Sunday Morning Thoughts 1.12.14: In or On Jeopardy

I’m practicing a technique of some writer who wrote this brilliant book that became a pretty good movie that a lot of people liked. The idea, among the many he suggested, was to set a timer for when you sit down to write. I’ve set myself for an hour and have already dawdled through the first few minutes. Still, since I’ve begun this current attempt, the pressure has kept me moving forward.

And if I were to make up some big metaphorical lie, I could tell you that I need to do the same thing with my whole vague life. But perhaps I live without truly feeling all of the pressure that I would or should be placing upon myself and therefore can progress no further. Oh, so many times in the last few weeks have I succumb to my body’s tiredness and slide away to non-specific and slightly terrifying dreams when they can be remembered. They say that your dreams are supposed to be your own unconscious mind attempting to tell you about some injustice it sees in the rest of your waking life. If that were the case, I may have to kindly ask my unconscious mind to lay down the crack pipe and get a little bit of focus. Riddles are not the thing to be had in the effort of problem solving.

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But since I was lying, perhaps the mysterious and ever eluding desire that drive such an individual forward is exact what is needed. I could argue that it is, for a time at least, and say that there is no greater driving force in the history of humanity than that of unraveling mystery and revealing purpose through that which makes no sense. For myself, boredom arrives in force when I am stuck with the same routine for any length of time I deem to be unfit. Normalcy is a dread. I have always grown weary of standing in one place, which is usually and eventually adjusted as it needs to be.

But reflections in the past can be so tainted. Memory is far from perfect. Just ask any crime scene analyst. What is remembered may not have been what had happened. Either way, there is no way to prove what was. We only know what is and fight or flee the impending fulfillment of a single timeline. So there won’t be any more about any of that then.

The struggle is being able to say, or make, or play something that someone else hasn’t quite done yet. You could say that I, as a youth in the farthest point this species has gone in time, that my ability to absorb information scattered across the past would allow for me to hold an idea composed of collaboration but lacking on uniqueness. All the art and knowledge of the world is at the disposal of my finger tips, yet with that I am robbed of the experience of discovering something new.

You could say that, if you were a total dipshit. Nay, for it is I who say, that the ability to experience that of those who came before me left behind is exactly that which creates a perspective that has yet to be had. And to toot my own horn, I have been able to steer clear of a lot of the popular cultural consumption that plagues the youth and aged alike in the saturated market of product placed entertainment.

From here the burden, which I shall carry with me for most of my days, is what to do with all of this. All the things that have inspired hope and jaded my edges helped to sculpt this experience but what is to be done with it. Turning potential energy into kinetic is not as easy as the Science Guy makes it seem sometimes.

Yet I should sell nothing short. In fact, I won’t sell anything at all. It is my aim to not try to profit off of this life, though I do plan to enjoy it. And so I have been trying to again. My health is getting better, simply because I’m trying to pay more mind to it. I’ve been keeping on all of those oh, so important outlets and trying to weed out the negative impact. It is far from going perfectly, which is exactly how I expect it to go. I hold no desire to wish for things to be without making the attempt to make them so myself.

I am nowhere near where I need or want to be in life, which is the truly the greatest thing I have. I still have a vast world of mystery left to trek through and the only thing that keeps me from it is the same thing that keeps me from everything else.

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Um… what is, myself?

Correct, you can now pick the next category.

I’ll take “Where to go from here?” for 200.

The answer: Anything you want.

Um… what are, the possibilities?

Correct.

By the way, I didn’t go past the hour mark. Some would say life is about the little victories. I would say that every victory is great and grand.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 1.5.14: To the Queen of Farting Face Masks

It is true. Life gets harder as you get older. I always suppose I thought they were shitting me but I’ve come to find that with each day, the burden and price of existence build in weight and mass. Our timelines strain and creak from overuse. People fade away and all of us eventually die in this life, despite whatever beliefs in afterlives are held. As they say, on a long enough timeline, everyone’s chance of survival drops to zero.

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Some would call that last paragraph pessimistic. I, on the other hand, would not. Remember friends, there is a line between being pessimistic and just having a proper sense of reality. I would be more wary of too much optimism. It’s a fool’s dope after all and junkies can hardly ever admit that they are junkies. And if they do, they usually cease being junkies soon after.

The struggle is the balance between reality and hope. We can only hope for the future, because it is the only part that we have all yet to see in life. In fact, you are in the future right now, as you read this. It could be minutes (depending on how fast I am able to keep this flow going), or hours, or days. It could be years if you’re a fan (unlikely) or even me from the future. I could easily turn this into a letter to myself through time but I feel that future me would find that terribly clichéd and lazy. I do trust that future me will laugh, if I ever get around to reading this. I always have when I think about when I was younger and doped on fool’s hope I used to be.

But here we are now, in our overlapping version of the present. Me, as I write- and you, as you read. You may know who I am, or at least could get an idea from mulling about these collected ramblings. However, I do not know you. Even if I do know you in this life, I do not know you here and now. I take this quasi-beatnik, supposedly philosophical, emotionally driven dump for you to look at, which is a terrible thing to do. Yet it is what many of my heroes have done for me and I have a wonder and addiction to the idea of it. I wish I could say that I’m addicted to writing but these days it’s almost as though I’ve quit. The desperation is here and all I need to do is trade out some of those many dirty habits and replace them with the proper ones.

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This has made me ponder on the wonder that is writing. Though I adore the art of good conversation, there is nothing I know that is as cathartic as a good vent at the keyboard. But I suppose that balance comes into play again.

Before I get off topic, I want to dance around an idea. Though I can’t say for sure, I am going to go ahead and reckon that when you read something by oh, let’s say your favorite fiction author, that you have a sense of knowing who they are. There is always a voice present and as I’m sure they planted specific things in specific places to best replicate the ideas they held at the time. They create the best replication that they can to express the perspective that they themselves had.

And even if the authors themselves don’t emerge in your mind, that characters must. Even if you don’t like a character and agree with how they think and act and whatnot, you still see how and why they do it. Justification is for those with hindsight.

But I still haven’t gotten to the thought, which is as follows- no matter what you think, most of us will never meet those who write what we read. How I wish I knew Vonnegut and Kerouac, or know Palahniuk and McCarthy, but I do not. They leave whatever ideas they want me to have, and I straggle along behind them picking up what was left behind.

And damn grand about it, I say!

To be able refine ideas to words at a pace that they need to fall from a mind that has been sharpening with each love, hate, mistake, wake,  innovation, heartbreak, loss, gain, sprain, action in vain, drunken stupor, promotion, demotion, commotion, devotion, lack of closure, over-exposure, bar mitzvah, wedding and funeral- what a thing that must be. And is and I know because I’ve done it, just not on any noticeable scale yet. But I’ll be starting my ascent soon. Though future me might stick up for present me and use that hindsight of his to say I’ve been going at it for much long. Such a sucker he is sometimes.

I won’t bore with more details on what my plans are. I’d rather talk about them once they start happening. But I will tell you that my father decided that he wants to be buried in sandals. Jesus wore them and he wants to kick it off right when he meets him. So I’ve got a new bit to punch up one of my old stand up jokes. And that’s a good thing.

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