So I was thinking about the origin of the word Wednesday and naturally it led me down an odd path, but before we get to that, I should probably fill you in on the origin of Wednesday. Wednesday was named in honor of the Norse god Odin and for those of you unaware, Odin is, according to mythology, the father of the gods. He is the god of war, death, poetry and wisdom. He fathered several children, but most well known is Thor, which is where Thursday comes from, but this isn't about Thursday. Basically, Odin was the penultimate Norse god, for crying out loud, the guy never ate! He gave all of his food to his two wolves, Freki and Geri because Odin consumes nothing but wine. That is classy, imagine a dude riding an eight-legged horse with a big ass spear, two wolves by his side and he is just carrying on with a bottle of wine. Odin was the shit is what I am trying to get at.
Anyway, I started thinking about what Odin might think about what has happened to the day that was originally named in his honor. Wednesday is often the most hated and dreaded day of the week. Very few people say, "man I love Wednesday!" Not only that, but it has been giving the notable title of "hump" day. Now, I don't think Odin would mind the idea of "hump" day, after all, a guy who consumes nothing but wine probably has at least a little sense of humor. I think he would be very upset however that his day is the most hated. The father of the gods! The god of war, death, poetry and wisdom! Yet, we hate his day, if Odin were real he'd probably be really angry about that. Silly humans, disrespecting such a powerful deity.
Next time you find yourself thinking that you hate Wednesdays, just remember you might find yourself dealing with a pissed off god riding an eight-legged horse, carrying a huge spear and drinking wine like a boss. I say to Odin. "Wednesdays really aren't that bad, but if you pass me that wine, they'll get that much better."
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
I Really Really Need A Raincoat
I've been feeling the winter coming, not so much in the literal sense, though that is true. No, I have been feeling it in my thoughts and ideas. Everything is getting colder in my head, darker and often times more depressed. The winter casts a heavy malaise over my thoughts, it creeps in throughout the fall, gets all cozy and sticks around for a few months.
People tell me I should go tanning in the winter, they say it'll help me, they say that I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder. First off, I absolutely hate that, I mean really, that is a thing? S.A.D. Even the acronym kind of infuriates me. Okay, sure people get more depressed in the winter, but since when do we get to call that a disorder? I don't know, I guess I am just tired of everything in life slowly becoming something wrong with people. Nobody talked about this stuff when I was a kid, hell, half of the "disorders" and "problems" people are having to medicate for and deal with don't even seem like they existed ten years ago. Sure, maybe they did, but we didn't have names for them, we didn't have medication for them, we just lived our lives and took the lumps as they came. Now, everything can be fixed. Fixed! As if it were broken to feel the natural range of human emotion.
Don't get me wrong, there are some people with real problems that really need medications and help to get through things, but seriously things have kind of gotten out of hand. Would going tanning in the winter perhaps make me feel a little better? Sure, it probably would, but so what? There are a whole slew of things that would make me feel better in the winter and just as many that would make me feel sad. Isn't that normal? Isn't that life? That isn't a disorder, it is existence.
I guess I am just tired of excuses. If you are sad and you don't want to be, take steps toward being happier. I have had my fair share of depression, believe you me, in fact, this blog is kind of a testament to it, but it like everything else has ebbs and flows. Sometimes I even want to be sad and frankly there is nothing wrong with that. However, if you are always sad or upset or whatever and you don't want to be, try changing your mindset or your routine. Don't just blame something else and rely on medication or a doctor to fix it. Be the master of your own brain, or at the very least try to be.
If that doesn't work, then go ahead and consider getting help, it is true some people really do need it. Most important though, you have to remember that life is meant to be felt on all levels. The happiness would be nothing without the sadness and turmoil. Joy feels hollow without grief. The ebb and flow of life should be enjoyed, not suppressed. Feel! Whatever it is you feel, feel it! Then come out the other side with a greater perspective or appreciation for the wonderful ride of feeling.
Tonight I am sad, but so what? I will let myself be sad and tomorrow will bring what it brings.
People tell me I should go tanning in the winter, they say it'll help me, they say that I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder. First off, I absolutely hate that, I mean really, that is a thing? S.A.D. Even the acronym kind of infuriates me. Okay, sure people get more depressed in the winter, but since when do we get to call that a disorder? I don't know, I guess I am just tired of everything in life slowly becoming something wrong with people. Nobody talked about this stuff when I was a kid, hell, half of the "disorders" and "problems" people are having to medicate for and deal with don't even seem like they existed ten years ago. Sure, maybe they did, but we didn't have names for them, we didn't have medication for them, we just lived our lives and took the lumps as they came. Now, everything can be fixed. Fixed! As if it were broken to feel the natural range of human emotion.
Don't get me wrong, there are some people with real problems that really need medications and help to get through things, but seriously things have kind of gotten out of hand. Would going tanning in the winter perhaps make me feel a little better? Sure, it probably would, but so what? There are a whole slew of things that would make me feel better in the winter and just as many that would make me feel sad. Isn't that normal? Isn't that life? That isn't a disorder, it is existence.
I guess I am just tired of excuses. If you are sad and you don't want to be, take steps toward being happier. I have had my fair share of depression, believe you me, in fact, this blog is kind of a testament to it, but it like everything else has ebbs and flows. Sometimes I even want to be sad and frankly there is nothing wrong with that. However, if you are always sad or upset or whatever and you don't want to be, try changing your mindset or your routine. Don't just blame something else and rely on medication or a doctor to fix it. Be the master of your own brain, or at the very least try to be.
If that doesn't work, then go ahead and consider getting help, it is true some people really do need it. Most important though, you have to remember that life is meant to be felt on all levels. The happiness would be nothing without the sadness and turmoil. Joy feels hollow without grief. The ebb and flow of life should be enjoyed, not suppressed. Feel! Whatever it is you feel, feel it! Then come out the other side with a greater perspective or appreciation for the wonderful ride of feeling.
Tonight I am sad, but so what? I will let myself be sad and tomorrow will bring what it brings.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Don't Fear The Reaper
I apologize in advance, this is not a typical blog entry. I felt the need to write something aside from the book I have been working on and while trying to think of a blog, this just started to come out. It is a very rough and not entirely complete story, but the idea is sound. As always feel free to read, but make note that this is a short story, not a typical blog entry.
The room was well lit, but very quiet. Only the fan of his laptop and the subtle striking of keys broke through the silence of the still air. He paused for a moment and stared at his socks, they had lots of fuzzy little tendrils climbing off of them, the sort of thing you only find on new or nearly new pairs of socks. He desperately wished he had a lighter, something to start the tendrils aflame. It was an activity he often did with new socks, sort of a rite of passage for them. There was no lighter however and his attention was again resumed to the striking sound of the keys. It was an almost seductive sound, the way each individual key groaned as it was pressed, not a groan of pain, no, they were happy to be used, to be chosen.
His fingers moved deftly from keystroke to keystroke, losing himself in the intricate ballet of typing. It was creation, he was creating worlds with his fingertips and doing so was addicting. He imagined it was the same way artists felt when they painted worlds and places out of their imaginations, bringing something to life, almost in a literal sense and who's to say there isn't some life held with a story or a painting? A piece of the creator goes into it and so perhaps goes the essence of life itself. He became so caught up in his creation and in these magnificent thoughts, he didn't hear the door opening behind him.
The room was still silent, still well lit, but it could have been a bustling city street or pitch darkness, he would not have noticed anymore. He was entirely entranced. Perhaps that was the point, the goal all along, but whether it was meant to be or not, it changed nothing and he did not here the darkness creeping up behind him.
It was not a single thing, no, it was an amalgamation of hundreds of different ideas, half finished, half brought to fruition, all manifested into one shapeless entity. The man typing away had often wondered if all the stories, all the characters, all the worlds he had left unfinished, left to rot, ever felt abandoned or resentful. He wonder if the small sparks of life he gave those creations would ever find their own way into the world without his help. On this night they had. Life always finds a way.
The shapeless form drifted silently behind him, seeing with unrecognizable eyes that the man was again typing away. No doubt he was creating yet another life, another existence that he would leave alone and helpless just like the others. The being had great capacity for emotion seeing as nearly all of its' creator's unfinished projects were written through fits of strong emotion. The entity began to feel anger, wanting nothing more than to stop this man from leaving more work unfinished.
The man, the writer, never turned to see what it was, nor did he ever hear it, but in a flash, it consumed him. A hateful darkness that poured over him like a heavy fog, wrapping his body and stealing the very life from him. The souls countless half-realized lives all intertwined now, feeding off the life force of the very man who had made them this way.
His death was quick, he barely comprehended what was happening before all that made him who he was had been sucked from his body. The hateful darkness slinked away from the now lifeless body of its' creator. Still unfinished, never to be truly whole, especially now, but feeding off the lives of others seemed sustainable enough. It carried on its' journey, looking for more life to steal, needing nothing but to feed on thoughts and the things that make us human, trying desperately to become so itself.
You cannot kill an idea, stop a creation from the depths of imagination. Even after the creator is no more, their thoughts and ideas remain, skulking through the ether, looking to become whole. Manifestations of the best and worst of us and now one lingers about, hungry and eager. It is raw and heartless, wanting only to be alive, to be realized in entirety and it will continue taking the lives of others until that happens. It never will. . .That is why we are all doomed.
Death itself is nothing more than the combination of all our unfinished works finally catching up to us. Why else would it be that so many infinitely creative people perish at such early stages of their lives? Because it is not about what we finish and create, it is all the things we leave unfinished and unsaid that eventually become our undoing.
The room was well lit, but very quiet. Only the fan of his laptop and the subtle striking of keys broke through the silence of the still air. He paused for a moment and stared at his socks, they had lots of fuzzy little tendrils climbing off of them, the sort of thing you only find on new or nearly new pairs of socks. He desperately wished he had a lighter, something to start the tendrils aflame. It was an activity he often did with new socks, sort of a rite of passage for them. There was no lighter however and his attention was again resumed to the striking sound of the keys. It was an almost seductive sound, the way each individual key groaned as it was pressed, not a groan of pain, no, they were happy to be used, to be chosen.
His fingers moved deftly from keystroke to keystroke, losing himself in the intricate ballet of typing. It was creation, he was creating worlds with his fingertips and doing so was addicting. He imagined it was the same way artists felt when they painted worlds and places out of their imaginations, bringing something to life, almost in a literal sense and who's to say there isn't some life held with a story or a painting? A piece of the creator goes into it and so perhaps goes the essence of life itself. He became so caught up in his creation and in these magnificent thoughts, he didn't hear the door opening behind him.
The room was still silent, still well lit, but it could have been a bustling city street or pitch darkness, he would not have noticed anymore. He was entirely entranced. Perhaps that was the point, the goal all along, but whether it was meant to be or not, it changed nothing and he did not here the darkness creeping up behind him.
It was not a single thing, no, it was an amalgamation of hundreds of different ideas, half finished, half brought to fruition, all manifested into one shapeless entity. The man typing away had often wondered if all the stories, all the characters, all the worlds he had left unfinished, left to rot, ever felt abandoned or resentful. He wonder if the small sparks of life he gave those creations would ever find their own way into the world without his help. On this night they had. Life always finds a way.
The shapeless form drifted silently behind him, seeing with unrecognizable eyes that the man was again typing away. No doubt he was creating yet another life, another existence that he would leave alone and helpless just like the others. The being had great capacity for emotion seeing as nearly all of its' creator's unfinished projects were written through fits of strong emotion. The entity began to feel anger, wanting nothing more than to stop this man from leaving more work unfinished.
The man, the writer, never turned to see what it was, nor did he ever hear it, but in a flash, it consumed him. A hateful darkness that poured over him like a heavy fog, wrapping his body and stealing the very life from him. The souls countless half-realized lives all intertwined now, feeding off the life force of the very man who had made them this way.
His death was quick, he barely comprehended what was happening before all that made him who he was had been sucked from his body. The hateful darkness slinked away from the now lifeless body of its' creator. Still unfinished, never to be truly whole, especially now, but feeding off the lives of others seemed sustainable enough. It carried on its' journey, looking for more life to steal, needing nothing but to feed on thoughts and the things that make us human, trying desperately to become so itself.
You cannot kill an idea, stop a creation from the depths of imagination. Even after the creator is no more, their thoughts and ideas remain, skulking through the ether, looking to become whole. Manifestations of the best and worst of us and now one lingers about, hungry and eager. It is raw and heartless, wanting only to be alive, to be realized in entirety and it will continue taking the lives of others until that happens. It never will. . .That is why we are all doomed.
Death itself is nothing more than the combination of all our unfinished works finally catching up to us. Why else would it be that so many infinitely creative people perish at such early stages of their lives? Because it is not about what we finish and create, it is all the things we leave unfinished and unsaid that eventually become our undoing.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Modern Cave Paintings
Tonight I want to talk about something that has completely baffled me since as long as I can remember. It is an issue that is pretty much overlooked by most of society, yet it could very well be, far in the future, how we are remembered. I am talking about men's room bathroom stalls.
If you are unfamiliar with this, then you either have never used a public bathroom, or are a girl. Granted, I do not know if the women's bathroom stalls have such "art" within them, but I can feel fairly certain that if it does exist, it is not nearly as bad as the men's. Having been a glorified janitor at Meijer, I did see, at least a small sample of the stall art in the women's restrooms and in comparison, it is virtually non- existant.
To those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. You go into pretty much any public restroom, sit down in the stall and all of the sudden you are transported to a claustrophobic would filled with countless people's fear and angst depravity. Scrawled along the walls are almost always multiple referenced to sex or sucking dick, sometimes you'll be lucky enough to find drawings, or even carvings of these acts, crudely drawn of course. You continues to look around and naturally find the obligatory "for a good time call" followed by a random phone number that usually is real and connects you to a real person who often times had no idea their number was scrawled on a bathroom stall.
You'll see places where people, either the establishment, or someone who got offended, tried to cover over profanities or whatever, but it is always in vain. Once one thing gets erased, it is quickly replaced by something else, a drawing of a penis, or a swastika.
Amongst all the vulgarity and drawings of cocks shooting sperm everywhere, you will often see references to God or Jesus. It is as if someone is trying to preach to and save the souls of the depraved who write on these stalls. It does say something, that God and Jesus can be found in the most awful of places, but it really only adds to the problem. People shouldn't write anything at all and bringing God or Jesus into the mix only ultimately leads to things like. "Jesus sucks cock." or "Fuck God" Whatever message the well-meaning have tried with their deities is lost amongst the unstoppable force of the stall artists.
You will always find someone, who thought it'd be a good idea to write their name, followed by, was here. Now I don't know if that is a carry over from childhood or what, but what I do know is that every time you see that, you will inevitably see that the HERE is crossed or carved out and is ALWAYS replaced by the word gay. Now, set aside for a minute that saying someone was gay doesn't even make any sense, that isn't was concerns me most about that. Grammar and spelling have gone out the window long ago for these denizens of bathroom art. Hell, just tonight I saw something in a stall that said Suck my dick Niger. Now perhaps they were talking about the African country, but I highly doubt that is what they were trying to express.
What concerns me the most, what really just defies all logic, is the two most common things found on the wall of a bathroom stall. The second most common thing is the word gay, or references to gay, but the most common, the absolute MOST frequently seen thing on stall walls, are penises, dicks, cocks. All shapes and sizes, squirting cum, pissing, doing any manner of things. Some drawn with great detail, others look like a child drew them, in some ways it is fascinating. I just don't understand though, because the men's room stall is perhaps one of the most racists,sexist,immoral and especially homophobic single place you will ever enter in your life, yet the most common thing you see is cocks. So, the people who draw these things hate gays and everything remotely related to them, but they are more than happy to add another penis to the already penis infested wall?
I don't get it at all, frankly I don't even understand what makes you want to write anything at all. I have never been sitting in a bathroom thinking, "Man I should draw something." Much less thinking I should draw a dick shooting cum into somebody's face. What is wrong with people? I guess I understand how somebody may think it is funny, and admittedly every now and then you will see clever bathroom art, but mostly it simply becomes an outlet for the worst in people.
A thousand years from now, if many of our great cities have become rubble and some alien race, or even our future generations, excavate the ruins of those cities, they may find great lost works of architecture, wonderful remnants of the good in humanity, art and music and pictures, all of those may be found. What will most assuredly will be found is at least one of two bathroom stall walls, the hard plastic they are made from will probably last forever. Those walls, could then become our legacy, modern cave paintings, left for the future to discover. What would they think? Would they be happy to know the so and so was here, but so and so was also gay? Would they appreciate the detailed way in which someone drew a hairy nutsack? Doubtful, they may get a little chuckle from the whole thing, but then they'd probably shake their heads and think, no wonder that society failed. No wonder those people aren't around anymore.
If you are unfamiliar with this, then you either have never used a public bathroom, or are a girl. Granted, I do not know if the women's bathroom stalls have such "art" within them, but I can feel fairly certain that if it does exist, it is not nearly as bad as the men's. Having been a glorified janitor at Meijer, I did see, at least a small sample of the stall art in the women's restrooms and in comparison, it is virtually non- existant.
To those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. You go into pretty much any public restroom, sit down in the stall and all of the sudden you are transported to a claustrophobic would filled with countless people's fear and angst depravity. Scrawled along the walls are almost always multiple referenced to sex or sucking dick, sometimes you'll be lucky enough to find drawings, or even carvings of these acts, crudely drawn of course. You continues to look around and naturally find the obligatory "for a good time call" followed by a random phone number that usually is real and connects you to a real person who often times had no idea their number was scrawled on a bathroom stall.
You'll see places where people, either the establishment, or someone who got offended, tried to cover over profanities or whatever, but it is always in vain. Once one thing gets erased, it is quickly replaced by something else, a drawing of a penis, or a swastika.
Amongst all the vulgarity and drawings of cocks shooting sperm everywhere, you will often see references to God or Jesus. It is as if someone is trying to preach to and save the souls of the depraved who write on these stalls. It does say something, that God and Jesus can be found in the most awful of places, but it really only adds to the problem. People shouldn't write anything at all and bringing God or Jesus into the mix only ultimately leads to things like. "Jesus sucks cock." or "Fuck God" Whatever message the well-meaning have tried with their deities is lost amongst the unstoppable force of the stall artists.
You will always find someone, who thought it'd be a good idea to write their name, followed by, was here. Now I don't know if that is a carry over from childhood or what, but what I do know is that every time you see that, you will inevitably see that the HERE is crossed or carved out and is ALWAYS replaced by the word gay. Now, set aside for a minute that saying someone was gay doesn't even make any sense, that isn't was concerns me most about that. Grammar and spelling have gone out the window long ago for these denizens of bathroom art. Hell, just tonight I saw something in a stall that said Suck my dick Niger. Now perhaps they were talking about the African country, but I highly doubt that is what they were trying to express.
What concerns me the most, what really just defies all logic, is the two most common things found on the wall of a bathroom stall. The second most common thing is the word gay, or references to gay, but the most common, the absolute MOST frequently seen thing on stall walls, are penises, dicks, cocks. All shapes and sizes, squirting cum, pissing, doing any manner of things. Some drawn with great detail, others look like a child drew them, in some ways it is fascinating. I just don't understand though, because the men's room stall is perhaps one of the most racists,sexist,immoral and especially homophobic single place you will ever enter in your life, yet the most common thing you see is cocks. So, the people who draw these things hate gays and everything remotely related to them, but they are more than happy to add another penis to the already penis infested wall?
I don't get it at all, frankly I don't even understand what makes you want to write anything at all. I have never been sitting in a bathroom thinking, "Man I should draw something." Much less thinking I should draw a dick shooting cum into somebody's face. What is wrong with people? I guess I understand how somebody may think it is funny, and admittedly every now and then you will see clever bathroom art, but mostly it simply becomes an outlet for the worst in people.
A thousand years from now, if many of our great cities have become rubble and some alien race, or even our future generations, excavate the ruins of those cities, they may find great lost works of architecture, wonderful remnants of the good in humanity, art and music and pictures, all of those may be found. What will most assuredly will be found is at least one of two bathroom stall walls, the hard plastic they are made from will probably last forever. Those walls, could then become our legacy, modern cave paintings, left for the future to discover. What would they think? Would they be happy to know the so and so was here, but so and so was also gay? Would they appreciate the detailed way in which someone drew a hairy nutsack? Doubtful, they may get a little chuckle from the whole thing, but then they'd probably shake their heads and think, no wonder that society failed. No wonder those people aren't around anymore.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Coasting On Potential
Two weeks ago, I turned 26, a pretty unexciting age to turn, but since then life has been crazy. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have metaphorical doors in front of me, all waiting eagerly for me to open them. I can't of course, open all of them, such is the trouble with metaphorical doors, you have to choose the ones to open and go through. Some of the choices are obvious, others not so much, but regardless, once you choose and step through you can't go back, you have to keep going until more doors come.
When you finally do settle upon a door, open it and walk through it, the world doesn't change, you aren't magically transported to a new place or world. The passage through the door generally offers subtle changes to your life and environment, but whether they are for better or worse is usually not made immediately apparent. Such is the risk in choosing to pass through metaphorical doors. It is a risk we all take however and will take pretty much our entire lives.
I often find myself wishing these doors did actually lead to some far off places, it'd be such an adventure. Taking the people in your life with you through these crazy worlds and lands behind the doors. Even accompanying others on their journeys through the doors would be incredibly amazing. It'd be like an interactive real life choose your adventure story. You might argue that life is an interactive choose your own adventure story, but then you'd be missing the point of what I am trying to say.
I guess in a way, I have always been afraid of opening new doors, partly because they don't lead to new worlds of grand adventure, they lead to more doors, more decisions. Nothing unusual, nothing strange, just more of the same, except with an altered cast or slightly different scenery. I think though I might also be scared because what if the door I choose does lead to a grand adventure? Am I ready for that? Will I go alone or do I get to bring others with me? I don't have the answers, I guess I just have to start opening doors.
"I can see the light all around your silhouette, leave an open door behind you."
When you finally do settle upon a door, open it and walk through it, the world doesn't change, you aren't magically transported to a new place or world. The passage through the door generally offers subtle changes to your life and environment, but whether they are for better or worse is usually not made immediately apparent. Such is the risk in choosing to pass through metaphorical doors. It is a risk we all take however and will take pretty much our entire lives.
I often find myself wishing these doors did actually lead to some far off places, it'd be such an adventure. Taking the people in your life with you through these crazy worlds and lands behind the doors. Even accompanying others on their journeys through the doors would be incredibly amazing. It'd be like an interactive real life choose your adventure story. You might argue that life is an interactive choose your own adventure story, but then you'd be missing the point of what I am trying to say.
I guess in a way, I have always been afraid of opening new doors, partly because they don't lead to new worlds of grand adventure, they lead to more doors, more decisions. Nothing unusual, nothing strange, just more of the same, except with an altered cast or slightly different scenery. I think though I might also be scared because what if the door I choose does lead to a grand adventure? Am I ready for that? Will I go alone or do I get to bring others with me? I don't have the answers, I guess I just have to start opening doors.
"I can see the light all around your silhouette, leave an open door behind you."
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Reckless Abandon
I have been doing a lot of things I wouldn't normally do as of late, but I found out tonight, that there are some things you just can't turn off.
I was at a get together with some friends, admittedly quite a bit intoxicated and the whole deal was starting to wind down. I figured I'd just stay up a while until I was able to drive home and go to sleep, but just as everything was settling, I got a very disturbing text from a very good friend.
I knew I couldn't drive, but I also felt I had to help. It was like a switch turned on in my head and BOOM! I was ready to help. I told the people I was with that I had to go, it was important, but not to worry, I wasn't driving. I left the car there and started running.
I ran about 2 miles, all the while talking to my friend in need, before I truly realized the scope of crazy I was embarking on. There simply was no way I was going to be able to run to where he was, so I turned around, very tired, still drunk and a little lost.
Eventually, I found my way to a Denny's and I sat and had coffee and food, still trying to help the situation anyway I could via the phone. I was exhausted, but I knew that had it been asked of me, I would have tried my hardest to run all the way to see him. It didn't matter, all that matter was trying to help. I went forth with good intentions and reckless abandon, then found myself in a Denny's eating cheesy hash browns and drinking coffee.
During the course of my Denny's meal I was able to successfully help my friend feel better, or at least I think I did. Then, with aching legs and a tired head, I ran another mile or so back to my car and drove home.
I sit here now, wondering if my selflessness is noble, or just stupid. It seems I will literally do just about anything to help those I care about, even when I have no business even trying to. In some ways, I guess that is good, but after tonight, I think maybe I should try to reign it in just a little. It wouldn't, after all, do anyone any good if I got myself hurt while trying to help someone else.
Still, there is a time and a place for reckless abandon.
I was at a get together with some friends, admittedly quite a bit intoxicated and the whole deal was starting to wind down. I figured I'd just stay up a while until I was able to drive home and go to sleep, but just as everything was settling, I got a very disturbing text from a very good friend.
I knew I couldn't drive, but I also felt I had to help. It was like a switch turned on in my head and BOOM! I was ready to help. I told the people I was with that I had to go, it was important, but not to worry, I wasn't driving. I left the car there and started running.
I ran about 2 miles, all the while talking to my friend in need, before I truly realized the scope of crazy I was embarking on. There simply was no way I was going to be able to run to where he was, so I turned around, very tired, still drunk and a little lost.
Eventually, I found my way to a Denny's and I sat and had coffee and food, still trying to help the situation anyway I could via the phone. I was exhausted, but I knew that had it been asked of me, I would have tried my hardest to run all the way to see him. It didn't matter, all that matter was trying to help. I went forth with good intentions and reckless abandon, then found myself in a Denny's eating cheesy hash browns and drinking coffee.
During the course of my Denny's meal I was able to successfully help my friend feel better, or at least I think I did. Then, with aching legs and a tired head, I ran another mile or so back to my car and drove home.
I sit here now, wondering if my selflessness is noble, or just stupid. It seems I will literally do just about anything to help those I care about, even when I have no business even trying to. In some ways, I guess that is good, but after tonight, I think maybe I should try to reign it in just a little. It wouldn't, after all, do anyone any good if I got myself hurt while trying to help someone else.
Still, there is a time and a place for reckless abandon.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
The Bitter End
It is a Wednesday night/Thursday morning, depending on how you chose to look at it. I am sitting in a place called The Bitter End, a place I have never been to alone, a place that feels far lonelier than it actually is. In fact, it is busier here tonight than I have ever seen it before. I am getting a lot accomplished in my time here, so it is a positive thing, but it is just a little off.
Something about not being at my computer desk, not in my own room, seems to help me focus more. It doesn't make much sense to me, seeing as here, there are dozens of distractions, but at home, I can have quiet and comfort in any way I desire. Still, sometimes, being out of the norm is exactly what I need to really get some real writing done.
I am now far too immersed in my world of fiction to continue writing a real world blog. This post has been more of a novel idea, feeling as if I almost have to write a blog while sitting in a coffee shop at 3 a.m. but it is nothing more than that. I will try and post something better soon, but for now, it is back to my world of fiction.
Something about not being at my computer desk, not in my own room, seems to help me focus more. It doesn't make much sense to me, seeing as here, there are dozens of distractions, but at home, I can have quiet and comfort in any way I desire. Still, sometimes, being out of the norm is exactly what I need to really get some real writing done.
I am now far too immersed in my world of fiction to continue writing a real world blog. This post has been more of a novel idea, feeling as if I almost have to write a blog while sitting in a coffee shop at 3 a.m. but it is nothing more than that. I will try and post something better soon, but for now, it is back to my world of fiction.
Shower Power
Inspiration is a fickle creature. It seems to like to strike you most often when there is very little you can do capitalize on it. In the middle of a meeting at work, stuck in traffic, right before you fall asleep, or even during a heated hostage situation. Inspiration almost seem to take sick pleasure in taunting this way, forcing us to try and remember whatever great idea it gave us until we can write it down or bring it to fruition. It really is like being bitten by a venomous creature. Such things never happen conveniently outside of hospitals, no, they always happen in deserts or out in the wilderness somewhere. Then, you just have to hold on, you have to survive until you can get to a hospital and even then, hope it isn't too late to save you. Rattlesnakes and inspiration are perhaps the exact same creature.
Except for one instance, at least for me, inspiration follows the above pattern, but I can manufacture it, force it out of hiding if you will, milk its' venom.
Showers, nothing special, just a shower. I am not sure if it is the sort of sensory deprivation that a long hot shower gives you that helps to let the ideas flow, or maybe it is just the relaxing nature of a good shower. I haven't ever pinpointed why showers work, but I have learned that nearly every time, they do help produce inspiration. I suppose the only exception to the rule is if I find myself showering with someone else, often times in those scenarios, inspiration couldn't get into my head if it wanted to.
The best part about the shower induced inspiration is that you can easily just turn the shower off and go make whatever idea you had, become a reality. At the very least, you can write down the idea or start planning it out, but for me it is usually writing related, so I can just turn off the shower, dry off and go write. I'd say a good 40% of everything I have ever written, I wrote while wearing just a towel. The idea will come and I won't feel the need to dress, just to get it out, set it free.
Hell, I am writing this entry in just a towel and if you know me, then you are welcome for the mental image
Here's to showers and rattlesnakes! May they never coexist.
Except for one instance, at least for me, inspiration follows the above pattern, but I can manufacture it, force it out of hiding if you will, milk its' venom.
Showers, nothing special, just a shower. I am not sure if it is the sort of sensory deprivation that a long hot shower gives you that helps to let the ideas flow, or maybe it is just the relaxing nature of a good shower. I haven't ever pinpointed why showers work, but I have learned that nearly every time, they do help produce inspiration. I suppose the only exception to the rule is if I find myself showering with someone else, often times in those scenarios, inspiration couldn't get into my head if it wanted to.
The best part about the shower induced inspiration is that you can easily just turn the shower off and go make whatever idea you had, become a reality. At the very least, you can write down the idea or start planning it out, but for me it is usually writing related, so I can just turn off the shower, dry off and go write. I'd say a good 40% of everything I have ever written, I wrote while wearing just a towel. The idea will come and I won't feel the need to dress, just to get it out, set it free.
Hell, I am writing this entry in just a towel and if you know me, then you are welcome for the mental image
Here's to showers and rattlesnakes! May they never coexist.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Gifts And Shampoo
As I write this, it is officially my birthday. I am 26 and as such, do not expect to get presents, pretty much after your 21st birthday, presents are a rarity. Not that they aren't appreciated by the few who give them, but most of the time, any birthday after your 21st, the celebration and the gathering of friends is the gift. After all, when life gets hectic for everyone, finding time to all share in good times and great company truly is a gift.
If anything, the best gift on my birthday is going to a good friend of mine. She finally gets to get out of this town and go chase down her own happiness over in Chicago. It is bittersweet for me, I will miss her company, but I know it will be great for her and I am certain we will still talk. Chicago is a big city, full of opportunity and I honestly don't know if it is ready for her, but she is a comin' and I highly recommend that whatever it is she is looking for out there just come out and surrender, because she will find you and possibly beat you into submission.
All joking aside, I am really proud of you and very happy for you, I know you will absolutely love Chicago.
Getting back on the subject of birthdays, I very much thought about being a child today, but it wasn't at all because of my birthday. I was showering, as I do every morning and all was going as it normally does. Washing myself, enjoying the hot water, staring directly into the shower head as it blasted water on me in an effort to wake me further. The problem came when washing my hair and I honestly do not know how it happened. For the first time since I was a young kid, I got shampoo in my eye! Now I'm talking talking a little bit, the kind of think you can just brush off like a man, no I am talking full on soap to eye contact. The kind of thing that sends lesser men to their knees.
I remained upright and steadfast, but I had forgotten how much that hurts! It was truly awful and I couldn't help but think, most things we remember from childhood are either exaggerated or disappointing when we relive them as adults. Old cartoons, childhood stories, the list of things that truly stand the test of time is a small list indeed. However, shampoo in the eye is now on that list. It is exactly how I remembered it as a kid. It sucks and I hate it.
I hope to go at least another decade of birthdays before having another shampoo to eye incident, but all I can truly do is be careful and take proper hair washing precautions, leaving it up to chance would be downright foolish.
On the same note, I hope it is far less time than that before I see my friend thriving in Chicago. My advice to you is simple, stick to your guns and be careful when washing your hair.
If anything, the best gift on my birthday is going to a good friend of mine. She finally gets to get out of this town and go chase down her own happiness over in Chicago. It is bittersweet for me, I will miss her company, but I know it will be great for her and I am certain we will still talk. Chicago is a big city, full of opportunity and I honestly don't know if it is ready for her, but she is a comin' and I highly recommend that whatever it is she is looking for out there just come out and surrender, because she will find you and possibly beat you into submission.
All joking aside, I am really proud of you and very happy for you, I know you will absolutely love Chicago.
Getting back on the subject of birthdays, I very much thought about being a child today, but it wasn't at all because of my birthday. I was showering, as I do every morning and all was going as it normally does. Washing myself, enjoying the hot water, staring directly into the shower head as it blasted water on me in an effort to wake me further. The problem came when washing my hair and I honestly do not know how it happened. For the first time since I was a young kid, I got shampoo in my eye! Now I'm talking talking a little bit, the kind of think you can just brush off like a man, no I am talking full on soap to eye contact. The kind of thing that sends lesser men to their knees.
I remained upright and steadfast, but I had forgotten how much that hurts! It was truly awful and I couldn't help but think, most things we remember from childhood are either exaggerated or disappointing when we relive them as adults. Old cartoons, childhood stories, the list of things that truly stand the test of time is a small list indeed. However, shampoo in the eye is now on that list. It is exactly how I remembered it as a kid. It sucks and I hate it.
I hope to go at least another decade of birthdays before having another shampoo to eye incident, but all I can truly do is be careful and take proper hair washing precautions, leaving it up to chance would be downright foolish.
On the same note, I hope it is far less time than that before I see my friend thriving in Chicago. My advice to you is simple, stick to your guns and be careful when washing your hair.
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