(no subject)
I'm feeling more historical continuity with myself than I usually do. Typically, I am an ahistorical mess.
As of right now, my mother is still preparing a feast for 10 (herself included) that she won't be eating. Why? I'm not sure. I'm racked with guilt; I'm racked with the nothingness that encompasses my soul.
Here is where I make a confession: typically speaking, I don't get what separates high and low art. No, I'm not being facetious. I've read many, many "great" things and thought "I've either had these thoughts when I was intoxicated, experienced it, know someone who has experienced it, or it's such fantastical bullshit, no one has experienced it...yet."
I guess what I'm saying, is, right now my writing feels like that of a stilted 17 year old youth. It is. But why? What characteristics make my writing inferior to the plight of a craggy, middle-aged man? Or the elderly? Or, to visit the other end of the spectrum, what separates it from youth?
The underlying point here: it is hardly ever an error in the message: it is the execution of such a message. Timing and opportunity make a helluva a lot more difference than some of us give them credit (read: me).
Last night was an interesting experience. In my estimate, Wes and I walked approximately 2-3 miles last night, maybe more, maybe less. Josh walked a good part of that with us, but he bailed in the end. Also, we may (or may not) have made a new friend. That, soaked with booze and bible study, and a visit to the Greens, a visit to the Serpas, and two trips to the Speak, constituted the bulk of the evening. There were some homophobic remarks, there were kisses and hugs and love and merriment. All in all, it was not a bad event. But it felt hollow, nonetheless.
Actually, that's historical revisionism at work. It was not a hollow event; it was a splendid evening which I enjoyed greatly. It feels good to be up until after 4am.
Another point: history is based on the self; why don't more people like history? Is it because, unlike myself, they have an uncanny ability to see beyond themselves? Or, is it because they, too, can not see the forest from the trees?
I often ask more questions than I answer. I don't like to answer questions, I prefer to pose them.I suppose that is adequate. We all have our strengths; mine lies in problem identification. As my linguistic course work shows, I have a hard time grasping what is really going on. Or, if I am able to comprehend what is going on, I lack the ability to articulate such. I am, in short, an intellectual nothing.
I suppose that shouldn't surprise anyone. I just wonder, if my thoughts about myself are this negative and self-absorbed, what goes on in other peoples heads? And that, dear friends, would normally have been an adequate place to end this sordid entry. But it will not be the end, not this time.
I wanted to write a beautiful entry, one that could last for the ages.
I am thankful for everyone in my life, even the people that have wronged me or that I have wronged. I am thankful for my life, no matter how terrible things feel at the current moment. I am beyond thankful for you, dear reader. Even if you don't comment often.
Time to go for a Thanksgiving walk. Hopefully things will get better before day's end. For if they do not, I know not what will come of me.
As of right now, my mother is still preparing a feast for 10 (herself included) that she won't be eating. Why? I'm not sure. I'm racked with guilt; I'm racked with the nothingness that encompasses my soul.
Here is where I make a confession: typically speaking, I don't get what separates high and low art. No, I'm not being facetious. I've read many, many "great" things and thought "I've either had these thoughts when I was intoxicated, experienced it, know someone who has experienced it, or it's such fantastical bullshit, no one has experienced it...yet."
I guess what I'm saying, is, right now my writing feels like that of a stilted 17 year old youth. It is. But why? What characteristics make my writing inferior to the plight of a craggy, middle-aged man? Or the elderly? Or, to visit the other end of the spectrum, what separates it from youth?
The underlying point here: it is hardly ever an error in the message: it is the execution of such a message. Timing and opportunity make a helluva a lot more difference than some of us give them credit (read: me).
Last night was an interesting experience. In my estimate, Wes and I walked approximately 2-3 miles last night, maybe more, maybe less. Josh walked a good part of that with us, but he bailed in the end. Also, we may (or may not) have made a new friend. That, soaked with booze and bible study, and a visit to the Greens, a visit to the Serpas, and two trips to the Speak, constituted the bulk of the evening. There were some homophobic remarks, there were kisses and hugs and love and merriment. All in all, it was not a bad event. But it felt hollow, nonetheless.
Actually, that's historical revisionism at work. It was not a hollow event; it was a splendid evening which I enjoyed greatly. It feels good to be up until after 4am.
Another point: history is based on the self; why don't more people like history? Is it because, unlike myself, they have an uncanny ability to see beyond themselves? Or, is it because they, too, can not see the forest from the trees?
I often ask more questions than I answer. I don't like to answer questions, I prefer to pose them.I suppose that is adequate. We all have our strengths; mine lies in problem identification. As my linguistic course work shows, I have a hard time grasping what is really going on. Or, if I am able to comprehend what is going on, I lack the ability to articulate such. I am, in short, an intellectual nothing.
I suppose that shouldn't surprise anyone. I just wonder, if my thoughts about myself are this negative and self-absorbed, what goes on in other peoples heads? And that, dear friends, would normally have been an adequate place to end this sordid entry. But it will not be the end, not this time.
I wanted to write a beautiful entry, one that could last for the ages.
I am thankful for everyone in my life, even the people that have wronged me or that I have wronged. I am thankful for my life, no matter how terrible things feel at the current moment. I am beyond thankful for you, dear reader. Even if you don't comment often.
Time to go for a Thanksgiving walk. Hopefully things will get better before day's end. For if they do not, I know not what will come of me.