Today I worked on the fairy tale I've been writing. It keeps changing to suit the Aesop I'm trying to evoke in that particular instant, but at the end of the day it always comes back to the overall erosion of society's morality. It saddens me to think that people are more familiar with Millie Cyrus and Harry Potter (two entities in modern media that really ought to be erased from memory) than they are with anything the Grimm Brothers collected is a testimony to our own idiocracy. Yes, I did just make that reference.
What it comes down to is that everyone between the ages 13-33 wants to be the shining glamorous hero, but doesn't want to embrace any of the morality necessary to be that hero. They want to be strong and vibrant and beautiful, but they neglect kindness and understanding and empathy. Cynicism and cruelty have become more fashionable than ever before, and now when someone smiles at you, you've got to check twice for the forked tongue and fangs. Sweetness and innocence are only fashionable aesthetically.
I'm distracted... perhaps more thoughts on this later.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Of the Shakespearean/Byronian School, except less good.
Oh, my pale and inconstant heart!
Whose depths are subsets of its shallowness
That we should ever meet to part,
And exist beyond our petty callowness
I'm in a rather interesting mood today. Yes, noble readers who no longer read this, I definitely still hate poetry, but at least I'm making an effort to grow artistically... kinda. Don't judge me, I only said I was a poet, I never said I was a good poet. :P
Whose depths are subsets of its shallowness
That we should ever meet to part,
And exist beyond our petty callowness
I'm in a rather interesting mood today. Yes, noble readers who no longer read this, I definitely still hate poetry, but at least I'm making an effort to grow artistically... kinda. Don't judge me, I only said I was a poet, I never said I was a good poet. :P
Saturday, December 12, 2009
More ramblings from the insomniac....
I had an epiphany today... I actually am cleverer than most people. By that I mean, I can see the cycles people live in, the things they allow to trap themselves etc, and I know exactly what's going to happen in most social interactions, and yet, for some inane reason, I can't seem to use these powers for my own benefit. Why is that you ask?
Equal parts because I'm not a rabid douche and because I'm not interested in manipulating people into forming connections with me. Also, I can't be bothered to put in the effort to get to know people anymore, because I'm avidly and completely tired of trying to interact with people on an intellectual, sexual or emotional level and realizing that they're just not interested or incapable of reciprocating the connection. I feel so old all of a sudden, as though I've discovered some great secret about humanity and I've no one to share it with because I've only ever met my equal in one person, and he and I haven't spoken in three months.
I do miss my dear Ptolemy and the ridiculous conversations we used to get into. One of my favorite memories of him had to do with the time we stayed up all night talking ourselves into circles about time travel in a Bickfords, and he almost did a little murder because the people sitting nearby us were blatantly listening in and eavesdropping. He was amusingly overprotective, if not perhaps a trifling bit aggressive.
Considering his name, it's to be expected. Considering his nature, his aggression has always startled me. I was, I think, probably the only person who did not frustrate him, though I rather imagine that I had the capacity. I think he was just very patient with me and my inexperience. Now that I've finally come to terms with the lessons he taught me I miss him profoundly. He'd be awake right next to me, telling me to get my head out of my ass and to narrow the focus of my concern so that I'm not so exhausted by basic interactions.... or something like that. He was one of those people who was equally exhausted by the people around him, searching always for a kindred spirit or even someone he could mold into a kindred spirit, but he never actually understood the true fundamentals of intimacy.
That isn't to say that I was the person he was looking for, but more that in his search to mimic the kind of relationship he already had with me, he forgot to remember the limitations of everyone else.
... I'm all rambly... perhaps I ought to spend some time face down in a pillow. I'm tired in ways no one should be, and I'm worn out in ways that only the very old and the very cynical seem to understand.
Equal parts because I'm not a rabid douche and because I'm not interested in manipulating people into forming connections with me. Also, I can't be bothered to put in the effort to get to know people anymore, because I'm avidly and completely tired of trying to interact with people on an intellectual, sexual or emotional level and realizing that they're just not interested or incapable of reciprocating the connection. I feel so old all of a sudden, as though I've discovered some great secret about humanity and I've no one to share it with because I've only ever met my equal in one person, and he and I haven't spoken in three months.
I do miss my dear Ptolemy and the ridiculous conversations we used to get into. One of my favorite memories of him had to do with the time we stayed up all night talking ourselves into circles about time travel in a Bickfords, and he almost did a little murder because the people sitting nearby us were blatantly listening in and eavesdropping. He was amusingly overprotective, if not perhaps a trifling bit aggressive.
Considering his name, it's to be expected. Considering his nature, his aggression has always startled me. I was, I think, probably the only person who did not frustrate him, though I rather imagine that I had the capacity. I think he was just very patient with me and my inexperience. Now that I've finally come to terms with the lessons he taught me I miss him profoundly. He'd be awake right next to me, telling me to get my head out of my ass and to narrow the focus of my concern so that I'm not so exhausted by basic interactions.... or something like that. He was one of those people who was equally exhausted by the people around him, searching always for a kindred spirit or even someone he could mold into a kindred spirit, but he never actually understood the true fundamentals of intimacy.
That isn't to say that I was the person he was looking for, but more that in his search to mimic the kind of relationship he already had with me, he forgot to remember the limitations of everyone else.
... I'm all rambly... perhaps I ought to spend some time face down in a pillow. I'm tired in ways no one should be, and I'm worn out in ways that only the very old and the very cynical seem to understand.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Fail
So who's phone starts going off very loudly right next to her ear at 5ish this morning, exactly 2 hours after she's gone to sleep?
Mine.
...My response was to ninja-punch the thing and hide under my pillows....
And then I saw what time it was and began texting obscenities at the anal-probing son of a douche who would dare attempt to reach me at this ungodly hour....
And then I realized that it was Facebook Mobile...
Idiot.
Mine.
...My response was to ninja-punch the thing and hide under my pillows....
And then I saw what time it was and began texting obscenities at the anal-probing son of a douche who would dare attempt to reach me at this ungodly hour....
And then I realized that it was Facebook Mobile...
Idiot.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Communication
Contrary to what most people believe, there are actually three types of communication. There are the two you already know, the verbal and the physical, and then there is the emotional. This kind of interaction is constantly being referred to as the non-verbal part of communication, like touching or making eye contact etc, but it actually has everything to do with tone of voice, actual topics of conversation being broached, and the inevitable syncing of the minds that comes from it. By no means is it not heavily dependent upon the verbal parts of communication (IE: Saying what you mean or not what you mean, blah blah) or the physical (IE: touching, holding hands, etc) but it is markedly different from either of those two things. Verbal communication has everything to do with what's being said, the actual words you're speaking. Emotional connection comes from the tones of voice used, and whether or not you're believable in what you're saying. Then, intimacy is established through body language. True intimacy (and Oxtocin, the bane of my existence) is established by creating warmth in your voice, openness in your body language, and love in your eyes. All of these are very easily faked if you know how.
My favorite show in the world is The Pickup Artist. Why, you ask? Why would an interesting-looking 20-something like a show that shows men how to pick up women that are sooooo out of their leagues, just to elevate their social status and make themselves feel better about their mediocre looks? Because it shows us how easily people can be manipulated into feeling something out of ONE social interaction. It also makes it easier to sort out who's after sex and who's after a relationship. If he touches your arm, holds your hand, and looks deeply into your eyes on the first or second date, with no previous relationship to back up these feelings (you didn't know each other and weren't friends first) then he's only after your sexy self. IF he does any of these things by the third or fourth date, then he's probably a keeper. This philosophy has never done me wrong, when I've listened to it.
When I haven't listened to it I've found myself in situations like the one mentioned in my previous post. Big be damned, love be damned, I'm tired of trying to connect with people that just aren't my intellectual, social or emotional equals. Maybe if I had more confidence and was less insecure I wouldn't let myself be taken for a ride by people who pretend to matter.
And he did matter.
More than even he knew.
Too bad for him.
My favorite show in the world is The Pickup Artist. Why, you ask? Why would an interesting-looking 20-something like a show that shows men how to pick up women that are sooooo out of their leagues, just to elevate their social status and make themselves feel better about their mediocre looks? Because it shows us how easily people can be manipulated into feeling something out of ONE social interaction. It also makes it easier to sort out who's after sex and who's after a relationship. If he touches your arm, holds your hand, and looks deeply into your eyes on the first or second date, with no previous relationship to back up these feelings (you didn't know each other and weren't friends first) then he's only after your sexy self. IF he does any of these things by the third or fourth date, then he's probably a keeper. This philosophy has never done me wrong, when I've listened to it.
When I haven't listened to it I've found myself in situations like the one mentioned in my previous post. Big be damned, love be damned, I'm tired of trying to connect with people that just aren't my intellectual, social or emotional equals. Maybe if I had more confidence and was less insecure I wouldn't let myself be taken for a ride by people who pretend to matter.
And he did matter.
More than even he knew.
Too bad for him.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Social Interaction fail...
So I officially fail at social interaction. Every time I try to establish a connection with another human being I either don't say enough and people get annoyed with my inability to articulate myself, or I say way too fucking much and just end up pushing people away.
Getting closer to another person is like trying to get closer to the stars: futile and inevitably foolish. Human beings have no clear understanding or conception about what love is, except that its a feeling and its intangible. I have known love in every possible facet, from the abusive to the reckless to the fruitless, and to this day I cannot explain coherently exactly why I felt that way about any one of the men that I have loved so deeply. What I can tell you for certain is that we're all so goddamn desperate to connect with each other that we convince ourselves that there is meaning where there is none, and that there is intimacy where there is only understanding.
I'm tired and impatient and I don't see the point in any of it anymore. It isn't love that I'm after, its truth, because I've recently come to the conclusion that without truth, blunt and absolute and tactless, there is absolutely no hope of love.
Getting closer to another person is like trying to get closer to the stars: futile and inevitably foolish. Human beings have no clear understanding or conception about what love is, except that its a feeling and its intangible. I have known love in every possible facet, from the abusive to the reckless to the fruitless, and to this day I cannot explain coherently exactly why I felt that way about any one of the men that I have loved so deeply. What I can tell you for certain is that we're all so goddamn desperate to connect with each other that we convince ourselves that there is meaning where there is none, and that there is intimacy where there is only understanding.
I'm tired and impatient and I don't see the point in any of it anymore. It isn't love that I'm after, its truth, because I've recently come to the conclusion that without truth, blunt and absolute and tactless, there is absolutely no hope of love.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The ramblings of an idiot fool
4 AM again... and I'm still awake. I'm all adrenalin-y from the haunted houses and the lively conversation, and somehow, as always, I'm finding myself staring off into Infinity, seeing every possible outcome and every possible future and I can't bear it. There was more to this post, a discourse on the human condition and about how we're all greedy, insufferable bastards, but I deleted.... You know, in the interest of keeping things positive.
I found an old story I wrote waaay back when.... Back when I was "good" as my mind seems so inclined to think. It wasn't that it was a terribly bad story, just hideously underdeveloped and juvenile. Well... I was so young then, wasn't I? That's the point of art to a certain extent; it reflects the soul of the artist. I'm a huge believer in the idea that the artist and the art are so inescapibly bound that there is very little room for the spectator, the person who's enjoying the art, in the whole artistic experience. That is to say, when you look at a Jackson Pollock painting, what you're seeing is a reflection of himself. It's such a huge thing, to stand in the room with something so great and profound as a person's soul on canvas, and the experience itself is so profound that there's very little room for yourself in the experience. Suddenly, there's this moment of clarity and you realize that what you are experiencing is something so completely unlike anything you, yourself, are capable of conjuring, that you become what Jackson Pollock was when he painted it, and you catch glimpses of his madness and his genius and his beauty.
It's the same moment that comes over you when you're truly experiencing music in its most perfect, undiluted form, when you're standing among a sea of other people, entranced with the musicians on stage, wrapped up in something so beautiful and so intangible that you can't separate yourself from the person next to you, and you're all one breathing, sweating, weeping thing, overcome and overwhelmed and drenched completely in the auditory.
It's the same moment that comes over you when you read a verse that brings tears to your eyes and you don't even know why. You never went walking in the woods in winter as he did, you never saw the rain or the stars or the human spirit the way the author did, and yet you're there, with the author, weeping over a choice that was not your own and you could not make, and yet you were so heavily invested in that choice that you couldn't help but cry out when our hero made the wrong turn.
There is no such thing as bad art. There are bad artists; artists incapable of evoking the artistic experience. I blame Twilight on Stephanie Meyer, and I blame Piss Christ on Andres Serrano and I blame you for having not experienced the perfection of true genius.
I found an old story I wrote waaay back when.... Back when I was "good" as my mind seems so inclined to think. It wasn't that it was a terribly bad story, just hideously underdeveloped and juvenile. Well... I was so young then, wasn't I? That's the point of art to a certain extent; it reflects the soul of the artist. I'm a huge believer in the idea that the artist and the art are so inescapibly bound that there is very little room for the spectator, the person who's enjoying the art, in the whole artistic experience. That is to say, when you look at a Jackson Pollock painting, what you're seeing is a reflection of himself. It's such a huge thing, to stand in the room with something so great and profound as a person's soul on canvas, and the experience itself is so profound that there's very little room for yourself in the experience. Suddenly, there's this moment of clarity and you realize that what you are experiencing is something so completely unlike anything you, yourself, are capable of conjuring, that you become what Jackson Pollock was when he painted it, and you catch glimpses of his madness and his genius and his beauty.
It's the same moment that comes over you when you're truly experiencing music in its most perfect, undiluted form, when you're standing among a sea of other people, entranced with the musicians on stage, wrapped up in something so beautiful and so intangible that you can't separate yourself from the person next to you, and you're all one breathing, sweating, weeping thing, overcome and overwhelmed and drenched completely in the auditory.
It's the same moment that comes over you when you read a verse that brings tears to your eyes and you don't even know why. You never went walking in the woods in winter as he did, you never saw the rain or the stars or the human spirit the way the author did, and yet you're there, with the author, weeping over a choice that was not your own and you could not make, and yet you were so heavily invested in that choice that you couldn't help but cry out when our hero made the wrong turn.
There is no such thing as bad art. There are bad artists; artists incapable of evoking the artistic experience. I blame Twilight on Stephanie Meyer, and I blame Piss Christ on Andres Serrano and I blame you for having not experienced the perfection of true genius.
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