"I write words and erase them again and again. Back space. Cut. Delete. Backspace. Copy. Paste. Delete. IS this a better opening? Does this sound too enthusiastic or too guarded? Too pretentious, too dramatic? I rarely write you know. I don't know why it suddenly feels so natural: the click-clacks erupting beneath my fingers, like I could be doing this all day if only I just had the time. I don't know if it's inspiration, an unexpected impulse, or maybe even a sudden wave of self-enlightenment. But I'm typing. At speeds only achieved by those traveling in space trying to get the thoughts, the hurricane of verbs, nouns and adjectives and the like out of my mind and onto the screen as quickly as possible afraid that if I couldn't keep apace, they wouldn't exist anymore."
Five years ago I wrote these words in a difficult email to a friend. The context doesn't really matter because I can see that after these five years, how I think about writing hasn't changed. As a kid I read and wrote a lot. I would scrounge for old pamphlets in the back of my mom's car so I would have something to devour on the way to the supermarket or to my Aunt Connie's house. I might have been worried that if I wasn't reading or writing all the time, I would forget how, aided by the old mantra, "If you don't use it, you lose it." But I think I just really loved--still really love words and seeing how they can fit together differently. But overclouding this love of words, I worried that if I wasn't writing my thoughts down then maybe they'd be forgotten. Or maybe it wasn't that I didn't have thoughts, but that they weren't valid enough to record. Or if I didn't record them and didn't claim them as my own, then they could have been anyone's.Perhaps what has drawn me back to writing was a sense of individuality and identity. Or maybe it's an abundant interest in fiction. Fiction not just meaning false but the original meaning of the word: to craft, to form. So that's what I want to do here. I really do think that fiction in whatever form is not that far off from this so-called "reality". We could talk about theories on existence, the frailty of human thought, how art imitates life (or the other way around) but alas that might be a blog for another day. Blog. So I've said the word. Apparently I've started a blog or something.
One of my best friends called me restless a couple of days ago. Another agreed and said that I love things very intensely but for short periods of time. After feeling briefly insulted, I realized both of those things are very, very true. Perhaps that is why Theatre makes for such a clever mistress in my life. You do a show and it's always a fleeting, wholly satisfying experience and once it leaves you feel as though you've lost something very vital to you, like a limb off your own body [enter post-show depression here]. Or how I imagine a waterbed must feel when people get off of it: undulated and stale. The human connection, intellectual discussion, community, I crave and go bac to all the time, always waiting for the next show to get that bakck. And so, I am perpetual rotating in a cycle among the cogs of passion,fulfillment, deflation and longing.So I'm writing this blog to see if it's both something I can stick with and also to see if I find the same kind of love of it: something to aspire to create, to connect to, to inspire others and to crave for. I hope it leaves a happy impression on me like the feeling of wearing tube socks all day. Maybe as a bonus it will unclog my cluttered brain. And if that's all this acheives (besides some mild entertainment for the best friends I don't see nearly enough) I will consider this experiment a success. But maybe one day it will evoke a cultural conversation. For now, I give you my muddled thoughts: a whole lotta hullabaloo, behind which I reveal a mostly unedited me saying, "Hello".
Oh and this song. Because it's good shit. And it's a cool video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMuuc_pqx2s
Five years ago I wrote these words in a difficult email to a friend. The context doesn't really matter because I can see that after these five years, how I think about writing hasn't changed. As a kid I read and wrote a lot. I would scrounge for old pamphlets in the back of my mom's car so I would have something to devour on the way to the supermarket or to my Aunt Connie's house. I might have been worried that if I wasn't reading or writing all the time, I would forget how, aided by the old mantra, "If you don't use it, you lose it." But I think I just really loved--still really love words and seeing how they can fit together differently. But overclouding this love of words, I worried that if I wasn't writing my thoughts down then maybe they'd be forgotten. Or maybe it wasn't that I didn't have thoughts, but that they weren't valid enough to record. Or if I didn't record them and didn't claim them as my own, then they could have been anyone's.Perhaps what has drawn me back to writing was a sense of individuality and identity. Or maybe it's an abundant interest in fiction. Fiction not just meaning false but the original meaning of the word: to craft, to form. So that's what I want to do here. I really do think that fiction in whatever form is not that far off from this so-called "reality". We could talk about theories on existence, the frailty of human thought, how art imitates life (or the other way around) but alas that might be a blog for another day. Blog. So I've said the word. Apparently I've started a blog or something.
One of my best friends called me restless a couple of days ago. Another agreed and said that I love things very intensely but for short periods of time. After feeling briefly insulted, I realized both of those things are very, very true. Perhaps that is why Theatre makes for such a clever mistress in my life. You do a show and it's always a fleeting, wholly satisfying experience and once it leaves you feel as though you've lost something very vital to you, like a limb off your own body [enter post-show depression here]. Or how I imagine a waterbed must feel when people get off of it: undulated and stale. The human connection, intellectual discussion, community, I crave and go bac to all the time, always waiting for the next show to get that bakck. And so, I am perpetual rotating in a cycle among the cogs of passion,fulfillment, deflation and longing.So I'm writing this blog to see if it's both something I can stick with and also to see if I find the same kind of love of it: something to aspire to create, to connect to, to inspire others and to crave for. I hope it leaves a happy impression on me like the feeling of wearing tube socks all day. Maybe as a bonus it will unclog my cluttered brain. And if that's all this acheives (besides some mild entertainment for the best friends I don't see nearly enough) I will consider this experiment a success. But maybe one day it will evoke a cultural conversation. For now, I give you my muddled thoughts: a whole lotta hullabaloo, behind which I reveal a mostly unedited me saying, "Hello".
Oh and this song. Because it's good shit. And it's a cool video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMuuc_pqx2s
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