And that's all I have to say about that.
It's the end of a lazy Sunday, in turn ending the lazy weekend. I slept a few hours Friday afternoon, then visited with a friend that night, to go on into Saturday, where there was good Chinese food and better company, transforming into a game that was a bit lame but familiar and welcome, metamorphosizing into a Sunday, which was sunny, warm, and invitingly relaxing.
I felt listless, and reacted to that feeling with vigor and abandon. Won't even attempt to explain how that makes perfect sense to me, yet will probably be viewed as a contradiction.
Whatever.
Oddly, and ironically, I received both copies of Emerson's works Saturday. One was a collection of his essays, printed in 1889, the other a print of "Self-Reliance", printed in 1908. Both stunning editions, well-preserved, fascinating. I couldn't be more pleased with the editions. One went to my long-time friend, Bill S., as an anniversary gift (2nd), of sorts, while the other, the "Self-Reliance" book, will stay a cherished addition to my inadequate library of literary treasures. I highly recommend taking the time to read this, even if it is out of an American Literature book published last year where the pages are thin and rattle'y.
Or read something else. It's a brilliant time of year to break out your dog-eared copy of "Walden".
�Another Girl, Another Planet�
March 9th, 2001
Three is the magic number.
If you ever talk to me about writing, and the process of creating the written work, you�ll more than likely have to listen to my thoughts about how I believe writing is a physical discipline. It�s quite possibly the most important aspect about writing. You have to sit, somewhere comfortably, and write. With the pen, word processor, or computer (I guess those last two are about the same now), and a lot of patience. Sometimes the right word will not make itself available.
Or the right concept.
Without a beginning, there can be no middle, no climax, no characters, no end. To me, the concept is always first. Then the characters, then their interactions, then their dynamic situations. Mix in some suspension of disbelief, a non-American ending (nothing is ever happy forever), and you have something going for yourself. Maybe not the next Hollywood box office hit, but something.
And what do we do with these �somethings� that we work so hard for, at our desks and laptops? We show them to friends. Enemies (read: Editors). Anyone who will read them. Do we write for a target audience before the product is finished? Do we send our work to said target audience?
I�m rambling about writing today because, truthfully, I have nothing relevant to say about the day. It is important to note that writing is physical, and not solely, or mostly, mental. We are rooted in the physical sensations our body allows. Writing is not so different than that. I know after I finish a piece, even these little journal entries, there�s a weariness that follows. It�s a necessary weakness when someone gives a little piece of themselves to paper, for others to see. There�s always a period of anticipation. I try not to write for a response, but I do it just the same. I find myself enjoying the conversations I have, just over these bits I produce for you.
Can you say I have a terrible ego? You could, but I wouldn�t be inclined to believe it.
Instead, I would believe that I�m sharing something with you, whether it�s physical in conception, or mental in application. It works, and I hope, in a small way, allows you to think beyond the stereotypical ideas of writing and journals, and stretches yourself, creatively.
Just a bit.
�Who Watches the Watchmen?�
March 13th, 2001
It�s only one in the morning, and I have something to say.
Yes, I�m tired. I usually try not to stay up so late/early, so I can wake up early enough to make the most out of my day. Sitting in front of the computer, listening to the line noise or the same Napster-fished songs, wondering why sometimes the words like to play hide-and-seek. Maybe some lunch. Usually lots and lots of good conversation. I have lovely friends, even if they don�t think so. People make decisions based on experience mostly, but intuition can�t be ruled out.
I decided to quit school. Again.
Recently, I�ve had an awful turn of events. I mean, really. If you�re reading this, you probably know most of the surface conditions surrounding them, and a few of you know more. Or lived it with me. Or are living it with me. Anyway, you know bad things have happened.
I wear a brave face most days. I slip at nights, especially late, with the only seductive light glowing from a blue lamp atop a comic box and this, my computer, my link. My Science Hero.
The television was on a few minutes ago, because I left it on after finally watching the new film version of �Dune�. The station was logging off for the day. And I stopped, and listened, and watched. There was such finality to it, a formality to the deep baritone nothing-voice. I was stunned. All I could think about were the times when, as a young child, I would fall asleep in front of the television, where my parents would let me lie on the weekends, so I could just continue to watch Saturday morning cartoons. The announcer would end the channel�s program for the day, just like today, and it would always wake me up. Better than an alarm clock. I turned off the television and went to sleep.
And I�m still partially that child, from twenty-five years ago. I still turn off my television, by myself, and sleep, waiting for the next day. My parents let me sleep where I will. They don�t fuss much over it anymore.
There�s a sadness in this, I suppose, but I can�t help smiling.
�I Will Dare�
March 19th, 2001
What do you call a boomerrang that won't come back? A stick.
I had a great time last weekend. Much fun. Today is clean-up for it and for moving my stuff into my apartment, after three months of procrastination. I've realized that I need some things, but I'm not sure if I'll have them anytime soon. Here goes:
1. More comic boxes, bags, and backing boards. They're all over my bedroom and living room floors.
2. A microwave.
3. Some sort of filing system for all of my paperwork. I have a filing cabinet, but have yet, over the ten years that I've owned it, utilized it properly. I also own little storage boxes that fall under the same gloomy spell.
4. A vacuum cleaner.
5. Batteries for the various electronic devices I've uncovered. I forgot that I owned a Klingon Phase Disruptor. How have I lived life without it?
6. A stereo. Something for the living room. All I have right now is my CD-ROM drive.
7. A new television set. Mine is a hand-me-down from the early 80s, I fear.
8. A new video cassette recorder. I bought the one I own back in '92, when Star Trek: Deep Space Nine first premiered.
9. A DVD player. I'm decadent.
10. Beers. I have no beers. Unsettling.
I filed my federal taxes last night. I should receive a nice chunk of change. About a month's worth of wages in one lump sum, settling nicely in my checking account. Once I find it there, it's going to move over into a savings account for a while, and earn some interest. Well, at least interest from me while I peck away at it 'til it's gone.
What a boring entry. Sorry, all. I'll strive to do better next time.
"The Devil in our Midst"
March 27th, 2001
I started this out a few minutes ago, but my computer decided on its own that it was time to reboot. Everything I wrote was lost. Is that a sign?
I was going on about this odd feeling I've had all year long. Like, something was missing, or that I didn't belong here. I'm on remote control, and the world just happens without much interference from me. Oh, I've tried, of course. Been through so many extremes already, and it's only the end of March. It's a bit of a tale, so come by sometime and I'll fill you in, if you don't have the scoop already.
My purpose: to write about it, thus confront it. It's not working. I feel it even more so now. I feel like I'm in a "What If...?" comic, and I'm the star. Everything I do is the wrong thing, or the thing I would not normally do, or something so out there I have no real definition or category to place it in.
And I'm not whining. I'm not even trying to say that this reality is BAD. Just not MINE. But it is. I'm here, and living it, and experiencing it. I can't stop it.
What can be done about it? I have a theory about staying home way too much. I'm a social creature, and I've been denying that all month long. I've holed myself up in this apartment and read, and wrote, and thought for so long that I think I'm missing what's going on around me. Maybe it's Spring Fever, now. But if so, what was it before?
To sum it up, I offer you "Peter Parker: Spider-Man" number 29. It was released last week, so you have a chance to hit a comic shop and still buy it. Wonderful cover of Mary Jane and Peter. You'll have to dredge your way through the story, which is only mediocre at best. Pay special attention to the last three pages. I surely empathize with our hero.