculties figuring nothing out. This is distinctly have-not in have-town, wining for the fulfillment that comes from manual labor and prideful service meanwhile disdaining the luxury I so love to rest upon. Keyword: ungrateful, drinking cooled coffee, relentlessly figuring out how to pull a fast one on myself.