movies of myself
well. been a while.
it occurs to me (as i commence blogging) that it's such a chick thing to blog your feelings, and such a guy thing to blog your opinions. likewise, it occurs to me that most people don't give a crap about either, ie., what you think or how you feel. hell, any guy i've met in real life who feels the need to tell me about his blog is clearly a self-important little twat, and if i'm anything to go by, female bloggers must be a bunch of whiny cinderellas trying to justify their existance by showing the world how pretty and sad they are. (excluding my mom, of course, she writes about awesome small town things and the weather.)
so this whole endeavour is either a testament to the self-stroking nature of the human ego, or the more sympathetic need in every heart and mind to reach out and connect. i guess it depends who you're writing for. me, i'm more like one of those blinky signal lights on an emergency airstrip in the mountains. nobody's looking but i'll just keep blinking anyway.
hi... hi... hi... hi... hi... hi... hi...
this is why it's safe to assume bloggers either have a napoleon complex or not enough friends. either way, your emotional needs just aren't being met. there has to be something more to you than who you are around other people. i mean you can't quantify that. it's just way too ephemeral.
i've kept this sonofabitch going for like 10 years now. why would i do that? what is WRONG with me? is this how i stay an artist and not just a person? is this just the saddest little way to have a story instead of a life?
stories are great aren't they, they're just fucking little miracles. you can gather up all the trauma and pain and humiliation and loss of real life and condense it, pack it down tight enough into a single ball until it explodes. it'll shine for anyone who cares enough to see it, hanging there in oneness and beauty, blinking away. you can just stand back and watch it burn.
if you can't do that, it's just dust. and the kind of shit stories are made of really doesn't fly in real life. at work, story drama just makes you a liability. there is no sympathy from the audience when you have a panic attack in a boston pizza. and that intimate scene in the movie where the hero breaks off from the crowd to collapse sobbing in a bathroom, well, it's not very intimate when you're alone. you don't even get to be the hero. but maybe in my little blog i do.
what we want in an artist is not what we want in a human being. in fact it's kind of the opposite. hopefully i can succeed as one where i fail as the other. which reminds me, i'm going to see everclear tomorrow night at the back alley. what a band. they're like if nirvana stayed alive only to turn into nickelback. happiness and stability turned out to be art alexakis' spectacular fall from grace as an artist. hell, i'm not even the artist i used to be since i stopped wanting to die. all i draw now are trees and rabbits. if things go really well, i'll turn right into thomas kincaid.
it occurs to me (as i commence blogging) that it's such a chick thing to blog your feelings, and such a guy thing to blog your opinions. likewise, it occurs to me that most people don't give a crap about either, ie., what you think or how you feel. hell, any guy i've met in real life who feels the need to tell me about his blog is clearly a self-important little twat, and if i'm anything to go by, female bloggers must be a bunch of whiny cinderellas trying to justify their existance by showing the world how pretty and sad they are. (excluding my mom, of course, she writes about awesome small town things and the weather.)
so this whole endeavour is either a testament to the self-stroking nature of the human ego, or the more sympathetic need in every heart and mind to reach out and connect. i guess it depends who you're writing for. me, i'm more like one of those blinky signal lights on an emergency airstrip in the mountains. nobody's looking but i'll just keep blinking anyway.
hi... hi... hi... hi... hi... hi... hi...
this is why it's safe to assume bloggers either have a napoleon complex or not enough friends. either way, your emotional needs just aren't being met. there has to be something more to you than who you are around other people. i mean you can't quantify that. it's just way too ephemeral.
i've kept this sonofabitch going for like 10 years now. why would i do that? what is WRONG with me? is this how i stay an artist and not just a person? is this just the saddest little way to have a story instead of a life?
stories are great aren't they, they're just fucking little miracles. you can gather up all the trauma and pain and humiliation and loss of real life and condense it, pack it down tight enough into a single ball until it explodes. it'll shine for anyone who cares enough to see it, hanging there in oneness and beauty, blinking away. you can just stand back and watch it burn.
if you can't do that, it's just dust. and the kind of shit stories are made of really doesn't fly in real life. at work, story drama just makes you a liability. there is no sympathy from the audience when you have a panic attack in a boston pizza. and that intimate scene in the movie where the hero breaks off from the crowd to collapse sobbing in a bathroom, well, it's not very intimate when you're alone. you don't even get to be the hero. but maybe in my little blog i do.
what we want in an artist is not what we want in a human being. in fact it's kind of the opposite. hopefully i can succeed as one where i fail as the other. which reminds me, i'm going to see everclear tomorrow night at the back alley. what a band. they're like if nirvana stayed alive only to turn into nickelback. happiness and stability turned out to be art alexakis' spectacular fall from grace as an artist. hell, i'm not even the artist i used to be since i stopped wanting to die. all i draw now are trees and rabbits. if things go really well, i'll turn right into thomas kincaid.