Most photosynthetic of phenomenologically philistine philoligists,
Let's be upfront with the nature of this game: when there is nothing to write about, one does not write. When there is plenty to write about, but a lack of time, one does not write. And, when there is some to write about, but a lack of time, and an impulse lack piloted by Bizarro Somnus (the purple "Zzz" on his costume reversed to "Sss," which is my reptilian response to early morning slights these days), one does not write.
I did actually have a post in the works following my Obama-full weekend which sought to segue from "the change this country needs" I heard so much about at the classical music benefit and the rally to a general musing on the possibility of change on a personal level. Specifically, I wondered whether it was possible to change some deep-seated character trait (we all know, of course, that it's possible to go on a diet, or start reading the newspaper every day). But how does one, say, stop being jealous? How does one alter a habitual response that occurs on certain occasions but is not capable of being monitored daily? I'm sure there are some answers to these questions, but they are certainly not easy answers. I used to say in high school, in reference to a friend who seemed to be constantly turning over a new leaf, that leopards can't change their spots. I don't know that I still believe that fully, as the general umbrella of "life" and "experience" can alter people. Sometimes.
Weekends continue to be filled with apartment-fixing shenanigans, with the odd adventure to assist on a Potterphile romance short film in the park, or a community theatre show, or guerrilla queer bar hopping, or jaunting to Ikea, or sitting around being vaguely aware that something is not quite right. There's not much to speak of during the week itself, as French class has devoured two nights a week and all my free time in the surrounding days. There seems to be a war for my time. Multiple projects at work have kept handling of life matters away from the office, and I'm so hungry for free time I spend chunks of it doing next-to-nothing online because I'm too tired to do anything productive but I certainly don't want to sleep yet.
This is not a cry for help - god forbid I ever use my writing to gripe for attention (heavens to Betsy), but the feeling of being tired regardless of how much sleep one gets, along with a sort-of directionless ambling as the weather grows cold, creates a peculiar feeling of unsettlement. And yet, I cannot honestly say I am unhappy, as all signs point in the other direction. It seems, perhaps, that the worries of living every day, coupled with the quirks of the flesh (my messenger bag has become a well-funded pharmaceutical conglomerate specializing in generics), are getting me down. With my current intellecutal pursuits proving frustrating (so much time specializing in my proficient areas spoiled me - I'm not used to feeling so inept), and no real romance to distract me, there's really just the rest of life. Which is fine. But the shimmer's off - mild dread has supplanted simmering anticipation.
There are solutions. Action, for one, in a specific direction with an intended purpose. I could gird myself for NaNoWriMo more. But I am just tired all the time. And even when it's not the droopy-eyed, nodding-off-at-my-desk kind, it's the sort of torpor that's hard to escape. I'd say all I need is a good kick in the ass, but I fear that'd simply slam me into the brick wall of my schedule and the unending maladies bouncing about as if I were some octogenarian hypochondriac. But those tiny maladies serve as a good metaphor for general ills. When things are mostly fine, but troublesome around the edges, one hesitates to take arms against the fringe for fear of upsetting the whole. It's a difficult conundrum, but I think that rotten fringe is a part of life no matter the juiciness of the core. And if it's insoluble, periodic or stable distractions seem the best solution. In short, tough it out until sex or fun projects render the irksome fringe - that relatively innocent, but nonetheless likely perched above a more terrifying despair, fringe - a forgotten pasttime, a pasttime no longer picked at like the jaggedly tiered fingernails of
Wiry
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Unempathy
Most scurrilous of squalidly scourging scoundrels,
Once upon a time there was an ass whose tale was not one with him. With great frustration he would attempt to reacquaint his tail with his posterior. Each time he thought he had succeeded, though, his friend the barn cat would inform him that it was too high or too low, too left or too right. The ass was so frustrated by all this that he vowed to give up trying to affix his tail ever again. One day, he came upon a body of still water. He discovered that, by hovering his rear above the water, he might utilize the reflection to pin that pesky tail. With great effort, he was able to stick the tail on in a position that left no doubt in the ass's mind that it was perfect. The ass raced to the barn cat, eager to tell him of his change in fortune. When he arrived at the barn, though, the barn cat was dead and mostly decomposed. This annoyed the donkey greatly, as it was just like that stupid fucking barn cat to try to drag him down on such a good day. The end.
In the sphere of navel-gazing self-examination, it is exceedingly difficult to hit the nail on the head of oneself, as it were. You either blow too hot or too cool, and either can be readily discerned by those poor souls who actually follow your exploits. What's there to do but give up the absurd enterprise altogether?
I keep a log of random ideas I have for stories or other written things. Some ideas wither fast, but others evolve and reappear. One such idea is the character I've dubbed "the longed-for jerk." He arose as a vessel for all my most horrible thoughts, a sort-of less-homicidal but nonetheless reprehensible Patrick Bateman. His rants rarely consisted of things I actually believed; rather, they showcased the lies and anger buried deep that would only appear if I lost all humanity. But I must not distance myself too much - he is all of my most horrible (and often paranoid) thoughts carried to their conclusion. Well, not necessarily all of them - just the ones that shock/appall/fascinate me enough to explore. For example:
"It all started, improbably enough, with a dream. I say improbably because dreams tend not to amount to shit. Maybe a zombie apocalypse dream gives you a little jazz in your step, but beyond minor mood vibes, the influence of dreams extends about as far as the bedposts. But my dream was different. I dreamt that my ex-girlfriend (who I still love) and my current girlfriend (who I love, but not as much) were entwined in sweet lesbian copulation. There was Andrea, sticking her tongue into Lucy's mouth like it was the best thing she's tasted since me. And they got each other hot and bothered in ways I'd never seen either, though not for lack of effort on my part.
I woke up hard (obviously). I took a few well-earned seconds to reel before my brain settled down and gave this whole thing some careful thought. This was the best dream I'd ever had. So good that I was grateful for once that dreams do that thing where they seem like memories. So I got up and out of bed, but before I even set one foot forward I knew that this dream was more than a dream. It's a Dream. Like how abortionists mean it: "I have a dream that one day this will be the land of dead babies, with a dead baby in every pot, a black garbage bag of dead babies in every garage." I knew this wasn't a dream to muse on fondly when I'm rotting in some home for invalid perverts.
I needed to make this happen.
But how?
I sat down at my desk and took out a piece of paper. I was the man who needed a plan.
Step 1: Make Lucy and Andrea lesbians
Step 2: Introduce them to each other
I paused. But there was no guarantee here. I could introduce them and they might giggle over carpet cleaners, but never make it to bed. How to be sure?
Step 3: Get them both wasted
I looked over my list. I crossed out steps 1 and 2. I looked at my list again. Perfect."
And...
"Seeing people suffer doesn't make me happy 'cause I'm a sadist. I'm not a bad person, I'm a good person. I am a very nice guy. For example, I watched that movie American Psycho last night. And that main guy is an asshole. Killing women just isn't right. You gotta draw the line. I was glad it turned out alright at the end though.
No, I don't like bad stuff happening to other people because seeing them in pain actually brings me pleasure. I don't get little bursts of sunshine when some guy eats pavement because I like seeing a torn-up face. Here's the secret: when bad things happen to other people, that means more good for me.
I'm not a spiritual person. I'm a good person, but not particularly spiritual. But there is one thing - karma. But I don't think karma is individual. It's everybody - all humanity on the scales. Four thousand people die in an earthquake and that same day four thousand men become fathers. These two things aren't coincidences. One caused the other - the bad balances the good. And that's harmony.
So, when something bad happens to somebody else, it means something good might be coming my way. Or maybe not. But I'm still on the good side of the scale, and that's reassuring.
You pass some bum on the street. He blubbers about needing just a few bucks, and you maybe say 'Sorry' or 'Get a job' and keep walking. And maybe after you feel scared or maybe irritated. I don't say either of those things. Get a job? Just so long as it's not yours, you mean. Instead, when they shuffle up to me I just give them a warm 'Thanks for sucking!' and keep moving. I'd give them money out of gratitude but I'd rather not risk tipping their side of the scale.
Don't worry. Most people, I am as considerate as can be. Especially women. Ladies, I promise you that I will give you a night you'll always cherish. I don't mean that in a vulgar way, either. Some poor sap in India will probably die of dysentery because of us, but you'll have the best night of your life."
So. To pick a bit. There are two strains of big truth in both of those. The first is the notion, and I think it's a particularly homosexual horror, of one's exes meeting and schtupping/dating/whatever. The folks who have good rapport with their exes might be exempt, but I imagine many are irked when their former sigothers find happiness in the warm embrace of another... all the more so if that other is an old other of yours.
The second is a bit different. I don't believe what he's saying, but I can't help but think that the deep strains of ill-wishing that run underneath humanity must be rooted in some sort of unspoken, probably-ridiculous logic. The inequality of the world is difficult to swallow if you don't believe it all balances somehow. But I think the thought process reveals a kind of anti-empathy in me, whereby I'm made nervous of those around me who don't match me on the happy/sad scale. Why is the joy of others so unsatisfying? This may be something to just chalk up in the "bad person" column, but I find the whole thing disturbingly nonsensical and pretty base. This is not to say I am better than others who face the similar dilemma, but one would hope that awareness could equip one with some defensive tools. Alas, it is not the case as of yet. For the time being, at least, I will remain your most-beloved and cerebral
Wiry
Once upon a time there was an ass whose tale was not one with him. With great frustration he would attempt to reacquaint his tail with his posterior. Each time he thought he had succeeded, though, his friend the barn cat would inform him that it was too high or too low, too left or too right. The ass was so frustrated by all this that he vowed to give up trying to affix his tail ever again. One day, he came upon a body of still water. He discovered that, by hovering his rear above the water, he might utilize the reflection to pin that pesky tail. With great effort, he was able to stick the tail on in a position that left no doubt in the ass's mind that it was perfect. The ass raced to the barn cat, eager to tell him of his change in fortune. When he arrived at the barn, though, the barn cat was dead and mostly decomposed. This annoyed the donkey greatly, as it was just like that stupid fucking barn cat to try to drag him down on such a good day. The end.
In the sphere of navel-gazing self-examination, it is exceedingly difficult to hit the nail on the head of oneself, as it were. You either blow too hot or too cool, and either can be readily discerned by those poor souls who actually follow your exploits. What's there to do but give up the absurd enterprise altogether?
I keep a log of random ideas I have for stories or other written things. Some ideas wither fast, but others evolve and reappear. One such idea is the character I've dubbed "the longed-for jerk." He arose as a vessel for all my most horrible thoughts, a sort-of less-homicidal but nonetheless reprehensible Patrick Bateman. His rants rarely consisted of things I actually believed; rather, they showcased the lies and anger buried deep that would only appear if I lost all humanity. But I must not distance myself too much - he is all of my most horrible (and often paranoid) thoughts carried to their conclusion. Well, not necessarily all of them - just the ones that shock/appall/fascinate me enough to explore. For example:
"It all started, improbably enough, with a dream. I say improbably because dreams tend not to amount to shit. Maybe a zombie apocalypse dream gives you a little jazz in your step, but beyond minor mood vibes, the influence of dreams extends about as far as the bedposts. But my dream was different. I dreamt that my ex-girlfriend (who I still love) and my current girlfriend (who I love, but not as much) were entwined in sweet lesbian copulation. There was Andrea, sticking her tongue into Lucy's mouth like it was the best thing she's tasted since me. And they got each other hot and bothered in ways I'd never seen either, though not for lack of effort on my part.
I woke up hard (obviously). I took a few well-earned seconds to reel before my brain settled down and gave this whole thing some careful thought. This was the best dream I'd ever had. So good that I was grateful for once that dreams do that thing where they seem like memories. So I got up and out of bed, but before I even set one foot forward I knew that this dream was more than a dream. It's a Dream. Like how abortionists mean it: "I have a dream that one day this will be the land of dead babies, with a dead baby in every pot, a black garbage bag of dead babies in every garage." I knew this wasn't a dream to muse on fondly when I'm rotting in some home for invalid perverts.
I needed to make this happen.
But how?
I sat down at my desk and took out a piece of paper. I was the man who needed a plan.
Step 1: Make Lucy and Andrea lesbians
Step 2: Introduce them to each other
I paused. But there was no guarantee here. I could introduce them and they might giggle over carpet cleaners, but never make it to bed. How to be sure?
Step 3: Get them both wasted
I looked over my list. I crossed out steps 1 and 2. I looked at my list again. Perfect."
And...
"Seeing people suffer doesn't make me happy 'cause I'm a sadist. I'm not a bad person, I'm a good person. I am a very nice guy. For example, I watched that movie American Psycho last night. And that main guy is an asshole. Killing women just isn't right. You gotta draw the line. I was glad it turned out alright at the end though.
No, I don't like bad stuff happening to other people because seeing them in pain actually brings me pleasure. I don't get little bursts of sunshine when some guy eats pavement because I like seeing a torn-up face. Here's the secret: when bad things happen to other people, that means more good for me.
I'm not a spiritual person. I'm a good person, but not particularly spiritual. But there is one thing - karma. But I don't think karma is individual. It's everybody - all humanity on the scales. Four thousand people die in an earthquake and that same day four thousand men become fathers. These two things aren't coincidences. One caused the other - the bad balances the good. And that's harmony.
So, when something bad happens to somebody else, it means something good might be coming my way. Or maybe not. But I'm still on the good side of the scale, and that's reassuring.
You pass some bum on the street. He blubbers about needing just a few bucks, and you maybe say 'Sorry' or 'Get a job' and keep walking. And maybe after you feel scared or maybe irritated. I don't say either of those things. Get a job? Just so long as it's not yours, you mean. Instead, when they shuffle up to me I just give them a warm 'Thanks for sucking!' and keep moving. I'd give them money out of gratitude but I'd rather not risk tipping their side of the scale.
Don't worry. Most people, I am as considerate as can be. Especially women. Ladies, I promise you that I will give you a night you'll always cherish. I don't mean that in a vulgar way, either. Some poor sap in India will probably die of dysentery because of us, but you'll have the best night of your life."
So. To pick a bit. There are two strains of big truth in both of those. The first is the notion, and I think it's a particularly homosexual horror, of one's exes meeting and schtupping/dating/whatever. The folks who have good rapport with their exes might be exempt, but I imagine many are irked when their former sigothers find happiness in the warm embrace of another... all the more so if that other is an old other of yours.
The second is a bit different. I don't believe what he's saying, but I can't help but think that the deep strains of ill-wishing that run underneath humanity must be rooted in some sort of unspoken, probably-ridiculous logic. The inequality of the world is difficult to swallow if you don't believe it all balances somehow. But I think the thought process reveals a kind of anti-empathy in me, whereby I'm made nervous of those around me who don't match me on the happy/sad scale. Why is the joy of others so unsatisfying? This may be something to just chalk up in the "bad person" column, but I find the whole thing disturbingly nonsensical and pretty base. This is not to say I am better than others who face the similar dilemma, but one would hope that awareness could equip one with some defensive tools. Alas, it is not the case as of yet. For the time being, at least, I will remain your most-beloved and cerebral
Wiry
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A Lark
Most abyssal of aluminum aqueducts,
The lovely Tweedums and I today mulled the viewing of a certain Moliere play entitled The School for Wives, which no doubt would have resulted in an evening of farcical hijinks and uproarious miscommunication.
We did not see the play; however, life (as always) will find a way to fill the vacuum.
Emotions are indeed strange elk. Ah, leave it to
Wiry...
The lovely Tweedums and I today mulled the viewing of a certain Moliere play entitled The School for Wives, which no doubt would have resulted in an evening of farcical hijinks and uproarious miscommunication.
We did not see the play; however, life (as always) will find a way to fill the vacuum.
Emotions are indeed strange elk. Ah, leave it to
Wiry...
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Memento Mori
Most jauntily jangling of jactancy-jejune joints,
Night is the time when worries pushed back the long day come sneaking back, sliding across the floors to your bed like feathery centipedes en route to some insectoid snackery. But, difficult as it may be to get to sleep, there at least is the pursed promise of obliteration if you can distract yourself or wait it out.
Morning is far, far worse. You awaken a blissful amnesiac, only to have remembrance of concerns claw through your drapes. Before leaving the house, you're twenty stone heavier and you've got to go face that bright day without recourse to alcohol or sympathy. Granted, the morning report is frequently innocuous: what day is it, do I have to work today, am I dating anyone, is today a shaving day or a shampoo day, who am I.
But then also: him and me had a fight, she's dead, I still have to pay that bill. And, because your mind is as-of-yet uncluttered, these things bounce about jollily before you can crack open a book on the bus.
Two mornings ago, I was scrubbing behind my ears and I recalled I will die. Many of you will be able to gloss over that last sentence, especially if you haven't experienced a spontaneous memento mori of late. I'd say most of us walk around and consider ourselves comfortable with death as a concept that's fascinating in fiction, unfortunate in the extended family, and unthinkable for oneself. This is probably a good thing. There have been many people and groups of people throughout history who have been obsessed with death, which isn't so hard to imagine when it touches those around you. And it is perhaps a good thing that so many of them were staunchly religious, or else the sheer weight of death would have rendered further living impossible.
To have had one's religion fall out from under you creates a difficult problem, then. There aren't heaps of people who would prefer utter nothingness to some form of afterlife, but there's really no reason except (a very human) vanity to expect the latter. Religion cannot be trusted to deliver the truth on this, any more than we can trust the experience of one's life flashing before one's eyes to be anything other than the brain putting on a fireworks show as it logs off. And while the agnostic might wisely point out that the uttery lack of knowledge regarding the validity of either stance prevents invalidation, some Elysian wonderland of holy oneness seems an Occam's MACH3 compared to a singular-swipe existence.
So. That which is Wiry will become dust. It is a thought less terrifying when one considers how many lovely people have gone through it all. Like Madeline Khan.
And what is there to do? Seize the day? Live it as though it were your last? Well, no. Becoming very famous and having lots of sex is a good path. Failing the first, definitely try the latter. And don't forget food. I want to live in a world where one is not permitted to expire before having a threesome and eating mango ice cream. This is perhaps not fair to those who do not like mangoes and those who do not like sex. To the former I say, yes you do. To the latter I say that rubbing your chunky bits with someone else's is one of the most pleasant of the cosmically absurd acts (managing to beat out Q-Tips and interior decorating). It is not always the solution to everything (9+7, oddly enough, equals drunk-drowsy cuddling that degenerates into full-on slumber before anyone flies south), but, to borrow from The Abstinence Teacher, I doubt any of us will approach our demise wishing we'd had less sex.
We have to live in this world and make choices in it. Most of us can't just make all our dreams come true or create a life of perfection. But, if you follow the principle of seeking the kind of sex you like as often as possible, you will be happy. Let it infiltrate all your decisions. Which is more likely to lead to a constipated kitty/enema-efficient vet role-playing scenario - chicken breasts or beef tenderloin? Will I be more likely to be bent over a headboard at Stanford or Yale? Is Philly more orgy-friendly than Minneapolis?
You may say - life is full of other motivations. Like, for instance, the motive of personal success, of rising to the top in your field. But really, you only want that so you qualify to be on top of someone as cool as you. Embrace it. What else are you living for, unless it be to read things penned by your dearest, truest
Wiry
Night is the time when worries pushed back the long day come sneaking back, sliding across the floors to your bed like feathery centipedes en route to some insectoid snackery. But, difficult as it may be to get to sleep, there at least is the pursed promise of obliteration if you can distract yourself or wait it out.
Morning is far, far worse. You awaken a blissful amnesiac, only to have remembrance of concerns claw through your drapes. Before leaving the house, you're twenty stone heavier and you've got to go face that bright day without recourse to alcohol or sympathy. Granted, the morning report is frequently innocuous: what day is it, do I have to work today, am I dating anyone, is today a shaving day or a shampoo day, who am I.
But then also: him and me had a fight, she's dead, I still have to pay that bill. And, because your mind is as-of-yet uncluttered, these things bounce about jollily before you can crack open a book on the bus.
Two mornings ago, I was scrubbing behind my ears and I recalled I will die. Many of you will be able to gloss over that last sentence, especially if you haven't experienced a spontaneous memento mori of late. I'd say most of us walk around and consider ourselves comfortable with death as a concept that's fascinating in fiction, unfortunate in the extended family, and unthinkable for oneself. This is probably a good thing. There have been many people and groups of people throughout history who have been obsessed with death, which isn't so hard to imagine when it touches those around you. And it is perhaps a good thing that so many of them were staunchly religious, or else the sheer weight of death would have rendered further living impossible.
To have had one's religion fall out from under you creates a difficult problem, then. There aren't heaps of people who would prefer utter nothingness to some form of afterlife, but there's really no reason except (a very human) vanity to expect the latter. Religion cannot be trusted to deliver the truth on this, any more than we can trust the experience of one's life flashing before one's eyes to be anything other than the brain putting on a fireworks show as it logs off. And while the agnostic might wisely point out that the uttery lack of knowledge regarding the validity of either stance prevents invalidation, some Elysian wonderland of holy oneness seems an Occam's MACH3 compared to a singular-swipe existence.
So. That which is Wiry will become dust. It is a thought less terrifying when one considers how many lovely people have gone through it all. Like Madeline Khan.
And what is there to do? Seize the day? Live it as though it were your last? Well, no. Becoming very famous and having lots of sex is a good path. Failing the first, definitely try the latter. And don't forget food. I want to live in a world where one is not permitted to expire before having a threesome and eating mango ice cream. This is perhaps not fair to those who do not like mangoes and those who do not like sex. To the former I say, yes you do. To the latter I say that rubbing your chunky bits with someone else's is one of the most pleasant of the cosmically absurd acts (managing to beat out Q-Tips and interior decorating). It is not always the solution to everything (9+7, oddly enough, equals drunk-drowsy cuddling that degenerates into full-on slumber before anyone flies south), but, to borrow from The Abstinence Teacher, I doubt any of us will approach our demise wishing we'd had less sex.
We have to live in this world and make choices in it. Most of us can't just make all our dreams come true or create a life of perfection. But, if you follow the principle of seeking the kind of sex you like as often as possible, you will be happy. Let it infiltrate all your decisions. Which is more likely to lead to a constipated kitty/enema-efficient vet role-playing scenario - chicken breasts or beef tenderloin? Will I be more likely to be bent over a headboard at Stanford or Yale? Is Philly more orgy-friendly than Minneapolis?
You may say - life is full of other motivations. Like, for instance, the motive of personal success, of rising to the top in your field. But really, you only want that so you qualify to be on top of someone as cool as you. Embrace it. What else are you living for, unless it be to read things penned by your dearest, truest
Wiry
Monday, July 28, 2008
Braun at the Balcony
Most bellificent of brouling balmophorous bryll-binglers,
Doubtless you are quite familiar with that staple of bloggery, that essential element of that which is posted serially upon the web; namely, the self-centered rant about life. It runs something along the lines of:
"Wokka wokka wokka what am I doing with this one life I have to life wokka wokka I'm wasting my time wokka wokka I've had a sudden realization wokka wokka wokka and I'm so glad you're reading this because it's like my 11 o'clock number is reaching the back row wokka but who am I to compare myself to Mama Rose wokka wokka God I'm so self-centered STOP READING THIS DON'T LOOK AT ME! wokka wokka look at me... look at me please... wokka wokka hahaha well anyway don't expect this post to stay up, I'm totally going to delete it wokka wokka wokka
...
Why isn't anyone leaving any comments? God damn it...
You know what? Wokka I'll leave this post up to serve as a lesson to myself to wokka wokka wokka."
Well, this is one of those posts.
I mean really, what is the matter with me? I am a good person, I am an attractive person, I am a talented person... why am I drifting through this life, never wokka wokka wokka?
Apologies for playing you like that. Really, it's not my intention to keep stringing you along. But I think we've all had these moments of crisis that seem to swoop from the heavens more suddenly than a summer storm in Boston (see, topical!). Where do they come from? Are they a sort of necessary mechanism for impelling action, or are they merely a hormonal fluctuation that's ultimately passing because Jupiter knows very little comes from these moments other than ranting blog posts and empty cartons of eggs (why, what do you eat?). Even if all the problems that seem to be swirling around the crisis still exist the next morning, somehow we're more able to deal. It's manageable. Or, perhaps, and pardon me for looking at it from the Matrix-worshipping goth angle, perhaps these moments of crisis are the sane peaks we reach before our brain opiates us back to a complacent fog. It's hard to say, really. The realization, for example, that one will die can shatter one day, and inspire only a smirking shrug the next.
Usually, though, there's some kind of trigger, however small it may be. Perhaps it is alcohol, or perhaps a bad day. It's hard to find, I know, but I do think there must be some traceable thing in these cases. I think, perhaps, this particular one of mine came about because I saw a person on my "People You May Know" bar on Facebook who I did indeed know, and yet had forgotten about utterly and completely. I clicked on this person and, unfortunately, could not access their profile because I was not friends with them. And I thought, "That's odd, I thought we were friends on this." And then I thought, "But why would we be?" to which my self rejoined, "Well, because... because there is some memory of significance somewhere. There is some reason this person is not just another face amongst books."
But I don't know what that thing is. I stretched back in my memory, looking for that conversation, that reason that must exist. Perhaps it is simply like deja vu, like the deja vu I somehow tend to get when sitting across from people I've just met on a couch while intoxicated. Or perhaps we were friends, and he defriended me because that whatever-it-was that brought us together wasn't worth an overflowing friend list. Obviously, I'm not a good friend candidate if I haven't given this person a thought in over a year.
Well, anyway, this failure of memory provoked a small crisis of the "If we are the sum of our experiences and we can barely recall most experiences and the best we can hope for are distorted shadows, then what kind of people are we?" variety. Well, anyway, I'm sure it's all very interesting.
Hey, you know what's actually more interesting? The Dark Knight. Go see it. Tell 'em you were sent by
Wiry
Doubtless you are quite familiar with that staple of bloggery, that essential element of that which is posted serially upon the web; namely, the self-centered rant about life. It runs something along the lines of:
"Wokka wokka wokka what am I doing with this one life I have to life wokka wokka I'm wasting my time wokka wokka I've had a sudden realization wokka wokka wokka and I'm so glad you're reading this because it's like my 11 o'clock number is reaching the back row wokka but who am I to compare myself to Mama Rose wokka wokka God I'm so self-centered STOP READING THIS DON'T LOOK AT ME! wokka wokka look at me... look at me please... wokka wokka hahaha well anyway don't expect this post to stay up, I'm totally going to delete it wokka wokka wokka
...
Why isn't anyone leaving any comments? God damn it...
You know what? Wokka I'll leave this post up to serve as a lesson to myself to wokka wokka wokka."
Well, this is one of those posts.
I mean really, what is the matter with me? I am a good person, I am an attractive person, I am a talented person... why am I drifting through this life, never wokka wokka wokka?
Apologies for playing you like that. Really, it's not my intention to keep stringing you along. But I think we've all had these moments of crisis that seem to swoop from the heavens more suddenly than a summer storm in Boston (see, topical!). Where do they come from? Are they a sort of necessary mechanism for impelling action, or are they merely a hormonal fluctuation that's ultimately passing because Jupiter knows very little comes from these moments other than ranting blog posts and empty cartons of eggs (why, what do you eat?). Even if all the problems that seem to be swirling around the crisis still exist the next morning, somehow we're more able to deal. It's manageable. Or, perhaps, and pardon me for looking at it from the Matrix-worshipping goth angle, perhaps these moments of crisis are the sane peaks we reach before our brain opiates us back to a complacent fog. It's hard to say, really. The realization, for example, that one will die can shatter one day, and inspire only a smirking shrug the next.
Usually, though, there's some kind of trigger, however small it may be. Perhaps it is alcohol, or perhaps a bad day. It's hard to find, I know, but I do think there must be some traceable thing in these cases. I think, perhaps, this particular one of mine came about because I saw a person on my "People You May Know" bar on Facebook who I did indeed know, and yet had forgotten about utterly and completely. I clicked on this person and, unfortunately, could not access their profile because I was not friends with them. And I thought, "That's odd, I thought we were friends on this." And then I thought, "But why would we be?" to which my self rejoined, "Well, because... because there is some memory of significance somewhere. There is some reason this person is not just another face amongst books."
But I don't know what that thing is. I stretched back in my memory, looking for that conversation, that reason that must exist. Perhaps it is simply like deja vu, like the deja vu I somehow tend to get when sitting across from people I've just met on a couch while intoxicated. Or perhaps we were friends, and he defriended me because that whatever-it-was that brought us together wasn't worth an overflowing friend list. Obviously, I'm not a good friend candidate if I haven't given this person a thought in over a year.
Well, anyway, this failure of memory provoked a small crisis of the "If we are the sum of our experiences and we can barely recall most experiences and the best we can hope for are distorted shadows, then what kind of people are we?" variety. Well, anyway, I'm sure it's all very interesting.
Hey, you know what's actually more interesting? The Dark Knight. Go see it. Tell 'em you were sent by
Wiry
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Defriendestration
Most defaming of dorsally dithyrambic decoupagiers,
"What," you may ask yourself, "What in the great wide wonderfully witty and woefully warbling world is meant by this word, 'defriendestration'? Are there not too many letters there, so hastily crowded together in quite the unseemly manner?"
To be brief, defriendestration is mostly a bit of this and a dollop of that. To be hurled forth from a window is often unpleasant, especially if your name is Jezebel or you hold judiciary office in Czech regions. Or both. However, if a conflagration is ravaging a building in which you find yourself, a defenestration can be quite welcome, especially if you land on a thoughtfully-placed inflatable mattress or, at the very least, a heaping pile of cushioning manure. Still other times, defenestration can be neither good nor ill: "I was planning on leaving anyway, and though I would have preferred the door, I find this fenestral egress perfectly adequate."
To delete someone from your friend list, be it on Facebook, MySpace, or FurryFinder.org, is an act not unlike defenestration. Perhaps the act is done to punish an individual for some transgression or a sudden rupture in relations. Alternately, it may be done for psychologically healthy purposes, as allowing the internet to drag forth the flayed remains of relations gone sour retards some process of healing. And last, but certainly not least, a quick spring cleaning may reveal some entity to be utterly gratuitous - at best, you're indifferent to them, at worst they clog your columns with perpetual updates about their overweight cat, Poopy. This range carries over to the friending process as well - perhaps you just met a cool person, perhaps you're just accepting some random request, or perhaps you're friending someone you love.
One never receives a message regarding defriendestration, though, just as one rarely hears, "Just for your future information, we are going to be throwing you out the window at present." Unlike defenestration, you may not know for weeks at a time that someone has trimmed their social web. Perhaps you will never notice, in which case the act was likely a good call on their part. But, noticing that you have been defriended, regardless of the circumstance, is often a disorienting experience, much like plummeting into poop.
But why? Friends fade in and out of our lives naturally. In all reality, I've been effectively "defriended" by most everyone with whom I went to gradeschool. Further, if Facebook did not exist (as it did not for most everyone older than me), the same could be said of high school, college, and workplace friends. People fall off your radar so often, and there may not be a jot of ill will behind it (see the "spring cleaning" facet above). But there's another type of organic defriendestration as well - those friends you simply stop calling because they are, for one reason or another, lame. In this case, there is no "falling out of touch" - you actively terminate the friendship. But, in a world where social networks are not mapped out online, this very conscious act can be perceived by the other party as "drifting apart." When the web becomes tangible, each shake is felt more strongly.
There are many who don't take Facebook, or any online networking tool, very seriously. But as it becomes further integrated into the fabric of our lives, it seems at best irresponsible to dismiss the ramifications of online actions. Yes, it may seem a bit sad to obsess over whether or not to return a poke, but the virtual world really is an extension of the one in which we live. The poke is a "Hi," a smile, a ... poke. I may not use AOL anymore, or talk on AIM much, or blog excessively on my life, but I do carry memories of significance for which the place can only be called online. Over AIM alone I have forged friendships, fought with friends, started and ended relationships, come out, begged, joked, talked dirty. Some records of my life are saved online and on my computer - some conversations exist in permanence in a way none in person or over the phone could. Likewise, social networking sites preserve chunks of dynamics long changed. We may see a picture every day of that person from freshman year we're so thrilled to no longer do Baby Drama scenes with. How odd is that? We manage to cram some piece of ourselves onto a single page that can then be adopted and traded like Pokemon between people we know.
I am not out to bash online social networking sites - there's plenty to love, from photos to readily-accessible contact information to Scrabulous. But, while it may seem natural to store financial information or papers written digitally, what does it mean when your life itself is preserved in bytes? Sure, people have kept Rolodexes for years now, but no one has ever had the time to keep a drawer labeled "All the People I Have Ever Known" updated and accurate. And no Rolodex notecard ever told you that Jenny is now listening to DMB.
Old men on the last pages of news magazines have already tread much of this ground - "We are living in a digital age, where anything and everything is computerized and our robot overlords have already won." Or something. It's already weird to be able to go through old files and see conversations with boyfriends and friends. Boy, I talked differently then. Online-talked, that is. And wow, I was a jerk. Or wow, did I find that funny? Excessive self-examination is essentially masturbatory, though, and - let's be honest - chances are not even the other party in those old conversations would attach much significance to those words they typed out years ago. But, it's weird to look at now. And it'll only get weirder the older I get.
Me: well if you were gay i know what i'd say
Me: i dunno... i hate feeling dirty
Me: i hate feeling like i'm just some brainless sex thing
And yet, some things never change...
Why? Re: (no subject)
"What," you may ask yourself, "What in the great wide wonderfully witty and woefully warbling world is meant by this word, 'defriendestration'? Are there not too many letters there, so hastily crowded together in quite the unseemly manner?"
To be brief, defriendestration is mostly a bit of this and a dollop of that. To be hurled forth from a window is often unpleasant, especially if your name is Jezebel or you hold judiciary office in Czech regions. Or both. However, if a conflagration is ravaging a building in which you find yourself, a defenestration can be quite welcome, especially if you land on a thoughtfully-placed inflatable mattress or, at the very least, a heaping pile of cushioning manure. Still other times, defenestration can be neither good nor ill: "I was planning on leaving anyway, and though I would have preferred the door, I find this fenestral egress perfectly adequate."
To delete someone from your friend list, be it on Facebook, MySpace, or FurryFinder.org, is an act not unlike defenestration. Perhaps the act is done to punish an individual for some transgression or a sudden rupture in relations. Alternately, it may be done for psychologically healthy purposes, as allowing the internet to drag forth the flayed remains of relations gone sour retards some process of healing. And last, but certainly not least, a quick spring cleaning may reveal some entity to be utterly gratuitous - at best, you're indifferent to them, at worst they clog your columns with perpetual updates about their overweight cat, Poopy. This range carries over to the friending process as well - perhaps you just met a cool person, perhaps you're just accepting some random request, or perhaps you're friending someone you love.
One never receives a message regarding defriendestration, though, just as one rarely hears, "Just for your future information, we are going to be throwing you out the window at present." Unlike defenestration, you may not know for weeks at a time that someone has trimmed their social web. Perhaps you will never notice, in which case the act was likely a good call on their part. But, noticing that you have been defriended, regardless of the circumstance, is often a disorienting experience, much like plummeting into poop.
But why? Friends fade in and out of our lives naturally. In all reality, I've been effectively "defriended" by most everyone with whom I went to gradeschool. Further, if Facebook did not exist (as it did not for most everyone older than me), the same could be said of high school, college, and workplace friends. People fall off your radar so often, and there may not be a jot of ill will behind it (see the "spring cleaning" facet above). But there's another type of organic defriendestration as well - those friends you simply stop calling because they are, for one reason or another, lame. In this case, there is no "falling out of touch" - you actively terminate the friendship. But, in a world where social networks are not mapped out online, this very conscious act can be perceived by the other party as "drifting apart." When the web becomes tangible, each shake is felt more strongly.
There are many who don't take Facebook, or any online networking tool, very seriously. But as it becomes further integrated into the fabric of our lives, it seems at best irresponsible to dismiss the ramifications of online actions. Yes, it may seem a bit sad to obsess over whether or not to return a poke, but the virtual world really is an extension of the one in which we live. The poke is a "Hi," a smile, a ... poke. I may not use AOL anymore, or talk on AIM much, or blog excessively on my life, but I do carry memories of significance for which the place can only be called online. Over AIM alone I have forged friendships, fought with friends, started and ended relationships, come out, begged, joked, talked dirty. Some records of my life are saved online and on my computer - some conversations exist in permanence in a way none in person or over the phone could. Likewise, social networking sites preserve chunks of dynamics long changed. We may see a picture every day of that person from freshman year we're so thrilled to no longer do Baby Drama scenes with. How odd is that? We manage to cram some piece of ourselves onto a single page that can then be adopted and traded like Pokemon between people we know.
I am not out to bash online social networking sites - there's plenty to love, from photos to readily-accessible contact information to Scrabulous. But, while it may seem natural to store financial information or papers written digitally, what does it mean when your life itself is preserved in bytes? Sure, people have kept Rolodexes for years now, but no one has ever had the time to keep a drawer labeled "All the People I Have Ever Known" updated and accurate. And no Rolodex notecard ever told you that Jenny is now listening to DMB.
Old men on the last pages of news magazines have already tread much of this ground - "We are living in a digital age, where anything and everything is computerized and our robot overlords have already won." Or something. It's already weird to be able to go through old files and see conversations with boyfriends and friends. Boy, I talked differently then. Online-talked, that is. And wow, I was a jerk. Or wow, did I find that funny? Excessive self-examination is essentially masturbatory, though, and - let's be honest - chances are not even the other party in those old conversations would attach much significance to those words they typed out years ago. But, it's weird to look at now. And it'll only get weirder the older I get.
Me: well if you were gay i know what i'd say
Me: i dunno... i hate feeling dirty
Me: i hate feeling like i'm just some brainless sex thing
And yet, some things never change...
Why? Re: (no subject)
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Summer Projects
Most illustriously illuminating yet illiterately ignoble iambs,
Inspired by Miss Faundell's meticulous itemizing of her summertime intentions (I personally await her purchase of this "Zune" with bated breath - I have been told by my cryptozoologist colleagues that they are quite ferocious and yet also skilled potters), I present to you my own summer projects. I do so not for the purposes of checking off - there are many adventures I intend to embark upon this summer. Rather, I offer them as curiosities of note.
I. The Deliciously Indubitable World of Walt Whimsy
Walter Whimsy has long been, as many of you doubtlessly know, a most cherished friend and comrade-in-arms to your beloved Wiry. It is thus with great regret that I inform you of his unfortunate "end" at the hands of vampire Hussars. Though I keep a vial of blessed water beside my bed for the dual purposes of nocturnal hydration and warding off what remains of dearest Walter, my soul remains thirsty for the completion of the project he held nearest his heart (before it was extricated); namely, the careful and thorough judgement of the entire canon of full-length, theatrical animated feature films produced by Disney (apologies for the adjective dysentery).
Thus, with my good friend and associate Lord Tweedums, I have embarked on a new journey to finish what capitated Walter most fervently longed for. In a serial format dedicated to Walter, we will view all of those films and judge them most harshly (for Walter both before and after life was known to be a bit cantankerous). Upon completion, we will have scaled the entire body of work from greatest to most unworthy.
We welcome your company on our journey. The way may be long, but you may be rewarded for even the briefest pressing of a moistened towelette to our brows with the imprint of our noble visages. It is a chance for you to be a part of something larger than yourself. Something - dare Wiry say it? - approaching the sublime.
II. A Tactical Undertaking
When the siren of Final Fantasy Tactics beckons you, it is not for you to say nay. When it says "Jump," your only reply need be "Having anticipated this request, I have taken the time to level up my Lancer."
Thus lured once again to jaunt about Ivalice, I reasoned that I needed some justification. First play through, check. Second play through, check. Third play through wherein I create characters who are ultimately badass, check. Fourth play through... well, you get the idea. I realized, however, that I had not yet accomplished the most histrionic of tasks; that is, the creation of a squad composed entirely of one's friends. Of course, they would have to have the correct zodiac sign. And, of course, their jobs would have to fit them well. But what fun! And how else to feel the pain of a character's death than to have said death be that of a beloved acquaintance?
I will list below those I currently have in my party, along with their current class and proposed direction. For some, I have a very specific agenda (including class, secondary abilities, and weaponry). Others are mere sketches at present. Feel free to peruse and offer suggestions (though, for other individuals, not yourself. I don't care if you think you should be a katana-wielding calculator with summoning skills); however, this is of course my game and I am the decider. I also must must must hasten to add that my end goal is to have an entire roster filled with friends - those below are merely thus far, so do not be offended if you are not yet listed.
1. RamzAnthony - Yes, we may as well embrace histrionics while we're at it. But, considering Ramza is an omnipresent figure, he's blond, and eventually earns delightful butt-plating armor, I thought it appropriate that SOMEONE should stand in as him. Why not me? I haven't settled into a final form yet, though I may shoot for mime.
2. Nathaniel - Currently a monk, will likely remain a monk. While all else are making their obligatory journeys through the thief class, Nathaniel is skilled at actually killing things. He will likely sport some armor and perhaps white or time magic as a secondary skill.
3. Ryan - Tank. Tank tank? Tank. Two-sworded knight with geomancy.
4. Joseph - Black Mage, of course. He will likely remain one for the duration of the game, though summoning may show up as a secondary skill.
5. Kari - In my first play-through, I had a chemist (eventually with a gun) in my party the entire game. I decided to render Kari as a master chemist, with Talk Skill and either a gun or an axe.
6. Jeff - Lance-wielding bard.
7. Cait - Punching dancer.
(... And more to come. I am determined that, while some abilities may be shared, no one will end up as the same class come game-end. I have indeed done a listing of all the classes and assigned them all to folk, but I shan't release any more information until I've actually made those individuals as no mind is quite so mutable as that of
Wiry)
UPDATE: Alas for 16-character limits. Ah well.
Inspired by Miss Faundell's meticulous itemizing of her summertime intentions (I personally await her purchase of this "Zune" with bated breath - I have been told by my cryptozoologist colleagues that they are quite ferocious and yet also skilled potters), I present to you my own summer projects. I do so not for the purposes of checking off - there are many adventures I intend to embark upon this summer. Rather, I offer them as curiosities of note.
I. The Deliciously Indubitable World of Walt Whimsy
Walter Whimsy has long been, as many of you doubtlessly know, a most cherished friend and comrade-in-arms to your beloved Wiry. It is thus with great regret that I inform you of his unfortunate "end" at the hands of vampire Hussars. Though I keep a vial of blessed water beside my bed for the dual purposes of nocturnal hydration and warding off what remains of dearest Walter, my soul remains thirsty for the completion of the project he held nearest his heart (before it was extricated); namely, the careful and thorough judgement of the entire canon of full-length, theatrical animated feature films produced by Disney (apologies for the adjective dysentery).
Thus, with my good friend and associate Lord Tweedums, I have embarked on a new journey to finish what capitated Walter most fervently longed for. In a serial format dedicated to Walter, we will view all of those films and judge them most harshly (for Walter both before and after life was known to be a bit cantankerous). Upon completion, we will have scaled the entire body of work from greatest to most unworthy.
We welcome your company on our journey. The way may be long, but you may be rewarded for even the briefest pressing of a moistened towelette to our brows with the imprint of our noble visages. It is a chance for you to be a part of something larger than yourself. Something - dare Wiry say it? - approaching the sublime.
II. A Tactical Undertaking
When the siren of Final Fantasy Tactics beckons you, it is not for you to say nay. When it says "Jump," your only reply need be "Having anticipated this request, I have taken the time to level up my Lancer."
Thus lured once again to jaunt about Ivalice, I reasoned that I needed some justification. First play through, check. Second play through, check. Third play through wherein I create characters who are ultimately badass, check. Fourth play through... well, you get the idea. I realized, however, that I had not yet accomplished the most histrionic of tasks; that is, the creation of a squad composed entirely of one's friends. Of course, they would have to have the correct zodiac sign. And, of course, their jobs would have to fit them well. But what fun! And how else to feel the pain of a character's death than to have said death be that of a beloved acquaintance?
I will list below those I currently have in my party, along with their current class and proposed direction. For some, I have a very specific agenda (including class, secondary abilities, and weaponry). Others are mere sketches at present. Feel free to peruse and offer suggestions (though, for other individuals, not yourself. I don't care if you think you should be a katana-wielding calculator with summoning skills); however, this is of course my game and I am the decider. I also must must must hasten to add that my end goal is to have an entire roster filled with friends - those below are merely thus far, so do not be offended if you are not yet listed.
1. RamzAnthony - Yes, we may as well embrace histrionics while we're at it. But, considering Ramza is an omnipresent figure, he's blond, and eventually earns delightful butt-plating armor, I thought it appropriate that SOMEONE should stand in as him. Why not me? I haven't settled into a final form yet, though I may shoot for mime.
2. Nathaniel - Currently a monk, will likely remain a monk. While all else are making their obligatory journeys through the thief class, Nathaniel is skilled at actually killing things. He will likely sport some armor and perhaps white or time magic as a secondary skill.
3. Ryan - Tank. Tank tank? Tank. Two-sworded knight with geomancy.
4. Joseph - Black Mage, of course. He will likely remain one for the duration of the game, though summoning may show up as a secondary skill.
5. Kari - In my first play-through, I had a chemist (eventually with a gun) in my party the entire game. I decided to render Kari as a master chemist, with Talk Skill and either a gun or an axe.
6. Jeff - Lance-wielding bard.
7. Cait - Punching dancer.
(... And more to come. I am determined that, while some abilities may be shared, no one will end up as the same class come game-end. I have indeed done a listing of all the classes and assigned them all to folk, but I shan't release any more information until I've actually made those individuals as no mind is quite so mutable as that of
Wiry)
UPDATE: Alas for 16-character limits. Ah well.
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