Here there be monsters (socratic) wrote,
Here there be monsters

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I'm angry because I hurt and I hurt because I'm angry.

I worked out a whole comedy routine about the drug war yesterday. It was crusty and "80's" with some decently funny bits and more than a few groaners. Why didn't I post it? I decided to spare you guys. The truth of the matter is that while writing it was good practise, it wasn't anything that would have been of value to another person. I feel ambivalent about this decision. On the one hand, as I've said in the past, I don't want to censor myself. On the other, and this is important too, I prefer to output stuff that's either an important description of my emotional or mental state or something I wouldn't mind the public at large seeing. Yesterday's little comedy bit was neither, it was just something I did as an exercise to force myself to write.

I've been pretty depressed for the last couple of days. I haven't been able to do nearly as much writing as I would have liked. A lot of that is due to my disrupted sleep cycle. I'm starting to get it back in order, getting to slumberland before midnight and up at around 7 (which is about as good as I can do) but the effects are still lingering. My mind is sluggish and my eyes hurt. It hasn't just disrupted my writing, it's also made my verbal exchanges sub-par, and left me feeling like crap about myself. If this keeps up not only will I not be able to become a writer or film-maker or anything else that I want to do. I will be lucky to execute a stock boy's job with any sort of competence. It's very worrisome. These cycles happen to me and I have to stop them. I'm just not sure how.

I saw M. Night Shyamalan's "Signs" today and I have to grudgingly admit that it's a pretty good film. Not a great one, and not a consistent one, but a good one. I don't like Shyamalan, mostly because he has a silly made up name and is always so haughty and mysterious about his films, which aren't that great. The twist ending thing is annoying too, the Sixth Sense was good and had a really good ending, but since then it's been downhill. Unbreakable's ending was beyond silly, although it was an okay film. Signs ending was...well complicated. The secret, which I knew going in, was not just silly it was laughable. We're mighty Aliens from the planet Zenegfrab but we haven't invented shirts, or rubber. Yeah. Okay Shyamaramadingdong. That didn't work for me. The other part of the ending, the character based part, almost moved me to tears. It was excellent. In fact that's how I'd sum up the movie. All the spooky sci-fi stuff was crap. Standard schlocky C movie stuff. The stories surrounding the characters were good. Even with stiff dialogue and noisy camerawork, the acting and the storyline really worked well. That's what makes Signs a good movie despite its failings. It's a sci-fi movie that remains dead focused on the characters, and thus transcends its limitations. You care about what happens to them, all of them, and so you are able to forgive the parts that don't function. Perhaps the bravest thing Shyamalamabamadama does is not create a single unsympathetic human character. So many of these films have the typical "Man turrns against himself" storyline. It's nice to see one where there aren't any villains. Meril is perhaps the closest thing to an "edgy" irresponsible character there is in the film, but he's also brave and loving. As a film about faith and family it works very well, even if it's a failure as a horror flick.

This has been a really rough time in my life, and as usual I find myself getting hostile and lashing out. It's what I do, even though I make an effort to limit it, and especially the damage I do to others' feelings. The thing is, I've been in pain. Literally, in the physical realm. I've been walking and running with blistered feet, jammed toes, and aching muscles. I know it's something I need to do, and it's my fault, so I just push through, but it's rough when the results are so non-apparent and the end of the journey far away. I've gone from extremely fat to very fat, and while that's nice it's relatively insignificant. Then there's the fact that my writing isn't coming along, I've been surrounded by death recently (A close friend just lost his dog and is about to lose his mother in law, my cousin that I mentioned previously did indeed expire.) I'm not able to find employment, and I'm very much alone in the world.

That last part is key. I've been alone for a very long time. I don't think I even remember what love is, and I certainly haven't had the experience of being able to rely on other people or collapse into someone's arms at the end of a difficult day. I'm not trying to complain, but rather to explain. Anger builds up, it has no positive emotional release, and if it's not getting poured out via writing then it tends to leak out in other ways. That's not to say that I have absolutely nobody talk to, because I do, nor that I'm horribly depressed about this. Not being the sort of person who inspires love in others is not the worst of fates. I'll always have FEAR, mwahahah.

I had some more ideas today while out for another rather lengthy walk, and I think my creative legs will return to under me. Will I ever be any good? I don't know. I do know that no matter what the outcome the road will be long and difficult and I have to stay the course. I'm doing my best to achieve that, despite irresponsible friends who claim to be excited about projects and then don't do what they say they will, and timid writing that makes me wince when I read it. Hopefully with less masturbation I'll have all kinds of sexual energies to sublimate. That'd be terrific.

My plans for the autumn are still hazy. I wanted to take a clas or two, but I thought I'd be employed before then, and now I'm not sure exactly what I want to do. It's a complicated question and I don't have the answer. My life is an open book but all the pages are blank. I would prefer not to end up bitter, disaffected, alone, AND totally unsuccesful, but it is a possibility. Let's cross our fingers for just bitter, disaffected, and alone.

Today my apartment building staff helpfully delivered my copy of Maxim magazine and my social security card form to my conservative family oriented neighbors with a two year old. It's too bad there weren't any semen covered dresses or bloody gloves sent me. Of course they could have had the Golden Key Society stool if they'd wanted. It was always theirs for the asking.

What kind of life involves chance meetings with Mark Hamill's son and wackily misdelivered men's magazines? Seriously. Am I in a bad sitcom?

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