Today has been bare, and by that I mean barren of meaning or utility.
The only thing I did of any note today was read some. I kind of worked on writing, but I didn't actually write any, didn't put anything on paper (virtually), or produce anything that I could use as proof of productivity. I could blame life, and will shortly, but ultimately the blame lies with me.
However - God help me, sometimes I despise this society! It is really shocking how alienated we are from one another, how separate and distinct we are, how alone. Most people only have a few friends now that they rely on on a day to day basis. I don't think that we are designed such for that to be sufficient. Today I saw my girlfriend. That's it. I talked to maybe a few other people - wait, no, I didn't. That was yesterday. I saw and talked to no one. All of my interaction was with computers, books, or media (I watched some tv shows via my computer and the internet). It isn't surprising that all meaning dies from such repeated activity. Games, books, shows, all seem trivial (which is reality), while doing something productive (such as writing) seems a waste of time, because it isn't my paid profession (I'd have to be published) and as always, writing is only me versus the world, creation as filling the void of nothingness. I'm also in a trouble spot with my main story (Johnny Attero) and with my other two stories (SciFi and Fantasy). I can't justify putting that much effort into it because I won't see any real result other than my own words on a page, a few "Good job, I'm glad you wrote today"'s, and because I'm just plain weak at times.
Sara long ago said that I wasn't made to operate without a large social network - she was (as usual) and is right. Maybe I've moved around too often. Maybe I've been too long without working somewhere where I could meet people. Maybe I lived to long in isolation in Mount Airy, or maybe I haven't made an effort into branching out and making friends, relying on the few I have. Maybe it really is our society, which encourages constant judging, competition, social awkwardness and social fragmentation. Maybe I should be going to Church.
I did meditate today. Zazen. That was good.
Enough. Bedtime, then work at 7am. All those wines - they're my new friends.
Goodnight.
J
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Writing with the Eyes
Sometimes, you're watching something, and it seems like writing.
Its confusing, because you're aware that you didn't actually create what you're seeing; it is someone else's effort and creativity that made this visual and auditory event happen. But, just like most things involving writing, it doesn't matter if it makes sense. It's like you wrote it. Its you.
I couldn't possibly begin to explain to people what it is like to be a writer. I don't understand the world - let me at first say that. The living, breathing world that everyone seems to think is perfectly normal and, in fact, preferable is to me as alien as a fantasy novel, as strange and complicated as a legal document. The rules that we follow, the what-we-have-to-do's and the who-we-have-to-be's seem impossibly odd to me, like asking me to walk through life on my hands instead of my feet. The jobs we work at, the problems we have, the conventions of our social lives (clapping!, for one, what the hell is clapping for applause all about?), they all strike me as some made-up nonsense that people are more than dangerously attached to: they are obsessed with it. I can create; I can wave my hands and new worlds appear before me like mist from a waterfall. I can think; the thoughts that come to my mind continuously that perplex and annoy my friends are not far-away-dreams and attempts to get out of "responsibility" or wastes of time, but are to me like stars in the sky, everywhere, bright and burning and all you have to do is look up and there they are and WHY CAN'T EVERYONE ELSE SEE THEM?
I was born with another language. I can't teach it and I can't unlearn it. I still struggle with our languages that I've picked up in order to communicate with everyone else, but in my heart I still speak Attero.
Ciao. I start work tomorrow.
Wine. Maybe now I'll write...
J
Its confusing, because you're aware that you didn't actually create what you're seeing; it is someone else's effort and creativity that made this visual and auditory event happen. But, just like most things involving writing, it doesn't matter if it makes sense. It's like you wrote it. Its you.
I couldn't possibly begin to explain to people what it is like to be a writer. I don't understand the world - let me at first say that. The living, breathing world that everyone seems to think is perfectly normal and, in fact, preferable is to me as alien as a fantasy novel, as strange and complicated as a legal document. The rules that we follow, the what-we-have-to-do's and the who-we-have-to-be's seem impossibly odd to me, like asking me to walk through life on my hands instead of my feet. The jobs we work at, the problems we have, the conventions of our social lives (clapping!, for one, what the hell is clapping for applause all about?), they all strike me as some made-up nonsense that people are more than dangerously attached to: they are obsessed with it. I can create; I can wave my hands and new worlds appear before me like mist from a waterfall. I can think; the thoughts that come to my mind continuously that perplex and annoy my friends are not far-away-dreams and attempts to get out of "responsibility" or wastes of time, but are to me like stars in the sky, everywhere, bright and burning and all you have to do is look up and there they are and WHY CAN'T EVERYONE ELSE SEE THEM?
I was born with another language. I can't teach it and I can't unlearn it. I still struggle with our languages that I've picked up in order to communicate with everyone else, but in my heart I still speak Attero.
Ciao. I start work tomorrow.
Wine. Maybe now I'll write...
J
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