I wonder if writing those 2000 word entries is actually an exercise in resistance. Yes it's writing, and yes any writing is great practice. It is a creative enterprise, no doubt. I love to write and sitting down in journaling helps to feed that need I have for self expression. On the other hand it's not the sort of writing I want to do in the long run, and it is an excuse not to write fiction because it takes so much time to write all that stuff up that when you add in the normal demands of every day life you just don't have time to hammer out a chapter or a scene.
I haven't decided if it's resistance or not.
Did you know that Blondes only became the females of choice in our society due to technological limitations of early movie cameras? The things you learn in college.
I was talking to Frank about not graduating this semester, a potential option, and instead taking a fifth year (really a fourth and a half) and getting a film degree. I don't know if it's an option or if it's something I really want to do anyway. Is this all just separation anxiety from school? I don't think so, I have always wanted to do something creative with my life and just never had the guts. I also really didn't like school until recently, when I've come to appreciate it much more.
Saying that I want to stay in school is scary. There are reasons not to. I want money. I want to contribute to the world. I want to be a real person, not a student. I don't want the shame of being a ninth semester senior (the least convincing reason, fuck other people's perceptions of me, I can worry about them when I'm dead.) I don't want to live with my mother anymore, oh god how I don't want to live with my mother any more. She's evil and cruel like the devil but not nearly as interesting or fun. Plus her boyfriend will be moving in soon and that's a disaster and a half just waiting to happen. I will clash with him and there will be domestic violence and somehow I'll end up in the hospital or an interogation room in a wifebeater saying that I only meant to scare him a little and it got out of hand.
I still don't know if I'm good enough to be creative for a living. It is a fear that runs deep and cold. The thing is it's not all that relevant right now because I can't concieve of doing anything else. I used to think I could do law, but realistically it has no draw for me. I have all these words thrashing around in my head these days demanding to get out. Even when I'm not sitting at the computer typing my mind is churning out page after page. I narrate my life as it's ongoing. I can't hold that in, can't repress the urge to write. A thousand brilliant sentences and thoughts slip through my mind every day because I'm not sitting at a computer when they enter my brain. I should carry around a notepad. My mind is racing, burning a hole in my head like unspent money in a bettor's pocket. I want to put all my creativity and ideas on black and spin the roullette wheel. I want to double down with my soul.
I'm in a state of intense arousal, and I'm not talking about my penis which is flaccid at the moment. I'm like a caged animal but I can't see the bars. I don't know what's holding me in right now. This is a time when other people drink or smoke or do dope. It's a time when I used to shovel down mouthfuls of hazelnut gelatto and excuse it because of my emotions. Now I crunch pistachio nut shells between my teeth and sit down to write, Counting Crows whining in my ears, a combination of insightful emotive music and manipulative shit that deserves a good beating. It's these times when my mind races with my fingertips to see if the brain can generate more material than the phalanges can express. The brain always wins of course because it is the puppetmaster for the fingers, which cry out for a fair fight in vain as the mind laughs and uses my neural networks for its own nefarious purposes, churning out more thought than I can express and then chiding me for not getting it all out. Some people smoke and drink to dull the pain, I pace and write. I cried twice tonight and I can't tell you why. Part of it is not knowing where I'll live part of it is being afraid TO live, to truly pursue my dreams of writing and prove my unworthyness before a tribunal that consists of all English speakers on earth.
It's possible that film is just a coverstory for writing, my first love, my precious, my everything. Maybe it's another detour from that fate. Maybe it's a beautiful lie. I don't know, I love movies, I love how they're constructed, I love the power and complexity that a single shot can have. Movies come into my head all the time, they play out in snippets and parts, I see the best scenes only. The scene where we introduce our antihero, big and bulky, mid-30's, long dark hair, leather clothing, deep circles under his eyes and empty liquor bottles on the bar in front of him. His voice is gravel as he tells us about violence, about his death impulse and how it rules him. He finds redemption at the bottom of a shot glass. He is oppressive and accutely aware of his immorality but not ashamed of it. Then we cut and he's beating a man for information. In the frame we have the side of his face, one eye open in rage. His arm reaches up into frame, imposing with its tattoos and the thick metal bracelet. It slams down into his victim's face off screen. He asks his question again, his voice now rolling thunder and full of rage. There is a whimper and the arm raises and falls once more. A splatter of blood shoots up and lands underneath the eye. He blinks. We cut to him in the bathroom cleaning blood off his body with the sink and paper towel. None of it's his.
I get many such scenes on a daily basis. How could I not want to be a filmmaker?
Then again there are my words. They seek egress through any means possible. They want to force open my jaw at gunpoint and spew out on to my chin. If I am silent for minutes at a time I grow antsy.
What if I do it? What if I throw caution to the wind, spend my inheritance and the next ten years trying to get someone to listen to what I have to say? What if I fail? I don't have the choice not to try anymore, this isn't so much speculation as concession to reality. I struggled mightily to be something else, a lawyer, a shrink, a scientist, an educator. It's all charades or pictionary with no real audience but myself. I'm a writer. A bad writer. A pathetic nothing. It's what I am. I had a friend in highschool who went by the name of Rob. He always wanted to be an artist and now he is. Call it self actualization or visualizing success. Call it talent and inspiration. Call it thousands of hours of blood and sweat left on a canvas that would eventually be discarded. Call it fate. I envy him and the good use he made out of these last few years. I envy his dedication. I envy the fact that he was not realistic in that stupid obstinant way that I was. I am green with jealousy towards everyone in the world, even those who have it worse than I do. A human being is a perpetual desire machine. We are like the mythical pendelum in outer space that keeps running for all eternity only we somehow gain momentum as we go along. The more we have the more we want.
I want to leave my blood and tears upon the printed page or celluloid strip. I want to drop from exhausting every night and rise in the morning to try to capture my final thought of the night before before it vanishes forever. I want to erase pages of junk written when I was too tired to be coherent. I want to pursue my dreams before I am too old for them. I don't want it to be painful and awkward but it will be. I don't want to churn out barrels of crap, verbal waste that makes the nuclear stuff going to Nevada look like purified drinking water. I will.
Writing is an essentially violent act, like birth.
What else is there tonight. Andy Rooney has stirred up controversy by saying that not every soldier in Iraq is a hero. People say he should be fired for this indiscretion. He should be fired because all he does is state the obvious that the PC police don't want us to talk about. Of course not every soldier is a hero. Some are thieves and cowards. Some kill themselves or civilians. Some rape and steal from civilians. The armed forces is made up of young men, not saints and angels. Saints and angels don't get lonely and frustrated late at night. Some of the men there are not afraid and enjoy the killing. They aren't heroes just because what comes naturally to them is dangerous and difficult. Mountain climbers are not heroes. Is the average soldier a hero? I don't know the average soldier. I imagine that he is in some ways. I imagine he has more potential for it than those of us on the homefront. Being in Iraq does not make one a hero by default, it is merely an opportunity to become one.
In gym class today I was a different person. I moved faster than I have before during this semester. The people on my court were consistantly surprised at my range, as I darted forward and grabbed shots that looked to be falling in. I don't know if this was because of weight loss or because I haven't been playing Squash so I've adjusted to the game. It was odd nonetheless.
Two girls said strange things to me in the class, things that made me think. One indicated that she idolized the historian Eric Foner. This is understandable since he's a famous historian and a good looking man (I'm not saying that in a GAY way.) On the other hand it didn't seem like she wanted to BE the next Eric Foner but merely to bask in his limelight. Maybe I misunderstood or was making light but she seemed to desire him, not his accomplishments or his life. That experience is alien to me. The people I idolize are people I want to emulate. I don't want to be with them or near them. I suppose I'd like to be friends with them and I'd love to learn from them, to ask questions and gain insight into what makes them spectacular, but that's all in the pursuit of my own betterment. The people I want to be with are a separate category.
Another girl asked me if I'd been on MTV. She said I looked familiar. This was especially bizzare since I'd spoken to her at least half a dozen times and she'd never brought it up. I suspect she may have been referencing the fact that my shirt may have flown up a couple times while I was leaping for shuttlecocks and thus I resembles the fat guys on MTV who rip off their shirts for no other reason than to horrify the viewers at hime, but what an odd way to go about insulting someone. Of course I have a tendency to take everything as an insult no matter how it was intended.
I have been playing Fight Night for the PS2 and it emulates boxing in every way, surprisingly well. It even has a feature where the judges rob you of a fight you should have won. That's some boxing realism I could have done without. Madden has this too, the referees make mistakes. Why do we want computers that CAN get these things perfectly making imperfect decisions? It doesn't quite make sense to me. At least the ring girls are hot.
I managed to exceed the word count of my last mammoth entry. I'm not sure. This is like a writing trainwreck, in less than 12 hours I'll have posted something close to 4500 words. Who does that? What's going on with me? I have papers to write and I'm spewing out journal entry after journal entry of gargantuan size. It's like masturbating before you're supposed to have sex. I'd probably do that too if I had someone to have sex with.
P.S. When I said that I got an extension on my paper what I actually did was get everyone in my policy class an extension on their papers by presumptively speaking for all of them and using my cache in the class to ask the professor for more time. It worked.
I hope you enjoyed this virtual frottage as I rubbed my engorged mind against your virtual screen until it died down. I'm spent now. Night.