"I watch the proverbial sun rise over the Pacific
And I might be losing my mind, but I will shy away from the specifics.
Cause I don't want you to know who I am.
Cause then you'll see my heart and the saddest thing its ever been
This is no way to try and live my life
Stop right there: That's exactly where I lost it
See that line, well I never should have crossed it
Stop right there: I never should have said that.
It's the very moment that I wish that I could take back.
I'm sorry for the person I became.
I'm sorry that it took so long for me to change.
I'm ready to make sure I never become that way again
Cause who I am hates who I've been."
- Relient k "Who I am hates Who I've Been"
It is a strange thing to grow up. And it feels stranger to recognize my growth as a person.
I live my life in relation to other things. Where my friends & my interests intersect &/or bounce off in different trajectories. These relationships change and decay over time, according to the velocity & energy I invest in keeping them in touch.
There are times in which I have to shed mass like a ship trying to stay afloat and maintain speed. At other times I must shoulder new responsibilities in response to a change in the wind in order to keep the pace. As I age, these weights will grow heavier as do the consequences behind the choices of what to keep and of what to let go.
It can also be akin to a juggling act of tossing away a part of my life in hopes of catching it again later once I free up space in the future. But that also means that some things which I drop so that another object can be put into rotation. My skill as a juggler will grow over time with practice as I get more accustomed to the rhythm & flow of life.
There will be some miniature glass houses among those objects. Friendships & hobbies I once held dear. If I am not careful & attentive, these can shatter into shards which can cut wounds. But I need to learn & keep moving on lest my inattention causes further future droppings.
I can't say that I live without regrets, but I am training my focus on the road ahead rather than cursing myself on the exits I missed in the rearview mirror. Life can go in so many ways & occasionally I can be wistful for what might have been or nostalgic for the way things were. My father and his twin brother have a reoccurring conversation about how much simpler life was in the age of innocence.
Not that life was easier, but how much less complicated it was when they did not comprehend the full implications of what it means to be a man & function on an adult level. Dynamics shift & the scenery changes. Eyes open wide to the knowledge of good and evil, with the expectation of sorting black & white when society wants to paint over issues with grey areas. Sight isn't always clear on the RIGHT way to behave and conduct myself, especially when the full implication behind how my actions can affect & influence others.
I miss all the me's of the past. Who I have been and the things I carried with me at each stage. But I can't be them again. I don't want to regress in order to cling to the past's familiar comfort. I want to be able to draw upon it & remember with a smile. To be grateful that I can look forward to missing the me that is now on some day in the future.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Monday, January 12, 2015
HonesTea - Letters
Letters. That is the important thing.
I had it all planned out in late night inspiration. That I would try to do a creative thing each day of the week. Updating this would be one of them, such as it is.
But letters.
I wanted to write one every week. But doing so requires recipients possessing at least two of three qualities. First, a willingness to receive such a gesture, then an appreciation of the time it takes to do so, and/or the courtesy to respond in like kind.
It takes two parties for a letter to be a successful endeavor. I am fortunate to be acquainted with a few people fitting that criteria, and there are probably more if I had the courage to propose such a thing. For a while during school, I wrote letters to myself to read later. School was stressful at times, and I wanted an outlet to channel that frustrated creative energy into a medium where I could review it at a better time. They were personal in their insecurity and questioning as to what I was doing with my life if one of my main enjoyments was reading and occasionally commenting in notes my thoughts on them.
I was miffed at the notion that my college library was underutilized in proportion to its wondrously packed hallways of books. The most popular features of the university library were its computers and meeting rooms. So I set out to leave notes in certain books, as an experiment to see whether they circulated at all. I was delighted when about 8 months later, a person found my note in a Neil Gaiman graphic novel and told me that my note was appreciated.
It is the little things like that which can really make my day better. During New years, I watched a Demetri Martin special "If I" with a friend. I had seen it before, and I remembered enjoying it. (The entire program is available on Youtube). It is an autobiographical routine in which Martin explores his life through the lens of the different dictionary definitions of "If." He is too clever for himself at times and the audience sometimes needs a second or two to catch up. But the presenter is patient with them, allowing for pauses between his narration of habits and motivations which led him to where he is now. Martin loved brain puzzles as a child, then he made his own puzzles, then used everyday life as a puzzle, then himself as something to be solved. It is a progression into introspection and he admits of the dangers of treating life as an abstracted game.
My friend watching it didn't find it as funny as I did. He found it to be painfully true for where he is in his own life. And it is. I was laughing at the accuracy of his observations in application, but the internally-directed humor helps dampen the blows he takes. He doesn't blame the audience for not examining their lives better, but offers his life as a living example of the troubles he had when he did exactly that.
Little things add up. And getting a personal letter in the mail is delightful. It makes me very happy. But in order to get that feeling, I have to find someone else who also finds joy in that as well and is willing to reciprocate. I worry that I will run out of interesting things to say, but I shan't know if I don't make the attempt to exhaust whatever I have at the moment.
These days, I look forward to coming home and having a hot cup of tea. It is a seasonal habit for me in these cold days and gives me motivation to carry on during the duties of the day. It is a ritual, a closure, and a restorative all at once. What a wonderful little subculture it can be, though I know it is quite a public one elsewhere in the world, I can pretend it is a private indulgence for me alone.
Good night.
I had it all planned out in late night inspiration. That I would try to do a creative thing each day of the week. Updating this would be one of them, such as it is.
But letters.
I wanted to write one every week. But doing so requires recipients possessing at least two of three qualities. First, a willingness to receive such a gesture, then an appreciation of the time it takes to do so, and/or the courtesy to respond in like kind.
It takes two parties for a letter to be a successful endeavor. I am fortunate to be acquainted with a few people fitting that criteria, and there are probably more if I had the courage to propose such a thing. For a while during school, I wrote letters to myself to read later. School was stressful at times, and I wanted an outlet to channel that frustrated creative energy into a medium where I could review it at a better time. They were personal in their insecurity and questioning as to what I was doing with my life if one of my main enjoyments was reading and occasionally commenting in notes my thoughts on them.
I was miffed at the notion that my college library was underutilized in proportion to its wondrously packed hallways of books. The most popular features of the university library were its computers and meeting rooms. So I set out to leave notes in certain books, as an experiment to see whether they circulated at all. I was delighted when about 8 months later, a person found my note in a Neil Gaiman graphic novel and told me that my note was appreciated.
It is the little things like that which can really make my day better. During New years, I watched a Demetri Martin special "If I" with a friend. I had seen it before, and I remembered enjoying it. (The entire program is available on Youtube). It is an autobiographical routine in which Martin explores his life through the lens of the different dictionary definitions of "If." He is too clever for himself at times and the audience sometimes needs a second or two to catch up. But the presenter is patient with them, allowing for pauses between his narration of habits and motivations which led him to where he is now. Martin loved brain puzzles as a child, then he made his own puzzles, then used everyday life as a puzzle, then himself as something to be solved. It is a progression into introspection and he admits of the dangers of treating life as an abstracted game.
My friend watching it didn't find it as funny as I did. He found it to be painfully true for where he is in his own life. And it is. I was laughing at the accuracy of his observations in application, but the internally-directed humor helps dampen the blows he takes. He doesn't blame the audience for not examining their lives better, but offers his life as a living example of the troubles he had when he did exactly that.
Little things add up. And getting a personal letter in the mail is delightful. It makes me very happy. But in order to get that feeling, I have to find someone else who also finds joy in that as well and is willing to reciprocate. I worry that I will run out of interesting things to say, but I shan't know if I don't make the attempt to exhaust whatever I have at the moment.
These days, I look forward to coming home and having a hot cup of tea. It is a seasonal habit for me in these cold days and gives me motivation to carry on during the duties of the day. It is a ritual, a closure, and a restorative all at once. What a wonderful little subculture it can be, though I know it is quite a public one elsewhere in the world, I can pretend it is a private indulgence for me alone.
Good night.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Annual - Annoyance
(The title was derived from my laptop named "Beautiful" being grumpy and refusing my efforts to reach this blog and make a post. It is about 5 years old and I probably could have taken better care of it. However, my combination of fondness for its familiarity and disinclination through a cheap streak at the cost of replacement means I am most likely going to make do with it for a while yet.)
Every year, I tell myself is a rededication. Nothing outrageous, but an opportunity to mark off milestones and make new habits. Alas, I run out of steam and get distracted by other things. Mostly, I wonder if what habits I chose really matter. Do they mean something to someone else? Is it selfish to pursue these habits at the expense of other things?
I don't know for certain, and thus get worried over nothing until I realize that time has gone by and I have accomplished nothing but vanity. Nothing will matter if there is nothing given or risked. I fear that I shall go through my life with the same mantra, the same thoughts put in different words. but it is all that I have at the moment and will likely always be.
So I read other peoples work, comforted that it is not mine. That I am a spectator, though not often a critic. I am apart from the creative process, but can get excited and point others in the same direction. "Look! Look! This person is saying something on my wavelength! If you want to understand me, only presented better, this is what you need to know. This is what entertains me. This is what thrills me. And because this other person is able to communicate this, I am obviously not alone in that interest or perspective."
It is lazy, admittedly. But it depends on what I ultimately do with the knowledge and experience I have accumulated. Mostly I do things of value when I am not noticing, when it becomes natural for me to do certain things. I want a natural life, one in which I grow. But it is a matter of perspective. Maybe you'll gain from whatever fruit I am able to produce from the sources of entertainment and interest that I find and share. That is a pleasant thought.
Consistency. That is the key. To keep persevering and building a commitment to an end. This blog is somewhat a collection of snapshots of my mind at certain times. Like with my face, certain themes stay recognizable, but depending on the time interval between captures and the amount of sleep I've had before it, the expressions in the portraits change.
I am usually spurred to write when some external event occurs to encourage it. In this case, it is a cocktail of few ingredients. The new year and the reorienting in time and place that it brings. A vague poking about on my part towards my lethargic facebook account to see if I should awaken it. Lastly, the amount of enjoyment I am getting from reading Warren Ellis' "Orbital Operations" and the DeFractions' "Milkfed Criminal Masterminds" email newsletters.
Writing as a process is fascinating to me. Not always as the mechanics and the rules as if it were a machine, but from the operator and conductor's point of view. How does a writer process information and convert it into communication and narrative? Ellis is a grumbling gardener of a writer - his ideas sprout from a rich assorted fertilizer of environmental and economic theories of rise of declines in the modern world, ambient music seeded along other sorts of podcasts, and composted rejected ideas which collapsed on themselves before they saw the light of public purview. I love this weekly newsletter so much, with its grim humor and commentary on trends and their applications and implications.
Milkfed Criminal Masterminds' updates are fewer, so I don't have as much material with which to judge its tones, but Matt Fraction's December newsletter was amazing. It was a story told through chronological coincidences and rediscoveries, of how pain, addiction, and death were sometimes the risks and scars of his courting of the creative process. It was beautiful, heartbreaking, bitter through the hard times, and sweet through the knowledge that he has survived those demons for now.
There is hope, though in the short scenes and stories that I have crafted so far have not always been clear or hopeful. I get lost, whether in terms of where I was intending to go, or in not leaving a distinct and engaging trail for an audience to follow. A few of my attempts have strained the friendships I've had and discouraged me from trying my hand at writing short fictions.
Writing is work. Especially editing. I have heard that the first draft is for the writer (with door closed), the second is door open (with a few trusted people let in to review). I don't always have the confidence for the second go-around. It is cowardly, and I need to change that if I want to be a better writer. It is a tricky balance to be in tune with the work but not emotionally connected in a way that will cripple at the first wave of criticism. I guess that is why there are drafts. If I want something to last and stand, I need to care enough that it has a good foundation and presentation from more than one angle or perspective. That I would not be discouraged by it falling apart, but to take the pieces that stood up well and recycle them into the next attempt.
This is mostly a reminder to myself. It is not a resolution, but nor is it a passing fancy. Let's call it a consideration for now, until it gets higher than a few days off the ground to be worth a different title.
Every year, I tell myself is a rededication. Nothing outrageous, but an opportunity to mark off milestones and make new habits. Alas, I run out of steam and get distracted by other things. Mostly, I wonder if what habits I chose really matter. Do they mean something to someone else? Is it selfish to pursue these habits at the expense of other things?
I don't know for certain, and thus get worried over nothing until I realize that time has gone by and I have accomplished nothing but vanity. Nothing will matter if there is nothing given or risked. I fear that I shall go through my life with the same mantra, the same thoughts put in different words. but it is all that I have at the moment and will likely always be.
So I read other peoples work, comforted that it is not mine. That I am a spectator, though not often a critic. I am apart from the creative process, but can get excited and point others in the same direction. "Look! Look! This person is saying something on my wavelength! If you want to understand me, only presented better, this is what you need to know. This is what entertains me. This is what thrills me. And because this other person is able to communicate this, I am obviously not alone in that interest or perspective."
It is lazy, admittedly. But it depends on what I ultimately do with the knowledge and experience I have accumulated. Mostly I do things of value when I am not noticing, when it becomes natural for me to do certain things. I want a natural life, one in which I grow. But it is a matter of perspective. Maybe you'll gain from whatever fruit I am able to produce from the sources of entertainment and interest that I find and share. That is a pleasant thought.
Consistency. That is the key. To keep persevering and building a commitment to an end. This blog is somewhat a collection of snapshots of my mind at certain times. Like with my face, certain themes stay recognizable, but depending on the time interval between captures and the amount of sleep I've had before it, the expressions in the portraits change.
I am usually spurred to write when some external event occurs to encourage it. In this case, it is a cocktail of few ingredients. The new year and the reorienting in time and place that it brings. A vague poking about on my part towards my lethargic facebook account to see if I should awaken it. Lastly, the amount of enjoyment I am getting from reading Warren Ellis' "Orbital Operations" and the DeFractions' "Milkfed Criminal Masterminds" email newsletters.
Writing as a process is fascinating to me. Not always as the mechanics and the rules as if it were a machine, but from the operator and conductor's point of view. How does a writer process information and convert it into communication and narrative? Ellis is a grumbling gardener of a writer - his ideas sprout from a rich assorted fertilizer of environmental and economic theories of rise of declines in the modern world, ambient music seeded along other sorts of podcasts, and composted rejected ideas which collapsed on themselves before they saw the light of public purview. I love this weekly newsletter so much, with its grim humor and commentary on trends and their applications and implications.
Milkfed Criminal Masterminds' updates are fewer, so I don't have as much material with which to judge its tones, but Matt Fraction's December newsletter was amazing. It was a story told through chronological coincidences and rediscoveries, of how pain, addiction, and death were sometimes the risks and scars of his courting of the creative process. It was beautiful, heartbreaking, bitter through the hard times, and sweet through the knowledge that he has survived those demons for now.
There is hope, though in the short scenes and stories that I have crafted so far have not always been clear or hopeful. I get lost, whether in terms of where I was intending to go, or in not leaving a distinct and engaging trail for an audience to follow. A few of my attempts have strained the friendships I've had and discouraged me from trying my hand at writing short fictions.
Writing is work. Especially editing. I have heard that the first draft is for the writer (with door closed), the second is door open (with a few trusted people let in to review). I don't always have the confidence for the second go-around. It is cowardly, and I need to change that if I want to be a better writer. It is a tricky balance to be in tune with the work but not emotionally connected in a way that will cripple at the first wave of criticism. I guess that is why there are drafts. If I want something to last and stand, I need to care enough that it has a good foundation and presentation from more than one angle or perspective. That I would not be discouraged by it falling apart, but to take the pieces that stood up well and recycle them into the next attempt.
This is mostly a reminder to myself. It is not a resolution, but nor is it a passing fancy. Let's call it a consideration for now, until it gets higher than a few days off the ground to be worth a different title.
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