Saturday, November 29, 2008

Something random

It's been a while since my last post, and usually when I come back from a little hiatus, I always seem to make a superserious post that rants & rambles for pages upon pages.

I'm not going to do that this time.

There's plenty of time to write about the sad things that have happened/are happening recently in my life. But for now, I don't want to talk to you about that. Let's be like levity - light and care-free.

I went to see that new Transporter movie on Wednesday. (And if you know me, you know I usually go to movies by myself because I'm the WORST guy to sit next to in the theatre.) Overall, it was...okay. I mean, it was action-packed, and easy to watch, but obviously you don't go to a movie like that expecting to see something that makes you think. Mostly I saw it because I like Jason Statham. If only he'd go back to playing random english-people in Guy Ritchie films...*sigh*

But forget about the movie. That wasn't the random thing that happened.

So, to watch the movie I bought a large popcorn, large soda, and a box of those lil' buncha-crunchas. (SO delicious to mix chocolate with buttery, supersalty popcorn.) And there I am, silent as a baby-angel - for once - just eating my popcorn and watching the movie. The thing is, the popcorn they gave me was some bottom of the barrel bullshit that had more kernals than corn. I had to shake the bag a bit to get the good pieces to come up to the top.

Now, there was this hipster-looking guy sitting in front of me to the left. And I have NO IDEA how he could hear me eating my popcorn because the movie is so loud I couldn't feel my phone-vibrating in my back-pocket. But he does.

And he's pissed. He turns back twice to yell at me. (Yeah, he yells and says I'm making too much noise.) I tell him sorry, I'm just trying to eat my popcorn and watch the movie. The second time I tell him to leave me alone and let me watch the movie. The third time...he gets up out of his seat and snatches my popcorn from my lap and flings it out towards the front row.

Whoa. What is this guy's problem? A succession of thoughts/scenarios go through my head: 1) did he just fucking take my shit? 2) that popcorn costs like ten bucks! 3) I should beat the ever-loving shit out of his fixed-gear riding, chestless-shirt wearing, electro music listening pampered ass 4) wait, wait, wait - what are we, in elementary school? i'm gonna fight someone because he took my bag of popcorn? 5) does this make me a wuss? 6) I wonder what everyone else is thinking...

ANYWAYS, then he sits back down, and everyone just kinda edges around in their seats before going back to watching the movie. I do the same. (Though I keep a close eye on the guy in case he decides I'm DRINKING too loudly.) Before the movie ends he leaves and I just shake my head. After the movie I get to talking with this couple who're joking about, "some violent dude at Transporter 3." We laugh for a bit and then I head home.

What kind of a douchebag goes to a movie and gets violently mad to hear popcorn and eating sounds? IT'S A FUCKING MOVIE. Did you expect to hear crickets playing you a serenade of Harlem Noctourne? Sometimes people just suck.

I was a little proud that I didn't do anything. (Though I wanted to.) I'm a pretty controlled and easy-going guy. I get upset, pissed off, and so on, but I don't go around taking it out on complete strangers. Maybe the guy was having a bad day? Maybe he got dumped? Maybe there was something else going on with him that you just wouldn't know to look at him in his Pumas and dinner-jacket. You really can't tell with people, I guess.

After thinking about it for a little while though, I had this devilish idea that I should've taken my drink cup and poured the whole thing over his motherfucking head and then walk out. Would that've been a bitch move? Maybe. But the bastard did ruin my movie a little, and my movie-snack.

Meh! I just take it as one of the million other random things that happend to me everyday. Welcome to the monkey-house. Please sign your name next to the shit & banana peels.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Sometimes I wish I was an artist

So I could draw stuff like this that says more words than I could write in a lifetime and still say it better.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Okay, am I taking this too seriously?

I know I'm not a "professional" writer. Hell, I'm not even a very good writer. The closest I've ever come is ghost-writing cheap childhood memoirs for rich/bored/egotistical Newport Beach suburbanites. My own college's undergraduate journal wouldn't print my stuff if I covered it in gold and chocolates. (Which would actually make sense, since I don't think they'd go very well together...messy, y'know.)

I work at a music studio. I go to school. I play waaay too many video games. But I don't call myself any of those things - at least, not seriously. I'm a writer. It's how I define myself. I am the subject-verb-agreement. I enact the action. I fucking write!

Question: do I take it all too seriously? I mean, people call me and say, "what are you doing?" And I say, "working." What I mean there is that I'm writing. I am trying to turn a piece of crap rough draft into something moderately tolerable, or possibly decent & publishable. But I'm not really working. I definitely don't get paid for this. In fact, half the time when I'm "writing" I'm staring at the pages on the screen wondering, "is this shit?"

The other half I'm fucking around on the internet.

So, should I stop pretending that this something serious? It really isn't. Don't get me wrong, I love writing. But I don't honestly think my writing will ever get anywhere or do anything, for anyone...least of all me.

Still, I'm a writer! Every day since I was fourteen I have written SOMETHING. Maybe it was just a sentence, or half a line. Maybe it was ten pages or a bunch of poems. Maybe it was the outline for a novel-idea. Maybe it was the next great piece of American literature! Or maybe not.

So when I say I'm working, or writing or whatever! Don't scoff at me. Don't snort. Don't act like somehow I'm not actually BUSY. Fuck off with you! I'll talk, chat, gossip, shoot the shit, or just enjoy some silence. But if you're going to act like I'm not doing something that's important to me, well...I dunno. But I'll think of something!

I really am trying to do this. It's my honest-to-gawd dream. What I've wanted to be since I learned how to read. (Minus a short stint at thirteen when I wanted to be an astronaut.) It's the only thing I can do when I can't do anything. And maybe it's stupid, and I'm not very good at it, or likely to make a living with it, but to me, this is all of me.

Oh fuck it. Make fun of me. Go ahead. Scoff, snort, mock and interrupt. It's all a big whatever anyways.

***Bonus Material***

Best writing advice I've ever gotten: "apply ass to chair."

Thank you, Conrad Knickerbocker.

Missed me?

Sorry it's been awhile since my last post. (But I did tell you to expect a slowdown for this month.) What with the moving, and the working, and the adventures, and the reaaally emotional phone conversations, my life has been more than a little bit hectic.

Sometimes I wish things had a basic routine, or a pattern. Sure, it would get boring after awhile, but when your life doesn't give you time to get comfortable, you start to appreciate a little stability every now and then. It's that whole "the grass is greener on the other side of the fence" thing.

My new apartment is AMAZING. My roommates are pretty cool chicks, and their cat is too adorable for me to hate - most of the time. I've got a bigger space, my own bathroom, carpet-floors so my feet don't get cold when I get out of bed in the morning, AND we have cable. (Only five channels though.)

Downsides: no wireless internet yet, and I'm starting to find cat hair in places I didn't think the cat could get to, let alone shed! Also, I'm a bit awkward about walking around shirtless - as is my wont to do - since I don't want to violate that whole "decency" thing guys are supposed to practice around girls so they don't get grossed out at our secret slobiness.

What else is going on? Well, I've prepared a slew of new blog-ideas for winter break. So you can expect a plethora of posts to make up for this mid-semester lag. Call it your Chanukkah gifts, my loyal & silent readers. (Seriously, why don't you people post more comments? Sometimes I forget people actually read this thing and I end up acting like it's my journal - which can be bad.) Also, the book IS still coming along, like "the little engine that could", and you can definitely expect it by the end of this year. I hope.

Status updates aside, there's not much to write about... It's funny, I've been so focused on only two things this semester that I've almost forgotten about all the other stuff I like to do. I've been so busy trying to hold onto them that I got a version of tunnel-vision - we'll call it tunnel-clutch-vision. To the exclusion of all else, y'know? Is it possible to forget how to live sometimes? Can we lose ourselves in something, and when we come back out be someone else that we're really not?

It seems these past couple weeks I've remembered things I thought I lost, forgot a long time ago. Okay, let me be embarrassingly honest: I've laughed harder than I have for a long time, I said & did the right thing, then I said & did the wrong thing, I made new friends (finally!), and I finally cried again, for the second time in YEARS. (There was this one other time, but I was reaaally drunk so I don't think it count.)

I'm not really sure what's going to happen next. I've got a hundred different plans, back-up plans, emergency procedures, and last resorts. There are ten thousand ideas in my head but I'm here I am actually, completely making this up as I go along. It's like running flat out in the dark, exhilarating to stop seeing and just feel for once, carried by air & instinct - until you crash into a tree, crack your skull and bleed to death.

Gawd, I'm fucking morbid, huh?

Saturday, November 1, 2008

It's raining

Why does everyone like the rain? I've heard things from "the smell" to "the sound" to "the somber, downplayed beauty of it". I don't like the rain. Most people I know have lived their whole lives in one big sunny day. They've never had reason to appreciate how beautiful it is to see a big blue sky, white clouds, yellow light bright, and all that other shit.

The rain makes me sad. Whenever it rains everything gets all grey, so dark & drab. The buildings now look like they're standing sadly, and everyone dresses up in muted colors. Rampant we are not in the rain.

When it rains it's like the sky is crying. How is such an all encompassing sadness something to look forward to? "Oh, it's raining? You're so lucky!" Yeah, right. I'm SO lucky to be stuck inside, watching the world drown in a downpour that reminds me of my own inner-sadness.

And it's not that people even really like the rain itself. People like the rain because of things they associate with it: putting on nice coats, watching from the window while reading, the next day when suddenly the sky seems cleaned out, how the colors come back all vibrant, as if making up for lost time, and then you go outside to a seemingly brighter life and jump around in a puddle.

But the rain itself! Soaked to the bone, riding your bike back from another lonely school day. Stepping through newly created rivers in the street so that you fall on your ass in front of busy, apathetic commuters. Running from awning to blessed awning so that your manuscript doesn't get damp and the ink runs everywhere. Being stuck in the same place, unable to even go for a walk the one time you really need to get out. That's what I'm reminded of when it rains.

So, yeah... I don't like the rain. I'd rather ten thousand sunny days all the same than one single dampened, overwhelming sadness. Is that too naive? Too simplistic? I guess right now I'm just so very much in the mood to protect myself from whatever might remind of anything and everything. But that won't work. So I guess I am naive.

Dry eyes, wet sky, snuggled up in my parka all I really want is hundreds of hundreds of miles away and there's nothing I can do and she doesn't know what or whatever. What was a fucked-up pathetic idiot loser like myself thinking there was ever a chance it could work out? Girls like that don't love guys like me. Guys like me are always side-lined, always a fond memory, and meanwhile, the women we love, loved, move on, crying like they think they should, but never sad enough to realize what they're doing. (Because if they really loved you, how could they ever, ever do anything else but be with you.)

But who's to blame them? They're so much better than we deserve. I wonder if in the years to come I'll look back and think I was lucky to get heartbroken by such a woman. I wonder if I'll really start to subscribe to such bullshit rationality, pretending this pain is a good thing.

Right now, I'd still do it all over again. So, I guess I just might.

That's another reason I don't like the rain. Stuck inside my room all I can do is think too much. Sometimes you need someone to save you from yourself. And that's when you know life really is as cruel as people say, because you realize you have no one to talk to. Or not even that, but no one you want to talk to, because the only person you want to talk to isn't ever going to talk to you again.

"Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. . . . It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more." - Erica Jong, How to Save Your Own Life (1977)

Gawd... give me back the sun so I can at least pretend everything isn't really so terrible.