On Writing.

Jan 28, 2005 11:17

Sometimes I feel like I'm a pretender to the writing lifestyle. By that I mean that I wasn't blessed with the precocious ability, from a young age, to write down everything I had in my head and make it melodic. I think I was a fairly retarded youngster. And a bit of a little bastard. But I never kept a daily journal, nor write in a daily journal now (although perhaps I should). I don't go on alcoholic writing binges or document my exploits with the opposite sex. I suppose in retrospect I have documented some of them, but only the ones that play key issues in my life right now.

There's the questions of what is a man, what is a writer, what are the things I want to be, frequently knocking on the door to my head, asking to be let out or at the very least postulated upon. Whenever I attempt to answer them, I invariably find that I am none of them, so why keep asking the question? No real point to it all, but then you start to think that if you don't fit the description for these things then you obviously shouldn't be doing them, but that leaves me with being a pretty white bread kind of person, and I'm not a fan of white bread, which is to say that I'm not a friend of modern suburbia; people in small to large houses never talking with their neighbor, avoiding eye contact as you pass someone on the street. I'm still fairly rebellious so I think I may dislike suburbia for awhile.

That was a tangent only loosely related to point of this (I believe) small post. I feel like a poseur. Poseurism seems to be a large or important motif in today's youth culture, because we don't know who we are and aren't really willing to explore it. On a quick examination, I'd say that I'm bad at spending money on important things (or saving it for aforementioned important things), pretty hopped up on hormones, reasonably intelligent (which is to say intelligent than a lot of people, but not more intelligent than, say, a physicist) and a tad bit homosexual. Just a tad, though. I'm going to steal from Dave Eggers and say that I rate about a 2.5, a 3 on the 1-10 straight-gay scale. Again, off the point: I'm a human being. That's a minute thing, in contemplation. So my species is surviving on a little air-wrapped hunk of rock in a galaxy. Big fucking deal.

Well, it is. I'm gonna walk a little taller because RorOog and Krunk mashed two stones together, and now Rick and Kevin fly jets at supersonic speeds over the Mojave desert.

Let's call this theme "Species Pride," wherein one member of the species takes credit or pride in the achievements of his species that he didn't personally accomplish but he'll use as inspiration for his own lofty projects.

Man, humanity is the shit.
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