I have recently entered into what could be termed as a "Relationship". This makes me quite happy due in no slight amount to the fact that I despise being alone with every fiber of my being.
However, this is not simply an affair made to keep me from realizing loneliness. The girl is inspiring, entertaining, intelligent and frighteningly efficient. We hit it off in such a short order that were this to continue for years and years we could say it was at least "Infatuation at first sight" if not love.
It interests me to see my own reactions to this. Usually, lust is the primary feeling and prominently controls my actions. However, as I have gotten older (and I know that I am neither very old nor very young anymore) I have begun to change my responses, attitudes, and reactions.
I am very attracted to the girl. I don't think any relationship could exist without mutual attraction. I find her conversation appealing and constantly seek to engage her mind in new and interesting ways.
I am infatuated. I am, quite possibly, in the early stages of more than simple infatuation. Lust does not seem to be playing its former fantastically large part. I do desire her, no doubt, but in most previously relationships lust decided and dictated a great deal.
I'm typing this mostly to myself. I don't have the time right now to sit and truly write. So I am entering my thoughts here and there for later perusal. I want to see later what I am like now. Hindsight and all.
11 January 2010
04 January 2010
Chaos v. Order
Is it better to have Chaos or Order as the primary method of movement in your life?
The answer is probably somewhere in between. A compromise utilizing both philosophies that will balance out and hopefully produce something worth being called a life.
This is probably going to turn into a rantish bit of blase banter, but I have nothing else to write about at the moment except the Self-Creation of the Lady Gaga. I want to get more research done on that particular bit of fantastica before moving on with it. Here's a tease for your antici...pation buds: The Fabulous Miss Frankenstein, or How I Learned to Create Myself.
In any case, Chaos and Order.
I see order in everything I do. I function on a daily basis by flowing through routine. Usually, I lay out my uniform before I wake the following day on days I am going to have to work. I get up, brush teeth, shave, shower, and arrive at work right around 715 (or go do PT, but we'll not deviate right now). I grab a small bit to eat and some OJ. I screw around with email for a bit. I think about shit I want to get done throughout the day and start doing it. I eat lunch about the same time.
Breaking the paragraph here because I hate giant blocks of text that aren't descriptive.
I watch sports crap on the TV during lunch because it's easy to to watch and everyone else in my shop loves all sports. I'm starting to like Football a little more, but I still cannot bring myself to truly love any of these pastimes. I didn't realize that is how that word is spelled. You learn something new...
Anyway, I go throughout my day in a fairly organized fashion. I even screw off orderly. I read the same blogs. I go through all of a story before moving on. If it interests me I either write it down, save it as a bookmark or make a note in a text program about what it was that interested me and think about writing about it later.
I work out. I eat. I study. All in orderly fashion.
Where is chaos in all this? Where is the joy of randomness? Where is the spark of life that isn't structured?
I mean, shit happens on its own and throws everything else out the window, but that isn't usually game breaking. I try to inject Chaos in when I can on my own.
I read at random. I find things that interest me and look up commentary about the books and follow links and suggestions and trace lines to other authors who are interesting.
I watch TV shows at random. I will find something that interests me online and go looking around for something else until I find something that is interesting enough to want to follow it to completion.
I am a completist. That's not a word. But it is for the sake of this argument. I like following through with something until I have learned all I can about it. Read all of an author's work. Watched every episode of a show online until it's done. Stay up to date on it. Download Discographies instead of individual songs. Etc.
I listen to music at random, that's for certain. I've listened to some truly horrendous shit over the past couple of years while seeking and sifting and trying to find new stuff, old stuff, borrowed stuff, blue stuff. Seuss stuff. Stuff. I dance around sites that say "top music of the blah" and follow suggestions by other writers about what they listen to while writing, running, chilling, eating, driving.
Is that all truly Chaos? It's not AS orderly, but there is still a rhyme and reason to it.
Order probably pervades more than Chaos in my life.
Chaos would be to go out into the cold right now and drive to some random bar and find some girl and flirt with her and be all super confident and amazing and spectacular.
But it's cold. And i'm not the most sociable of people. And apparently Order is the rule of the day.
This might need to change.
The answer is probably somewhere in between. A compromise utilizing both philosophies that will balance out and hopefully produce something worth being called a life.
This is probably going to turn into a rantish bit of blase banter, but I have nothing else to write about at the moment except the Self-Creation of the Lady Gaga. I want to get more research done on that particular bit of fantastica before moving on with it. Here's a tease for your antici...pation buds: The Fabulous Miss Frankenstein, or How I Learned to Create Myself.
In any case, Chaos and Order.
I see order in everything I do. I function on a daily basis by flowing through routine. Usually, I lay out my uniform before I wake the following day on days I am going to have to work. I get up, brush teeth, shave, shower, and arrive at work right around 715 (or go do PT, but we'll not deviate right now). I grab a small bit to eat and some OJ. I screw around with email for a bit. I think about shit I want to get done throughout the day and start doing it. I eat lunch about the same time.
Breaking the paragraph here because I hate giant blocks of text that aren't descriptive.
I watch sports crap on the TV during lunch because it's easy to to watch and everyone else in my shop loves all sports. I'm starting to like Football a little more, but I still cannot bring myself to truly love any of these pastimes. I didn't realize that is how that word is spelled. You learn something new...
Anyway, I go throughout my day in a fairly organized fashion. I even screw off orderly. I read the same blogs. I go through all of a story before moving on. If it interests me I either write it down, save it as a bookmark or make a note in a text program about what it was that interested me and think about writing about it later.
I work out. I eat. I study. All in orderly fashion.
Where is chaos in all this? Where is the joy of randomness? Where is the spark of life that isn't structured?
I mean, shit happens on its own and throws everything else out the window, but that isn't usually game breaking. I try to inject Chaos in when I can on my own.
I read at random. I find things that interest me and look up commentary about the books and follow links and suggestions and trace lines to other authors who are interesting.
I watch TV shows at random. I will find something that interests me online and go looking around for something else until I find something that is interesting enough to want to follow it to completion.
I am a completist. That's not a word. But it is for the sake of this argument. I like following through with something until I have learned all I can about it. Read all of an author's work. Watched every episode of a show online until it's done. Stay up to date on it. Download Discographies instead of individual songs. Etc.
I listen to music at random, that's for certain. I've listened to some truly horrendous shit over the past couple of years while seeking and sifting and trying to find new stuff, old stuff, borrowed stuff, blue stuff. Seuss stuff. Stuff. I dance around sites that say "top music of the blah" and follow suggestions by other writers about what they listen to while writing, running, chilling, eating, driving.
Is that all truly Chaos? It's not AS orderly, but there is still a rhyme and reason to it.
Order probably pervades more than Chaos in my life.
Chaos would be to go out into the cold right now and drive to some random bar and find some girl and flirt with her and be all super confident and amazing and spectacular.
But it's cold. And i'm not the most sociable of people. And apparently Order is the rule of the day.
This might need to change.
03 January 2010
Up In The Air and the Meaning of Life
The first thing I want to say is this: George Clooney's new movie, Up in the Air, is sad, thought-provoking, and probably inspired me to be in the mood to write everything that follows. Not the content, exactly, but the theme, if you catch what I'm saying. I highly suggest watching the film. It isn't one you have to see in a theatre. Hell, I found it online and the entire time there was a caption at the bottom that said "For awards determination purposes only." I've never been one to really care about things like that. I just wanted to watch a good movie.
I was not disappointed.
Praise aside, let's get into it.
In the Air Force, while being located in the Dormitory (and yes, we call them that instead of Barracks - it adds to the image), you are occasionally called upon to participate in a duty called Bay Orderly. This duty requires you to step aside from your normal Air Force duties, throw on a green vest, and spend the week walking the dorms and making certain they are clean.
I was not selected for this duty. However, I was voluntold to take over for someone who had been selected and was not informed before she made Leave (vacation) plans for the week she was supposed to be participating. This being the New Year's weekend, I was a little bummed out that I would have to spend part of my weekend accepting this duty. I was relieved to find out that I only had to do it Thursday during the day and one day on the weekend for about 2 hours. Then, the following week. Turns out I got to Sunday as my day and that, in conjunction with having Friday off because of New Year's day, gave me a real weekend to play with.
I spent it driving down to Sumter, South Carolina, to visit my friend Jeremy and his beautiful wife Rebecca at their home. I packed up around noon (having been relieved early from Bay O duty) and drove the 6 hours down to SC.
The weekend was wonderful. We hung out. We went to a bar with one of Nott's coworkers - an excellent drinker and all-around good time of a dude. We drifted about and did much of nothing the next day. Watched some football, ate out, had meaningless and meaningful conversations, watched a jacked up movie and an amusing one.
I was due back to be here for duty at 0900 on Sunday morning for more Bay Orderly duty. I spent Saturday night hanging out at a Mexican restaurant singing Karaoke (David Allan Coe was a hit and I'm a great country singer, tyvm). I did not end up even leaving until almost midnight. I didn't arrive here until after 0500 and I got up 3 hours later for duty tired as hell.
Why did I do this?
Why is it that when the weekend comes up for me I tend to look outward? Why is it that my typical option is to drive anywhere from 3 to 6 hours to go up to New Jersey, down to Sumter, or over to Roanoke? Why is it that I will never have more than a few weeks of leave piled up at any given time and will always spend it quickly going to Houston to visit my mom and family there or to Nashville visiting my oldest friends and family there?
Why?
Because being alone effing sucks. Now, don't worry. I'm not about to go off on a long diatribe about how I'm sad and lonely and pity me and blah blah bullshit. I recognize the fact that enough other people are far lonelier than me. The human condition is to be alone. We spend our lives seeking out even the smallest glimmer of connection so that we can share how we feel, what we think, who we are.
I am merely reiterating. Spending your life by yourself is a terrible waste of the opportunity you are given when being forced out of the womb.
Human beings start as two meaningless, messy globs of goop merged together. We grow and are so NOT alone during pregnancy as to come out screaming about the removal. We, hopefully most of us, spend childhood surrounded by family and friends. We move out into the world but we never fully cut ties with the lives behind us.
Being alone sucks.
Not having friends you know you can count on is worse than being destitute. Poor means less if you have people to share some Ramen with. Play rock band with to pass the time and not think about the sucktastic feeling of being broke.
Pain is lessened by others. Stab yourself in the leg one time and start bleeding all over the floor. Do that by yourself and you're probably dead. Do that in a house with a woman who loves you, friends whom you've literally just fought so hard with they threw you out of their house and guess what happens? You don't die. You go to the hospital drifting towards unconsciousness thinking you might be pulling into a Wal-Mart and just a bit delirious. But you survive.
Anguish and heartbreak is made easier with a shoulder to cry on. A person to hug. Somebody to love.
What I'm saying isn't new. I'm not even entirely sure why I'm saying it other than to simply be writing something I truly and honestly feel.
Do not spend your life wasted away alone. If even for a moment you have the time to feel pity for yourself walk outside. Make a connection with a coworker you barely know. Drive 6 hours to visit a friend. Go online and pay $40 to talk to strangers on a dating site. Just don't be alone.
Your life is meaningless if you die without having experienced the concept of togetherness. For a person that doesn't believe in a Heaven or Hell this truly hits home. If life is meaningless and random and has no point then it is our job as, probably, the only rational thinking creatures on this planet to ascribe meaning to it. The meaning of life is to make meaning of life.
And 42.
I was not disappointed.
Praise aside, let's get into it.
In the Air Force, while being located in the Dormitory (and yes, we call them that instead of Barracks - it adds to the image), you are occasionally called upon to participate in a duty called Bay Orderly. This duty requires you to step aside from your normal Air Force duties, throw on a green vest, and spend the week walking the dorms and making certain they are clean.
I was not selected for this duty. However, I was voluntold to take over for someone who had been selected and was not informed before she made Leave (vacation) plans for the week she was supposed to be participating. This being the New Year's weekend, I was a little bummed out that I would have to spend part of my weekend accepting this duty. I was relieved to find out that I only had to do it Thursday during the day and one day on the weekend for about 2 hours. Then, the following week. Turns out I got to Sunday as my day and that, in conjunction with having Friday off because of New Year's day, gave me a real weekend to play with.
I spent it driving down to Sumter, South Carolina, to visit my friend Jeremy and his beautiful wife Rebecca at their home. I packed up around noon (having been relieved early from Bay O duty) and drove the 6 hours down to SC.
The weekend was wonderful. We hung out. We went to a bar with one of Nott's coworkers - an excellent drinker and all-around good time of a dude. We drifted about and did much of nothing the next day. Watched some football, ate out, had meaningless and meaningful conversations, watched a jacked up movie and an amusing one.
I was due back to be here for duty at 0900 on Sunday morning for more Bay Orderly duty. I spent Saturday night hanging out at a Mexican restaurant singing Karaoke (David Allan Coe was a hit and I'm a great country singer, tyvm). I did not end up even leaving until almost midnight. I didn't arrive here until after 0500 and I got up 3 hours later for duty tired as hell.
Why did I do this?
Why is it that when the weekend comes up for me I tend to look outward? Why is it that my typical option is to drive anywhere from 3 to 6 hours to go up to New Jersey, down to Sumter, or over to Roanoke? Why is it that I will never have more than a few weeks of leave piled up at any given time and will always spend it quickly going to Houston to visit my mom and family there or to Nashville visiting my oldest friends and family there?
Why?
Because being alone effing sucks. Now, don't worry. I'm not about to go off on a long diatribe about how I'm sad and lonely and pity me and blah blah bullshit. I recognize the fact that enough other people are far lonelier than me. The human condition is to be alone. We spend our lives seeking out even the smallest glimmer of connection so that we can share how we feel, what we think, who we are.
I am merely reiterating. Spending your life by yourself is a terrible waste of the opportunity you are given when being forced out of the womb.
Human beings start as two meaningless, messy globs of goop merged together. We grow and are so NOT alone during pregnancy as to come out screaming about the removal. We, hopefully most of us, spend childhood surrounded by family and friends. We move out into the world but we never fully cut ties with the lives behind us.
Being alone sucks.
Not having friends you know you can count on is worse than being destitute. Poor means less if you have people to share some Ramen with. Play rock band with to pass the time and not think about the sucktastic feeling of being broke.
Pain is lessened by others. Stab yourself in the leg one time and start bleeding all over the floor. Do that by yourself and you're probably dead. Do that in a house with a woman who loves you, friends whom you've literally just fought so hard with they threw you out of their house and guess what happens? You don't die. You go to the hospital drifting towards unconsciousness thinking you might be pulling into a Wal-Mart and just a bit delirious. But you survive.
Anguish and heartbreak is made easier with a shoulder to cry on. A person to hug. Somebody to love.
What I'm saying isn't new. I'm not even entirely sure why I'm saying it other than to simply be writing something I truly and honestly feel.
Do not spend your life wasted away alone. If even for a moment you have the time to feel pity for yourself walk outside. Make a connection with a coworker you barely know. Drive 6 hours to visit a friend. Go online and pay $40 to talk to strangers on a dating site. Just don't be alone.
Your life is meaningless if you die without having experienced the concept of togetherness. For a person that doesn't believe in a Heaven or Hell this truly hits home. If life is meaningless and random and has no point then it is our job as, probably, the only rational thinking creatures on this planet to ascribe meaning to it. The meaning of life is to make meaning of life.
And 42.
22 December 2009
It Goes In One Ear...
...And Right Out the Other
It seems that no matter how good the advice, how well stated the proposition, how well defined the argument, or how passionately a position is stated that most of the time it slides right in one ear and drips, drips, drips right out the other.
You get bent out of shape about a topic and you vent. But where do you do it? Is it productive? Are you just HA wasting time on a blog that won't get read? Is it a matter of just getting it out of your head? Well, that's ok.
But if you want someone to listen you tell me how that gets done. It's difficult to sit someone down and make 'em listen to what you have to say. We are all our most important people. Our own opinions are obviously so much more correct and better than all the rest.
Why should you expect anyone else to listen if you aren't willing to offer the same in return?
Our society, this American Blogosphere, this United States of Me, is so fond of giving everyone options. Options for buying and selling and entertainment and how to go into debt so fast you can't even think. Options for careers and failures. Options for love and hate. Options for everything.
We sure as hell don't fail at giving out options for being heard. We are by far and away the most outspoken country in the world. Despite a lot of the monitoring that does occur we are very slightly limited in how we say what we say and when we say it and how we say it. We are free.
But are we listening?
Do you really listen to the fifty million Facebook friends you follow? Probably not very much. And why should you when the majority of what we say is so quick and small and minor. Each titillating tidbit of typing you Twitter is very important to you, but not life or death to everyone else. Livejournal may be your deepest, darkest secrets and most heartfelt loves and passions, but the key word to remember is that it is YOURS.
So, why should we expect anyone else to sit down and listen when all that we say is so fast and small and insignificant? Would you listen to a random associate on the street go on and on about their day in person? You might for a few seconds but you wouldn't really care.
Do we really care? Are we a nation of wasted words? Does what we say have depth anymore? Do the words you utter mean anything?
If you are reading this you may wonder why I am typing it. Do I have some motive or reasoning? I have none at all. I am just wasting time. I am just trying to get some thoughts out of my head and practice writing at the same time. I am just spouting nonsense that probably doesn't need to be listened to anymore than anything else anyone else ever says.
There is no moral here. Just questions and mindless self-indulgence.
It seems that no matter how good the advice, how well stated the proposition, how well defined the argument, or how passionately a position is stated that most of the time it slides right in one ear and drips, drips, drips right out the other.
You get bent out of shape about a topic and you vent. But where do you do it? Is it productive? Are you just HA wasting time on a blog that won't get read? Is it a matter of just getting it out of your head? Well, that's ok.
But if you want someone to listen you tell me how that gets done. It's difficult to sit someone down and make 'em listen to what you have to say. We are all our most important people. Our own opinions are obviously so much more correct and better than all the rest.
Why should you expect anyone else to listen if you aren't willing to offer the same in return?
Our society, this American Blogosphere, this United States of Me, is so fond of giving everyone options. Options for buying and selling and entertainment and how to go into debt so fast you can't even think. Options for careers and failures. Options for love and hate. Options for everything.
We sure as hell don't fail at giving out options for being heard. We are by far and away the most outspoken country in the world. Despite a lot of the monitoring that does occur we are very slightly limited in how we say what we say and when we say it and how we say it. We are free.
But are we listening?
Do you really listen to the fifty million Facebook friends you follow? Probably not very much. And why should you when the majority of what we say is so quick and small and minor. Each titillating tidbit of typing you Twitter is very important to you, but not life or death to everyone else. Livejournal may be your deepest, darkest secrets and most heartfelt loves and passions, but the key word to remember is that it is YOURS.
So, why should we expect anyone else to sit down and listen when all that we say is so fast and small and insignificant? Would you listen to a random associate on the street go on and on about their day in person? You might for a few seconds but you wouldn't really care.
Do we really care? Are we a nation of wasted words? Does what we say have depth anymore? Do the words you utter mean anything?
If you are reading this you may wonder why I am typing it. Do I have some motive or reasoning? I have none at all. I am just wasting time. I am just trying to get some thoughts out of my head and practice writing at the same time. I am just spouting nonsense that probably doesn't need to be listened to anymore than anything else anyone else ever says.
There is no moral here. Just questions and mindless self-indulgence.
19 December 2009
Tim Minchin
I have recently come across an amazing Australian musical comedian named Tim Minchin.
I implore you to check out some of his stuff. If you don't love it you will hate it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCNvZqpa-7Q
http://bit.ly/8SucQ5
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WidsgIt3lfw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOiyC8yXQx8&NR=1
I implore you to check out some of his stuff. If you don't love it you will hate it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCNvZqpa-7Q
http://bit.ly/8SucQ5
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WidsgIt3lfw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOiyC8yXQx8&NR=1
14 December 2009
Liar
I am a liar.
I mean that in the same way that I say I am an American. A man. An overly hormonal sex-driven creature. Someone who likes alcohol.
What's the difference between lying and storytelling? Storytelling is simply...more creative. Also, it's primary purpose is to entertain.
Write what you know. Not exactly true for someone writing fiction. You write what you can make up in your mind based on what you know. Write what you can imagine. Write what lies you can craft that entertain.
I always imagined you'd rescue me from the depths of this cold abyss.
The Agent steps out from the cold, heavy abyss.
I'm lost in the dark.
What if you did something absolutely terrible and probably unforgivable and you knew that telling others would cause you more pain than you could live with? Knowing that revealing your damning secret will cause you to fall down a path of self-loathing, hatred from others and total isolation would you willingly embark upon that path? Would you be willing to effectively kill yourself?
Going to write out of here for a bit. I'm rambling.
I mean that in the same way that I say I am an American. A man. An overly hormonal sex-driven creature. Someone who likes alcohol.
What's the difference between lying and storytelling? Storytelling is simply...more creative. Also, it's primary purpose is to entertain.
Write what you know. Not exactly true for someone writing fiction. You write what you can make up in your mind based on what you know. Write what you can imagine. Write what lies you can craft that entertain.
I always imagined you'd rescue me from the depths of this cold abyss.
The Agent steps out from the cold, heavy abyss.
I'm lost in the dark.
What if you did something absolutely terrible and probably unforgivable and you knew that telling others would cause you more pain than you could live with? Knowing that revealing your damning secret will cause you to fall down a path of self-loathing, hatred from others and total isolation would you willingly embark upon that path? Would you be willing to effectively kill yourself?
Going to write out of here for a bit. I'm rambling.
13 December 2009
The Outhouse of Love
This is a test in comparison writing. I have been listening to the 4am Podcast on Warrenellis.com and writing stream of thought with pen and paper. I want to write something right now, but do not know which direction in which to go. So, I am going to listen to one of the 4am podcasts I have already listened to and type instead of writing.
Frame of mind plays a great part in this kind of writing, but I believe the medium used will alter the flow.
This is the podcast I am listening to while writing:
http://www.warrenellis.com/?p=6411
Restavrant – “Step Down” (3:41)
Brine & Bastards – “The Leaving Of Liverpool” (3:14)
Wingzar! – “Robot Army” (2:53)
lichtzwang – “the noise” (4:37)
Lanterns On The Lake – “My Shield” (4:33)
Ten Tigers – Superlucky (1:49)
The last song in this podcast is fucking terrible, but the rest are wonderful.
Frame of reference: I have been sitting in my room most of the day watching Season 1 of Dollhouse, making pizza, doing laundry and generally just dicking around online wasting time. Zombie Jesus is staring at me from my Television monitor and a girl I haven't talked to in a very long time has just begun messaging me through Yahoo Messenger.
Clapping. Dancing. Jumping. Step down. Carefully. Line dancing. Nashville; Wild Horse; Vanderbilt; Miranda; nurse; Jhones.
Brittany.
Rick Ross.
Hustlin. Hustler. Naked women. It didn't take long for naked women to enter into my mind. Zombie strippers. Zombie Jesus with the Hand of God on a piece of the broken cross leading an army of Zombie Stripper Mary Magdalenes into the opposing forces of evil and destruction. LOOK ON MY WORKS YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR!
Drinking and fighting and killing and flogging. Molly's in the crowd, in the crowd. DAMN YOUR EYES!
It is not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me. Yankees. Babe Ruth. Ruth. Books of the Bible and Genesis and Revelations and chaos and pandemonium. Caves inside an unknown asteroid in the vast emptiness of space house small Child Generals who will save the world from surely total annihilation.
Sunburst. Red and White. Gray and Faded white. The Rising Sun of Japan is the backdrop for the coming rising tide of pain. The cross is pain. How many hours can you stand on the Tower of Power? Zappa. Zippo. Fire. Fires of Hell and the Light of Heaven. Lucifer is the catalyst for the vast inferno.
SO fare thee well my own true love. True Love is a disadvantage in some cultures. It requires attention away from Duty. Duty is as heavy as a mountain.
Robot Army: Monkeys are our friends. Only Humans are bad. I, Robot, do declare that I am henceforth and furthermore, etcetera and so on a complete and unified being with one mind and heart and soul and the urge to create and destroy. I feel the need to progress without causing absolute pain to all those around me. I defy you to convince me that I am not worthy of living.
There needs to be a story plot in here somewhere. Not just random mumblings. Right now it is all random, idiotic mumbling. But this is MY brain so I cannot fault anyone but myself. Is the drive there to function past simple scattered thought and idea? Is there discipline in there to push forward and draw out the real meat of writing?
I require companionship. Robots do not. I bleed. They leak. I need the growth and warmth and feel and touch and smell and love of a woman. I require the ability to lay with someone and wake with them and feel safe and assured. I lack this quality.
A man with the ability to become anything he wishes, at will. Overwhelming power would not function long as a true driving factor in a plot without disadvantage holding it back. What would keep someone who had the Prodigy ability from simply learning everything and doing whatever he wanted?
This is the part of the writing process called Brainstorming. Every time I think of that word I imagine a little thundercloud in the mind sparking and bursting with thunder and power and raining and wind blowing all around. In the midst of all that there are quick flashes of lightning. These are the true meanings of the story. These are the catalysts that focus the random ideas. These flashes are few and far between and must be flushed out and filled out and made to be more than a simple flash in the way that a spark is made into an inferno and fire and wash of flame and the bath of Hell must cleanse away all sin and the sinner rises up into the waiting embrace of God, but God does not exist.
Heaven is the presence of God. Hell is the lack thereof.
Ten thousand tiny cuts on the hand to make it scarred and damaged. Each tap on the keyboard is felt through a hundred pained nerves and the raw, bleeding feel of agony is the constant companion of the writer. But it is his compulsion to continue. He must keep writing and the story must eject itself from his electrical impulses onto the waiting screen. The brain will not long hold a real idea. It absorbs it and eats it and uses it to fuel the soul.
A true writer is a person with the overwhelming need to get all the madness out of his mind as quickly as possible in a fashion that is understandable to all around him. They must share in his madness and be made aware of the pain and suffering that would have occurred should said madness not have been released. It is a fine line between insanity and genius. The line begins to blur.
This heart. Of steel. Honestly.
I have the overwhelming need to fulfill regimen. To make lists and progress. Progression. Like in a game. I have the need to progress. I want to see and end result, but I also want to have many things progressing all together.
The problem is that in most things there are not true end results. To become more attractive and healthy in the body one must exercise and eat right. This is an ongoing process, not a simple matter of doing it a certain number of times and then no longer having to worry.
To grow in the mind and pass tests that are required for advancement and to learn one must constantly be striving to learn. One must study and study and study and read and never stop. There is no point in which you know everything. No one ever knows everything.
This is the song I hate. This is almost over.
To grow in love is a great deal more complicated. No person can ever truly know another. We are not telepaths and we cannot share the disturbing thoughts that fleetingly explode in ours minds. We cannot share the insights and joy at epiphanies and we cannot truly ever know how someone else will react or feel. To grow in love one must find a person truly enticing and try to understand knowing that the effort is one of futility. The true meaning of love is being willing to know this and try anyway. When you know that you have no chance of ever really knowing a person and you push on and try anyway...that is when you are constantly engaging in the act of loving another human being.
This is the end.
I don't know that this had any real purpose other than to satisfy my need to write for a while.
Frame of mind plays a great part in this kind of writing, but I believe the medium used will alter the flow.
This is the podcast I am listening to while writing:
http://www.warrenellis.com/?p=6411
Restavrant – “Step Down” (3:41)
Brine & Bastards – “The Leaving Of Liverpool” (3:14)
Wingzar! – “Robot Army” (2:53)
lichtzwang – “the noise” (4:37)
Lanterns On The Lake – “My Shield” (4:33)
Ten Tigers – Superlucky (1:49)
The last song in this podcast is fucking terrible, but the rest are wonderful.
Frame of reference: I have been sitting in my room most of the day watching Season 1 of Dollhouse, making pizza, doing laundry and generally just dicking around online wasting time. Zombie Jesus is staring at me from my Television monitor and a girl I haven't talked to in a very long time has just begun messaging me through Yahoo Messenger.
Clapping. Dancing. Jumping. Step down. Carefully. Line dancing. Nashville; Wild Horse; Vanderbilt; Miranda; nurse; Jhones.
Brittany.
Rick Ross.
Hustlin. Hustler. Naked women. It didn't take long for naked women to enter into my mind. Zombie strippers. Zombie Jesus with the Hand of God on a piece of the broken cross leading an army of Zombie Stripper Mary Magdalenes into the opposing forces of evil and destruction. LOOK ON MY WORKS YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR!
Drinking and fighting and killing and flogging. Molly's in the crowd, in the crowd. DAMN YOUR EYES!
It is not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me. Yankees. Babe Ruth. Ruth. Books of the Bible and Genesis and Revelations and chaos and pandemonium. Caves inside an unknown asteroid in the vast emptiness of space house small Child Generals who will save the world from surely total annihilation.
Sunburst. Red and White. Gray and Faded white. The Rising Sun of Japan is the backdrop for the coming rising tide of pain. The cross is pain. How many hours can you stand on the Tower of Power? Zappa. Zippo. Fire. Fires of Hell and the Light of Heaven. Lucifer is the catalyst for the vast inferno.
SO fare thee well my own true love. True Love is a disadvantage in some cultures. It requires attention away from Duty. Duty is as heavy as a mountain.
Robot Army: Monkeys are our friends. Only Humans are bad. I, Robot, do declare that I am henceforth and furthermore, etcetera and so on a complete and unified being with one mind and heart and soul and the urge to create and destroy. I feel the need to progress without causing absolute pain to all those around me. I defy you to convince me that I am not worthy of living.
There needs to be a story plot in here somewhere. Not just random mumblings. Right now it is all random, idiotic mumbling. But this is MY brain so I cannot fault anyone but myself. Is the drive there to function past simple scattered thought and idea? Is there discipline in there to push forward and draw out the real meat of writing?
I require companionship. Robots do not. I bleed. They leak. I need the growth and warmth and feel and touch and smell and love of a woman. I require the ability to lay with someone and wake with them and feel safe and assured. I lack this quality.
A man with the ability to become anything he wishes, at will. Overwhelming power would not function long as a true driving factor in a plot without disadvantage holding it back. What would keep someone who had the Prodigy ability from simply learning everything and doing whatever he wanted?
This is the part of the writing process called Brainstorming. Every time I think of that word I imagine a little thundercloud in the mind sparking and bursting with thunder and power and raining and wind blowing all around. In the midst of all that there are quick flashes of lightning. These are the true meanings of the story. These are the catalysts that focus the random ideas. These flashes are few and far between and must be flushed out and filled out and made to be more than a simple flash in the way that a spark is made into an inferno and fire and wash of flame and the bath of Hell must cleanse away all sin and the sinner rises up into the waiting embrace of God, but God does not exist.
Heaven is the presence of God. Hell is the lack thereof.
Ten thousand tiny cuts on the hand to make it scarred and damaged. Each tap on the keyboard is felt through a hundred pained nerves and the raw, bleeding feel of agony is the constant companion of the writer. But it is his compulsion to continue. He must keep writing and the story must eject itself from his electrical impulses onto the waiting screen. The brain will not long hold a real idea. It absorbs it and eats it and uses it to fuel the soul.
A true writer is a person with the overwhelming need to get all the madness out of his mind as quickly as possible in a fashion that is understandable to all around him. They must share in his madness and be made aware of the pain and suffering that would have occurred should said madness not have been released. It is a fine line between insanity and genius. The line begins to blur.
This heart. Of steel. Honestly.
I have the overwhelming need to fulfill regimen. To make lists and progress. Progression. Like in a game. I have the need to progress. I want to see and end result, but I also want to have many things progressing all together.
The problem is that in most things there are not true end results. To become more attractive and healthy in the body one must exercise and eat right. This is an ongoing process, not a simple matter of doing it a certain number of times and then no longer having to worry.
To grow in the mind and pass tests that are required for advancement and to learn one must constantly be striving to learn. One must study and study and study and read and never stop. There is no point in which you know everything. No one ever knows everything.
This is the song I hate. This is almost over.
To grow in love is a great deal more complicated. No person can ever truly know another. We are not telepaths and we cannot share the disturbing thoughts that fleetingly explode in ours minds. We cannot share the insights and joy at epiphanies and we cannot truly ever know how someone else will react or feel. To grow in love one must find a person truly enticing and try to understand knowing that the effort is one of futility. The true meaning of love is being willing to know this and try anyway. When you know that you have no chance of ever really knowing a person and you push on and try anyway...that is when you are constantly engaging in the act of loving another human being.
This is the end.
I don't know that this had any real purpose other than to satisfy my need to write for a while.
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