we fall but our souls are flying
*sigh* it was a weary sort of day today. mom and i were planning on hitting up the swing band that was playing at riverfest from 11:30-1, but she complained of a headache and not having enough money when we woke up, and said numerous times that she didn't want to go. naturally, i took that to mean she didn't want to go (it's hard to argue that my assumptions weren't logical), and was disappointed, but i've long since given up arguing with my mother. it's probably the most fruitless thing in the world to do; i just don't bother anymore. anyways, later in the day she complained that we didn't go to see the band because i wasn't ready in time. considering the fact that all i needed to do to get ready was throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, which would have taken 2 minutes at most, i found this accusation ridiculous. we argued and she became suddenly deaf whenever i spoke, so i gave up and went outside and took my aggressions out by mowing the backyard lawn, seething and trying to list all of the things that are infuriating about my mother. naturally, i failed, the list is far too ambiguous and complicated. anyways, turns out a good 2 hours of physical labor in the heat and the sun and the earth is good for the system--i came inside feeling beat but virile. but that was the high point of the day. mom was insuffrable as always, whether nagging me about some pointless misdemeanor i committed ten years ago or antagonizing me incessantly by pinching me and grabbing me and bellowing incomprehensible pet names into my ear; she grew more and more aggressive as i grew more and more aggrivated. she feeds off my annoyance, i swear to god. anyways, i knew she secretly wanted to go to riverfest later that night because as much as she denounced it, i knew she enjoys the crowds and the socializing. so i encouraged her to go, told her she constantly complains about having no life, and now that an opportunity had come along to go out, she should take advantage of it. she hemmed and hawed but when her friends called i knew she'd go. she hemmed and hawed to them but told them to call her at 7 and let her know where they were so she could meet them--if she felt like it. nonetheless, she got dressed and dolled up, agonized over what to wear and complained that she hated going out. 7:00 rolled along and she waited impatiently for them to call. by 7:10 she was screaming about how she has no friends and they don't care about her and she was tired of them treating her badly. i suggested she call her friend's cell, but she refused. 7:30, 8:00, 8:30 came along. by then she was sobbing and screaming about her lack of friends and how she hated people and how no one cares about her. still refusing to call them. it's 11:14 and riverfest is over for the year. mom is in bed probably brooding over the fact that she has no friends. around 10:30 she decided to blame me for the fact that she got stood up, and i told her point blank that it wasn't my fault and that i've gotten stood up plenty of times but life goes on. she'd just prefer to pout and keep her pride wrapped around her like a wilted movie star clinging to her last sad mink. i feel bad, i know the feeling of being left in the dust sucks, but she really should've just swallowed her pride and called her goddamn friends. now she's renounced them and is planning on bitching them out the next time she talks to them. god, sometimes all i can do is shudder at the way she handles things. so imperiously, so tyrannically. it's her way or no way, no bending things. no forgiveness. you screw up once and you're written off. i think that's just bullshit. i hope to god i never inherit these characteristics when i'm old and disillusioned.
anyways, my brief moment of ecstasy at the prospect of having an entire night alone, just to myself, was quickly snuffed. i hate disappointment. i ended up halfheartedly whiling away the hours watching a cheeseball mptv special called "celtic woman". i was vaguely interested by the title, given my interest in celticism, but the actual special turned out to be a badly done concert put on in green bay featuring a number of vaguely red-headed female singers and a fiddle player singing celtic-related songs. i could only laugh at the deplorable set up and lack of talent (except in the case of the fiddle player...she was actually pretty good but the way she leaped around stage and made cheerleader faces and whipped around her bleached out hair killed the effect for me), but the sheer pathetic quality of the show kind of summed up my feelings and released the sad energy into my body. the girls were decorated in an assortment of almost glamorous dresses, a large quantity of metallic white eye-shadow and black eyeliner, and bleached out plastered up hair that only vaguely reminisced what it naturally was at one point in time. when they took a break and the sad wasted saleswomen from pbs came on and tried to sell the concert on dvd or vhs, i couldn't take the desolation the show represented and turned it off. i reverted back to the computer, but quickly lost faith. mom suggested i go to culvers and buy an assortment of heart-attacks-on-a-plate so that she could drown her sorrows in calories, and i quickly consented, glad for the chance to get out and at least breathe in some cool night air and enjoy good music to comfort me. the drive and the music were the perfect shade of melancholy and just what i needed. when i got home i ate a bit and reverted back to the book i'm rereading, on the road by jack kerouac.
i read this book early in the summer, just after school got out, but it wasn't the appropriate time for such a novel and i couldn't appraise it accurately. so i'm rereading it now; it's the absolute perfect time. i'm already to page 177, part three, about 2/3 of the way through. it's like an addiction, like a great unsatisfying thirst that confuses me and mystifies me but makes so much sense, perfect sense, and compells me through the book tirelessly. it's like by reading the book i'm taking on a fraction of dean's neurosis, becoming affected by his constant "yes! yes! yes!" and rabid lust for life. it's like being awake for 32 hours, wired and stimulated by lack of sleep and caffeine and sugar and anything else to aid in the unending rush, rush, rush. i absolutely love kerouac's writing style. it takes a while to become accustomed to it, but once immersed it's impossible to break away. it's like a constant flow...none of it is written formally. he could very well be telling the story to a friend, simply speaking what he writes. he's the king of run-on sentences and wordiness and casual vocabulary...he's probably ms. cnare's arch-nemesis. which of course makes me like him even more. but this great crazy combobulation of mismatched words and runon sentences as beatnik slang evens out to the perfect equation, the perfect style for such a story. the style is the story; the tale is reflected so vividly in the way kerouac writes, i can taste, smell, and see the things he writes of. and i feel what he felt, most importantly. that crazy rush and manic thirst for life and passion and soul. i don't think any other author has been able to communicate this lust nearly as effectively as kerouac does. it's not written as the AUTHOR observing and writing with wisdom of the fellow man, it's the author living with and as the fellow man, and telling the things he knows. so very very honest it almost hurts. so far my favorite character is old bull lee, the crazy heroin addict living in new orleans in a shack with his wife and kids, a guy who's traveled the world, who knows so much, who holds with wisdom of centuries, and yet lives on the so-called "bottom rung of society" by absolute choice. he seems to embody everything i admire. and of course i love dean, and kerouac himself as sal paradise. "nobody gives a damn," but it's wonderful. just life, pure, raw life. goddamn.
anyways, i've been thinking about writing and literature for a few days now. thinking about my relationship with the written word and where i'm going with it, what i'm going to do. me being a self-proclaimed writer. what's my style. what's my talent...do i have talent or do i merely spend the hours with words and thoughts flowing forth from my fingers because i've got nothing else to do? i don't know, i really don't. i'm not good at anything else. not good enough. i could spend my life in a publishing house correcting other peoples' grammar usage and aiding in the graduation of other peoples' aspirations to realizations, helping them write books, some crappy, some profound. but i wouldn't be happy. there is nothing else for me. if i didn't have the written word, the ability to translate my thoughts to words, i would explode. sometimes i feel like i'll expload if i can't come on here the instant i feel emotion pulsating through me and unload the weight of life onto something a bit more tangible. i feel like i'll die if i can't write, if i can't create. but i need more, i can't waste my life an amateur aspiring author pouring her words onto an online journal for others to read and judge. i simply can't do it. i would derive no fulfillment in doing so. it's like on the road--my need to write is an unquenchable thirst, a mad compelling drive and lust that pushes me forward with the might of a thousand horses, forcing me to send my fingers racing into oblivion in the hopes that my thoughts and feelings will be translated into something truthful and pure and explosive and powerful. but i don't know if i've got what it takes. i don't know...self-doubt always seems to shroud my aspirations and sends me second guessing and revising until i've got nothing left but a poor wasted attempt at literature. i could never ever ever ever dream up something like the world of harry potter and send my visions streaming onto paper as gracefully as jk rowling so eloquently did. NEVER could i create something so incredible. that's not even taking into account others, genius minds like orwell and hesse and tolkein and weissel and atwood and all the other greats out there, many of which i've yet to even discover. how could i ever creat something to the caliber of their genius? how could i create something even worth reading, something other people might find even only good, when most people don't even listen to my thoughts, writing everything i have to say off as just the idealistic passions of a kid? how can i make people listen to me when they're so hell bent upon condescension? but do i have things to say? nothing more than i already know...i know lots of things, i've got the wisdom of youth and experiences lots my age have yet to discover, i know only what i've consumed these 18 years, but compared to the greats of the world of word, i'm a miniscule speck. why would anyone want to read what i have to say? i'm only just acquainting myself with life, unclouding my vision from the mundane, a newborn baby opening her eyes to a new world. and yet i feel that if i can't create something beautiful, if i can't project something honest and true into a web of words, if i can't mold the essence of life as i know it into a sculpture of words, i will die and life will be pointless. if i can't channel this passion and create something that others can benefit from in some way, i will have failed in my life attempts. there's so much i want to do, so much i want to communicate, so much i want to write. but if there's no one there to tell me at least i'm doing what i should be doing, no one there to pat me on the back and tell me i'm following my calling, i don't know if my convictions can withstand. i'll feel like an ass writing superfluous fluff, nothing anyone's not already seen. i'm not emily dickenson, i could never be as strong as her and keep my writings secret. i want to be heard, i couldn't stand remaining silent. i know i spend lots of time on adjectives, writing starry-eyed imagery and probably failing to appear competent, but i really can't help it. it truly is my passion...i just wish i could prove it. if i can't create something worthwile with words, the air might as well just cease in its mad circulation through my lungs, my heart should rest and give up its faithful pulse of life to such a mundane being.
anyways, my brief moment of ecstasy at the prospect of having an entire night alone, just to myself, was quickly snuffed. i hate disappointment. i ended up halfheartedly whiling away the hours watching a cheeseball mptv special called "celtic woman". i was vaguely interested by the title, given my interest in celticism, but the actual special turned out to be a badly done concert put on in green bay featuring a number of vaguely red-headed female singers and a fiddle player singing celtic-related songs. i could only laugh at the deplorable set up and lack of talent (except in the case of the fiddle player...she was actually pretty good but the way she leaped around stage and made cheerleader faces and whipped around her bleached out hair killed the effect for me), but the sheer pathetic quality of the show kind of summed up my feelings and released the sad energy into my body. the girls were decorated in an assortment of almost glamorous dresses, a large quantity of metallic white eye-shadow and black eyeliner, and bleached out plastered up hair that only vaguely reminisced what it naturally was at one point in time. when they took a break and the sad wasted saleswomen from pbs came on and tried to sell the concert on dvd or vhs, i couldn't take the desolation the show represented and turned it off. i reverted back to the computer, but quickly lost faith. mom suggested i go to culvers and buy an assortment of heart-attacks-on-a-plate so that she could drown her sorrows in calories, and i quickly consented, glad for the chance to get out and at least breathe in some cool night air and enjoy good music to comfort me. the drive and the music were the perfect shade of melancholy and just what i needed. when i got home i ate a bit and reverted back to the book i'm rereading, on the road by jack kerouac.
i read this book early in the summer, just after school got out, but it wasn't the appropriate time for such a novel and i couldn't appraise it accurately. so i'm rereading it now; it's the absolute perfect time. i'm already to page 177, part three, about 2/3 of the way through. it's like an addiction, like a great unsatisfying thirst that confuses me and mystifies me but makes so much sense, perfect sense, and compells me through the book tirelessly. it's like by reading the book i'm taking on a fraction of dean's neurosis, becoming affected by his constant "yes! yes! yes!" and rabid lust for life. it's like being awake for 32 hours, wired and stimulated by lack of sleep and caffeine and sugar and anything else to aid in the unending rush, rush, rush. i absolutely love kerouac's writing style. it takes a while to become accustomed to it, but once immersed it's impossible to break away. it's like a constant flow...none of it is written formally. he could very well be telling the story to a friend, simply speaking what he writes. he's the king of run-on sentences and wordiness and casual vocabulary...he's probably ms. cnare's arch-nemesis. which of course makes me like him even more. but this great crazy combobulation of mismatched words and runon sentences as beatnik slang evens out to the perfect equation, the perfect style for such a story. the style is the story; the tale is reflected so vividly in the way kerouac writes, i can taste, smell, and see the things he writes of. and i feel what he felt, most importantly. that crazy rush and manic thirst for life and passion and soul. i don't think any other author has been able to communicate this lust nearly as effectively as kerouac does. it's not written as the AUTHOR observing and writing with wisdom of the fellow man, it's the author living with and as the fellow man, and telling the things he knows. so very very honest it almost hurts. so far my favorite character is old bull lee, the crazy heroin addict living in new orleans in a shack with his wife and kids, a guy who's traveled the world, who knows so much, who holds with wisdom of centuries, and yet lives on the so-called "bottom rung of society" by absolute choice. he seems to embody everything i admire. and of course i love dean, and kerouac himself as sal paradise. "nobody gives a damn," but it's wonderful. just life, pure, raw life. goddamn.
anyways, i've been thinking about writing and literature for a few days now. thinking about my relationship with the written word and where i'm going with it, what i'm going to do. me being a self-proclaimed writer. what's my style. what's my talent...do i have talent or do i merely spend the hours with words and thoughts flowing forth from my fingers because i've got nothing else to do? i don't know, i really don't. i'm not good at anything else. not good enough. i could spend my life in a publishing house correcting other peoples' grammar usage and aiding in the graduation of other peoples' aspirations to realizations, helping them write books, some crappy, some profound. but i wouldn't be happy. there is nothing else for me. if i didn't have the written word, the ability to translate my thoughts to words, i would explode. sometimes i feel like i'll expload if i can't come on here the instant i feel emotion pulsating through me and unload the weight of life onto something a bit more tangible. i feel like i'll die if i can't write, if i can't create. but i need more, i can't waste my life an amateur aspiring author pouring her words onto an online journal for others to read and judge. i simply can't do it. i would derive no fulfillment in doing so. it's like on the road--my need to write is an unquenchable thirst, a mad compelling drive and lust that pushes me forward with the might of a thousand horses, forcing me to send my fingers racing into oblivion in the hopes that my thoughts and feelings will be translated into something truthful and pure and explosive and powerful. but i don't know if i've got what it takes. i don't know...self-doubt always seems to shroud my aspirations and sends me second guessing and revising until i've got nothing left but a poor wasted attempt at literature. i could never ever ever ever dream up something like the world of harry potter and send my visions streaming onto paper as gracefully as jk rowling so eloquently did. NEVER could i create something so incredible. that's not even taking into account others, genius minds like orwell and hesse and tolkein and weissel and atwood and all the other greats out there, many of which i've yet to even discover. how could i ever creat something to the caliber of their genius? how could i create something even worth reading, something other people might find even only good, when most people don't even listen to my thoughts, writing everything i have to say off as just the idealistic passions of a kid? how can i make people listen to me when they're so hell bent upon condescension? but do i have things to say? nothing more than i already know...i know lots of things, i've got the wisdom of youth and experiences lots my age have yet to discover, i know only what i've consumed these 18 years, but compared to the greats of the world of word, i'm a miniscule speck. why would anyone want to read what i have to say? i'm only just acquainting myself with life, unclouding my vision from the mundane, a newborn baby opening her eyes to a new world. and yet i feel that if i can't create something beautiful, if i can't project something honest and true into a web of words, if i can't mold the essence of life as i know it into a sculpture of words, i will die and life will be pointless. if i can't channel this passion and create something that others can benefit from in some way, i will have failed in my life attempts. there's so much i want to do, so much i want to communicate, so much i want to write. but if there's no one there to tell me at least i'm doing what i should be doing, no one there to pat me on the back and tell me i'm following my calling, i don't know if my convictions can withstand. i'll feel like an ass writing superfluous fluff, nothing anyone's not already seen. i'm not emily dickenson, i could never be as strong as her and keep my writings secret. i want to be heard, i couldn't stand remaining silent. i know i spend lots of time on adjectives, writing starry-eyed imagery and probably failing to appear competent, but i really can't help it. it truly is my passion...i just wish i could prove it. if i can't create something worthwile with words, the air might as well just cease in its mad circulation through my lungs, my heart should rest and give up its faithful pulse of life to such a mundane being.