(no subject)
"you are not special. you are not a unique butterfly."
Is that from Fight Club?
Chant that sometimes when you feel yourself disappointed. I think the reason most of us find ourselves disappointed in ourselves is because we can't mitigate the fact that all of our ideals growing up are, really, the same story told over and over with different word choices. The first story, that root story, that ideal which all other ideals come from, has no substance. I think too many of us made a religion out of the old Cinderella story. We took all the retellings from different parts of the world as confirmations of truth and have put too much stock, whether we want to admit it or not, in the idea that "I" am special. "I" am unique. Things will work out for me.
Perhaps our first clue that we made our own gods was when even our perfect beings needed marriage counselors.
I am not depressed, which is a nice state to be out of, but at the same time I am not thinking enough.
My original point is that we hear the same story from different perspectives so much that part of us believes them to be true and we try to compare ourselves to what we think should be going on. Specifically, relating to writing, I think the reason why I CAN'T write anything, why I haven't been able to pen more than a few lines of fiction since last summer, is because unless writing is saying something new, what the hell is the point? We are overwhelmed, the system is choked, with literary trans-fats.
Literary trans-fats. Huh. Too bad I used that in my journal. I wish I could have dropped that in a conversation.
There is so much unashamed-- and I hate to resuse one of my oldest and most loved expressions-- faux-intellectual, self-congratulatory, indulgent pieces of trite out there, trite that is not only planted but CULTIVATED and ENCOURAGED, that English is losing soldiers every day in the form of forgotten or misused words.
And it just SUCKS (heh heh) that I am part of the problem.
It is not the loss of words that I think is lamentable; it is the stagnation of thought. The celebration of retelling. Original ideas are just too hard so let's write a fanfic or do a sequel. I think the loss of our words is a symptom of the disease of Unspiration.
And that is where I find myself on this fine holiday.
In Las Vegas, under clear skies, every now and then recalling the few tasks that HAVE to be done before I go to sleep tonight, completely unspired. Sure, I could go ahead and get my work done. Do the laundry; wash the dishes. Type up those lesson plans that are last year's plans restate and cleaned up. I have to write a paper about what teaching means to me and provide three visual metaphors (big wave surfers, iPhone, and retail sales if you were wondering).
...
Unspiration Syndrome: a debilitating disease attacking primarily the neocortex and the thalamus caused by the scarier swine flu virus. Like carpal or tarsal tunnel syndrome, U.S., Unspiration Syndrome, is the result of recurrent or persistent misuse of the neocortex and/or thalamus due to repetitive thought, action, or idea. U.S. is most damaging when presented in a way that leads the subject to think they have the potential for original thought, only to find that the nature of the task renders all originality not only improbable but also potentially resulting in a negative consequence. Signs of U.S. include decrease spoken and/or written vocabulary, lathergy, listlessness, depression, and the over-use of cliche phrases within the affected populous such as, "yeah, I know, right" or "that sucks." If left untreated, U.S. can leave permanent damage and spreads rapidly through social networking groups. Famous celebrates suffering from U.S. include Steven Wynn, Anita Blake, and The Black Eyed Peas.
Boom, boom, pow.
And, if you have read THIS far, I have, for all practical purposes, just gacked a big ol' wet cough of U.S. in your direction. It is on your shirt, the tips of your eyelashes, and the dead skin slowly flaking off your lips. My strand is cross-breeding with the strands of the virus you already had there.
Is that from Fight Club?
Chant that sometimes when you feel yourself disappointed. I think the reason most of us find ourselves disappointed in ourselves is because we can't mitigate the fact that all of our ideals growing up are, really, the same story told over and over with different word choices. The first story, that root story, that ideal which all other ideals come from, has no substance. I think too many of us made a religion out of the old Cinderella story. We took all the retellings from different parts of the world as confirmations of truth and have put too much stock, whether we want to admit it or not, in the idea that "I" am special. "I" am unique. Things will work out for me.
Perhaps our first clue that we made our own gods was when even our perfect beings needed marriage counselors.
I am not depressed, which is a nice state to be out of, but at the same time I am not thinking enough.
My original point is that we hear the same story from different perspectives so much that part of us believes them to be true and we try to compare ourselves to what we think should be going on. Specifically, relating to writing, I think the reason why I CAN'T write anything, why I haven't been able to pen more than a few lines of fiction since last summer, is because unless writing is saying something new, what the hell is the point? We are overwhelmed, the system is choked, with literary trans-fats.
Literary trans-fats. Huh. Too bad I used that in my journal. I wish I could have dropped that in a conversation.
There is so much unashamed-- and I hate to resuse one of my oldest and most loved expressions-- faux-intellectual, self-congratulatory, indulgent pieces of trite out there, trite that is not only planted but CULTIVATED and ENCOURAGED, that English is losing soldiers every day in the form of forgotten or misused words.
And it just SUCKS (heh heh) that I am part of the problem.
It is not the loss of words that I think is lamentable; it is the stagnation of thought. The celebration of retelling. Original ideas are just too hard so let's write a fanfic or do a sequel. I think the loss of our words is a symptom of the disease of Unspiration.
And that is where I find myself on this fine holiday.
In Las Vegas, under clear skies, every now and then recalling the few tasks that HAVE to be done before I go to sleep tonight, completely unspired. Sure, I could go ahead and get my work done. Do the laundry; wash the dishes. Type up those lesson plans that are last year's plans restate and cleaned up. I have to write a paper about what teaching means to me and provide three visual metaphors (big wave surfers, iPhone, and retail sales if you were wondering).
...
Unspiration Syndrome: a debilitating disease attacking primarily the neocortex and the thalamus caused by the scarier swine flu virus. Like carpal or tarsal tunnel syndrome, U.S., Unspiration Syndrome, is the result of recurrent or persistent misuse of the neocortex and/or thalamus due to repetitive thought, action, or idea. U.S. is most damaging when presented in a way that leads the subject to think they have the potential for original thought, only to find that the nature of the task renders all originality not only improbable but also potentially resulting in a negative consequence. Signs of U.S. include decrease spoken and/or written vocabulary, lathergy, listlessness, depression, and the over-use of cliche phrases within the affected populous such as, "yeah, I know, right" or "that sucks." If left untreated, U.S. can leave permanent damage and spreads rapidly through social networking groups. Famous celebrates suffering from U.S. include Steven Wynn, Anita Blake, and The Black Eyed Peas.
Boom, boom, pow.
And, if you have read THIS far, I have, for all practical purposes, just gacked a big ol' wet cough of U.S. in your direction. It is on your shirt, the tips of your eyelashes, and the dead skin slowly flaking off your lips. My strand is cross-breeding with the strands of the virus you already had there.