Stroke of Genius?
As the rest of the class stares diligently at the board, watching the professor wave her marker arcoss the damn thing as they nod and make trite comparisons of Virginia Woolf to Ford Madox Ford("there is a much greater concern for the role of women!"), I am sitting somewhere in the back of the class, picking out each person and trying to determine what movie stars would play them were a film made based on their lives.
Yes, he's definately the Phillip Seymour Hoffman type. Maybe a little younger, though...
Is this my only real talent? Don't get me wrong - I'm the best there is at this kind of thing. I ought to be a casting director is what I ought to be; none of this education business for me. Why the hell should I care about what a bunch of dead writers have to say, anyway? I'm still trying to catch up with the living ones.
Then I'll shuffle through the papers in my notebook: mostly rough sketches and some of the stories I've written for my Fiction class. It's all okay stuff; I'm the type of guy who hopes! that an agent or producer or BIGSHOT will stroll in and flip through my notebook - all of this happening in the middle of class, of course - and say "You - You are a genius! You're the voice of your generation! I'm going to sign you to a multi-million dollar deal" And there'll be a cloud of dust and chalk floating through room 345 that the rest of the students will smell and recognize as being "Destiny!"
The guy in front of me then twists his arm back to pass to me a handout. What? Oh, there must be something going on - yes - "answer these questions about the major themes of blah blah blah blah," yeah that's cute Ms. Professor, cute, but I have bigger fish to fry. Maybe you don't know who I am. Obviously you haven't read my livejournal or else you'd know I'm above this sort of thing.
Once we're about five minutes into the quiz and the only writing I've commited to the paper is my name (in perfect capital letters), I curse whatever gave me the idea that those sorts of things happen. No, that doesn't happen at all. Not that it couldn't, but being that I'm not even the prime genius in my circle of friends, I doubt it'll happen to me. Yes, I conceed: I'm nothing special. In itself, I am fine with the concept. What troubles me is the fact that just about every person I know is much better than me at everything I like to do and with little effort.
ME: How did you become such a good artist?
EVERYBODY: Oh, I suck
ME: You're better than me (which is true)
EVERYBODY: You make comics, I can't do that
ME: Anyone can make comics. The guy who does Marmaduke gets paid for it. C'mon
EVERYBODY: Well, I'm gonna go write some poetry with a bunch of words you don't know, read a book on heavy politics and do a perfect portrait of an old musician you've never heard of. What about you?
ME: I think I'm gonna watch wrestling for a few hours and then look for some free internet porn - or not even that, I'm sure there's some slutty myspace pictures I could eventually find - so I can jerk off for about forty-five minutes until I realize I don't have much of a sex drive anymore.
EVERYBODY: Ha! Now you should make a comic about THAT!
Me: Maybe I will.*
I'm not trying to say that what I do is chickenscratch, but how could I not feel like a nobody when everyone else is a somebody? What I need, I hypothesize, is a tragic and harrowing story. Yes! Then whatever accomplishments I make will seem exponentially more substantial! Why go ahead and read any popular biography or memior; it's all the same story!
-Horrible Upbrining
-Strife for Survival
-Lucky Break
-Unlimited Success
Oh Goddammit! I was "blessed" with the two best parents in the world! Fuck! I've never even seen them fight! To make matters worse - we're well off! Never in my whole life have I had to worry about money! Shit. Well, I could always rely on my mental troubles - yes! I could go on about my history in psychiatric care...but who takes that stuff seriously? Besides a few OCD traits and some social phobia I'm fine. I can't use that, really.
"You're depressed, Alex? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, come to think of it, I'm fine. What was I thinking?"
No, it seems like the life of a genius is not for me. I might be better off as a D-list celebrity. Maybe Lou Diamond Phillips needs a stuntman. Or a casting agent!
Alex
*Much of this conversation is paraphrased
Yes, he's definately the Phillip Seymour Hoffman type. Maybe a little younger, though...
Is this my only real talent? Don't get me wrong - I'm the best there is at this kind of thing. I ought to be a casting director is what I ought to be; none of this education business for me. Why the hell should I care about what a bunch of dead writers have to say, anyway? I'm still trying to catch up with the living ones.
Then I'll shuffle through the papers in my notebook: mostly rough sketches and some of the stories I've written for my Fiction class. It's all okay stuff; I'm the type of guy who hopes! that an agent or producer or BIGSHOT will stroll in and flip through my notebook - all of this happening in the middle of class, of course - and say "You - You are a genius! You're the voice of your generation! I'm going to sign you to a multi-million dollar deal" And there'll be a cloud of dust and chalk floating through room 345 that the rest of the students will smell and recognize as being "Destiny!"
The guy in front of me then twists his arm back to pass to me a handout. What? Oh, there must be something going on - yes - "answer these questions about the major themes of blah blah blah blah," yeah that's cute Ms. Professor, cute, but I have bigger fish to fry. Maybe you don't know who I am. Obviously you haven't read my livejournal or else you'd know I'm above this sort of thing.
Once we're about five minutes into the quiz and the only writing I've commited to the paper is my name (in perfect capital letters), I curse whatever gave me the idea that those sorts of things happen. No, that doesn't happen at all. Not that it couldn't, but being that I'm not even the prime genius in my circle of friends, I doubt it'll happen to me. Yes, I conceed: I'm nothing special. In itself, I am fine with the concept. What troubles me is the fact that just about every person I know is much better than me at everything I like to do and with little effort.
ME: How did you become such a good artist?
EVERYBODY: Oh, I suck
ME: You're better than me (which is true)
EVERYBODY: You make comics, I can't do that
ME: Anyone can make comics. The guy who does Marmaduke gets paid for it. C'mon
EVERYBODY: Well, I'm gonna go write some poetry with a bunch of words you don't know, read a book on heavy politics and do a perfect portrait of an old musician you've never heard of. What about you?
ME: I think I'm gonna watch wrestling for a few hours and then look for some free internet porn - or not even that, I'm sure there's some slutty myspace pictures I could eventually find - so I can jerk off for about forty-five minutes until I realize I don't have much of a sex drive anymore.
EVERYBODY: Ha! Now you should make a comic about THAT!
Me: Maybe I will.*
I'm not trying to say that what I do is chickenscratch, but how could I not feel like a nobody when everyone else is a somebody? What I need, I hypothesize, is a tragic and harrowing story. Yes! Then whatever accomplishments I make will seem exponentially more substantial! Why go ahead and read any popular biography or memior; it's all the same story!
-Horrible Upbrining
-Strife for Survival
-Lucky Break
-Unlimited Success
Oh Goddammit! I was "blessed" with the two best parents in the world! Fuck! I've never even seen them fight! To make matters worse - we're well off! Never in my whole life have I had to worry about money! Shit. Well, I could always rely on my mental troubles - yes! I could go on about my history in psychiatric care...but who takes that stuff seriously? Besides a few OCD traits and some social phobia I'm fine. I can't use that, really.
"You're depressed, Alex? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, come to think of it, I'm fine. What was I thinking?"
No, it seems like the life of a genius is not for me. I might be better off as a D-list celebrity. Maybe Lou Diamond Phillips needs a stuntman. Or a casting agent!
Alex
*Much of this conversation is paraphrased