(no subject)
I'm hardly sleepy at all because my world is manic with possibilities. For the first time in a long time, possibly forever, it feels that there is some overwhelming purpose in my life, as if I'm doing something that is truly worthwhile. All of this--or at least most of it--stems from the reading of beat. a play on words, the play I'm producing. It was a wonderful, exciting experience and my first real foray into directing something. It's hard to describe, really, to have dreams playing out in reality as opposed to in my head. I don't know if it is the right time or the right place for this, but I know it sure feels right to me and I guess that is all that matters.
But of course a lot of this feeling, too, stems from my return to writing. Really writing as opposed to the mindless keystroking that it seems I have been doing for years prior, or at least since those days at my great-grandfather's kitchen table with the electric Royal typewriter wailing away at the keys to finish those short "novels" of my childhood.
Perhaps something has finally clicked in my head; some stunning realization of my wasted potential or some other self-righteous bullshit like that. I don't know. But I'm coming to grips, I think, with a lot of things that were inside myself. Things that I don't even necessarily know how to describe, but rather visceral, emotional things. Things that have gone untapped for far too long. I look around and just see the little things in my life that I have accomplished, and I do mean little things. The simply cleaning of my apartment has done wonders for my moral, but also indicates (I think) a very basic change in my personality. Almost the flip of a switch. Or more like a dimmer, because the switch isn't all the way "on" yet, but it's close. I think that maybe this is the beginnings of an adult life for me, something much less superficial and surreal. The beginning of some wonderful phase in my life that I'm only tasting a tiny bit of. This summer may well be the best summer of my life so far and it has only just begun.
But now I've said it publicly and that may jinx the whole issue. But who knows? And who cares? But those are the words of someone who is riding the crest of some beautiful wave, I think. (But thinking on it now it's also the words of someone who has reached an extreme low, a bottom so low that they exclaim "Who cares?" as one more straw piles onto their backs and they trudge through their miserable life hoping for those little rays of hope to warm their soul.)
Where am I headed? What am I doing? I still don't know, but the questions don't seem nearly as dark or foreboding as they once did, even earlier this semester. I'm a year away from graduation, but now it doesn't seem nearly as terrifying. Of course, it will get closer. And when it does...
Jesus, what is there to really say at 4:33 in the morning, sitting here feeling good about myself and not able to sleep. Or at least I don't think I am. No, there are those first gentle waves of exhaustion, a yawn. I'll sleep soon, but there's still something in me that is raging and bright and doesn't want to lie down, doesn't want to miss a minute of anything that is going to happen. But I sincerely doubt anything major is going to happen at this time of the morning, or at least anything that I hope for.
And it's Memorial Day now, and has been for a few hours. I need to find something to do for the afternoon tomorrow, and I need to get some food since my refrigerator and pantry are both empty. Both those are things to worry about after I wake up.
I don't know what else I have to say, really, other than my writing is being heavily influenced by Hunter S. Thompson's letters at the moment (I'm reading Fear and Loathing in America, a book made up entirely of his letters and correspondences between 1968 and 1976). But that's okay, I suppose, since I consider him one of the best writers of the last fifty years--maybe longer than that--and quite possibly my favorite author. But now just because of his wonderful talent, but because of his humanity as well. Reading these letters allows me to see him not only as an icon, a Johnny Depp character, but rather as a human being full of fears and problems and talent and humor.
So with that I'm going to sign off. I'm going to try to sleep, but probably I'll read first and try to get a few pages further into the book. While I am enjoying it, it is still hard goings because the pages are dense and the topics sometimes unrelated. With now narrative throughline it is much harder to read than a lot of things I've read (and enjoyed), but it is certainly insightful. I'll get back to that, and when I'm finsihed...who knows what I will read next? But I feel like devouring books. I love them, the words on the page and knowledge within. My next venture may be The Great Gatsby. Or maybe something about theatre. I really love theatre. More than I ever realized. If I have a calling, it is surely that. That or writing. Or both. But I'm yawning again so I'm going to go, this time.
Later.
PS: There's something so nice about seeing my words formatted and printed somewhere, even if it is a silly little LiveJournal. After every post I go to just look at those words up on the page, words that anyone who has the inclination to read can do just that. It's not enough to look at the preview, but I have to actually go to the webpage and look, knowing that a stranger can show up here and read these words. A guilty admission on my part, I think, but it's true and I just thought, for the first time, about writing that fact in my journal.
--JH
But of course a lot of this feeling, too, stems from my return to writing. Really writing as opposed to the mindless keystroking that it seems I have been doing for years prior, or at least since those days at my great-grandfather's kitchen table with the electric Royal typewriter wailing away at the keys to finish those short "novels" of my childhood.
Perhaps something has finally clicked in my head; some stunning realization of my wasted potential or some other self-righteous bullshit like that. I don't know. But I'm coming to grips, I think, with a lot of things that were inside myself. Things that I don't even necessarily know how to describe, but rather visceral, emotional things. Things that have gone untapped for far too long. I look around and just see the little things in my life that I have accomplished, and I do mean little things. The simply cleaning of my apartment has done wonders for my moral, but also indicates (I think) a very basic change in my personality. Almost the flip of a switch. Or more like a dimmer, because the switch isn't all the way "on" yet, but it's close. I think that maybe this is the beginnings of an adult life for me, something much less superficial and surreal. The beginning of some wonderful phase in my life that I'm only tasting a tiny bit of. This summer may well be the best summer of my life so far and it has only just begun.
But now I've said it publicly and that may jinx the whole issue. But who knows? And who cares? But those are the words of someone who is riding the crest of some beautiful wave, I think. (But thinking on it now it's also the words of someone who has reached an extreme low, a bottom so low that they exclaim "Who cares?" as one more straw piles onto their backs and they trudge through their miserable life hoping for those little rays of hope to warm their soul.)
Where am I headed? What am I doing? I still don't know, but the questions don't seem nearly as dark or foreboding as they once did, even earlier this semester. I'm a year away from graduation, but now it doesn't seem nearly as terrifying. Of course, it will get closer. And when it does...
Jesus, what is there to really say at 4:33 in the morning, sitting here feeling good about myself and not able to sleep. Or at least I don't think I am. No, there are those first gentle waves of exhaustion, a yawn. I'll sleep soon, but there's still something in me that is raging and bright and doesn't want to lie down, doesn't want to miss a minute of anything that is going to happen. But I sincerely doubt anything major is going to happen at this time of the morning, or at least anything that I hope for.
And it's Memorial Day now, and has been for a few hours. I need to find something to do for the afternoon tomorrow, and I need to get some food since my refrigerator and pantry are both empty. Both those are things to worry about after I wake up.
I don't know what else I have to say, really, other than my writing is being heavily influenced by Hunter S. Thompson's letters at the moment (I'm reading Fear and Loathing in America, a book made up entirely of his letters and correspondences between 1968 and 1976). But that's okay, I suppose, since I consider him one of the best writers of the last fifty years--maybe longer than that--and quite possibly my favorite author. But now just because of his wonderful talent, but because of his humanity as well. Reading these letters allows me to see him not only as an icon, a Johnny Depp character, but rather as a human being full of fears and problems and talent and humor.
So with that I'm going to sign off. I'm going to try to sleep, but probably I'll read first and try to get a few pages further into the book. While I am enjoying it, it is still hard goings because the pages are dense and the topics sometimes unrelated. With now narrative throughline it is much harder to read than a lot of things I've read (and enjoyed), but it is certainly insightful. I'll get back to that, and when I'm finsihed...who knows what I will read next? But I feel like devouring books. I love them, the words on the page and knowledge within. My next venture may be The Great Gatsby. Or maybe something about theatre. I really love theatre. More than I ever realized. If I have a calling, it is surely that. That or writing. Or both. But I'm yawning again so I'm going to go, this time.
Later.
PS: There's something so nice about seeing my words formatted and printed somewhere, even if it is a silly little LiveJournal. After every post I go to just look at those words up on the page, words that anyone who has the inclination to read can do just that. It's not enough to look at the preview, but I have to actually go to the webpage and look, knowing that a stranger can show up here and read these words. A guilty admission on my part, I think, but it's true and I just thought, for the first time, about writing that fact in my journal.
--JH