Today, I thought I'd share my experiences with interactions with digital strangers thousands of miles away from me- that's right, I'm referring to the Internet. I already talked about how I don't make friends easily, but the friends I do have are very tight-knit; I consider myself fiercely loyal to the handful I've been lucky to seduce (read: brainwash) to becoming a friend of mine. Of course, as does all things, the friendships eventually fade away and die. Time heals all things, but in juxtaposition, it also kills. Moving away didn't help the situation. Now I only have about four still left, and they've all been demoted to "virtual friend", now, rendering our conversations to the idle text here and there, rarely actually talking to each other; I (shamefully) find myself struggling sometimes trying to picture their faces. And naturally, they, like me, have changed. We've grown up (to a degree, I guess- we still enjoy the occasional reproductive body part joke every once in a while) and with that we've formed new relationships and lives outside of our awkward teenage high school years. It's kind of a downer if I think too much about it, and really I prefer not to think of "what could have been". What's done is done, I suppose, and I guess I have to just move on. I swear I'm getting better at that. At least, I hope so.
Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk about in this rare new update (ahem). What I wanted to talk about is my relationship with online friends, or rather the lack of. I used to form the odd "casual" friendship with guys of whom I met through some online games, and that was all well and good, but I wouldn't consider them actual weighty relationships. However, I can specifically recall two ex-online friends that still haunt me to this day. You'd think that throwing a word like "haunt" around would be inappropriate to describe seemingly innocent online friendships, but I think they're accurate to really capture these fiascoes; because of these former friendships I've sworn off of online interactions to save me the drama and heartbreak.
The first one I'll tell here in this post, and I'll post the other in the next update.
Flash back nearly eight years ago, back when I was still a happy-go-lucky thirteen year old. This was before my father's move to Illinois, and before my relationship with my mother started rotting (it was starting to sour, but I was too young and honestly too naive to notice the problem). I still regularly went on this little game-website called Neopets (yes, I still played Neopets when I was thirteen. Make fun of me all you want- your hate satiates my lovable cynicism). I was a frequent forum poster, and I would pop in to type some "hilarious" crap to make all the girls "like totally lol :-)". Back then I thought I was quite the comedian, but like all thirteen year old boys, they think acting random and spewing nonsense and verbal diarrhea is the funniest shit ever. Thankfully the thirteen year old girls there had the same mindset as me, so naturally I was a hit (and for some reason I was constantly the only guy to post, so that also stroked my Internet ego).
With that bit of information established, we can now proceed to the actual story. Alright, so here's me, perusing the forums to increase my ever-growing ego and laugh at my own unfunny jokes, when I spot a topic that catches my eye: "I'm sad, and I want someone to cheer me up". Keep in mind that being young and naive, I had now grasp of the concept of teenage angst, so when I saw this title, I was taken aback. "Sad girl? I should help her out! I'm sure she'll appreciate these random sentences and jokes ripped from other (more funny and original) online forums!" I thought. And so I did, and with each post she laughed more and more (as in she typed the abbreviation "lol" more), and after the upteenth stupid post I made she said she felt much better, and wanted to become friends with me. I was suddenly nervous, as I've never had an "online" friend before, but I accepted anyway. we messaged each other daily, with little snippets of our school and personal lives. I learned her name- "Zanita" (I know her last name too, but you know- hide identities on the Internet and all that), and her username was "luvlife2livelife" (I always liked that name, both her real name and username. They were simple, yet poetic). I learned that she was a sixteen year old sophomore in high school, and I immediately felt out of my comfort zone. It's like the old saying goes- "On the Internet, no one knows you're a ___". In this case, she had no idea I was really an inane middle schooler, so I lied so I could look cool around her, and told her I was sixteen too. I don't really remember what we exactly talked on a day-to-day basis, but I remember her helping me get through my absolutely miserable time with chicken pox (in the middle of Summer, no less! Why couldn't it have been when I was in school? Then I wouldn't have cared that much about it). I also remember spinning more lies, like how I was unhappy about not getting a girl (I wanted to mimic her complaining about her ex) and how I had two older brothers who'd get in a lot of wacky hijinks with me. She liked my fictional tales and fibs all the same, and in turn I appreciated her digital company, because it was first close interaction with a girl (a girl three years older than me, no less!) This went on for a solid year...Christ, was it really a year? It seems so long ago now, I can just barely remember.
Unfortunately, it came to a screeching halt one day. She kept spamming my inbox with messages that got more and more moody than usual, and I'd respond to each one of them, trying to comfort her (thankfully, I got a little better at this other than just spewing "jokes"). I even got my fake brothers in on it too, so effectively I was sending her messages from three different personas. Even with my best efforts, however, nothing would cheer her up. She then suddenly started mentioning suicide. I didn't think she was serious, and I got fed up with her complaints, so I just angrily responded with something along the lines like "Well fine! I'm tired of trying to help, so screw it, I'm done!" She stopped sending me messages after that. A few hours passed. I grew concerned, so I started sending little lines like "Hey you there? I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I just got a little tired." You see, she had mentioned suicide before, but she never seemed too serious about it, and I always stressed how she should see someone about it and that she should take it seriously, etc. etc. She would always wave away these concerns, saying how talking to her friends like me always made her feel better.
Well this time her friend gave up on her. She never responded to any of my messages. She never logged back on after that little outburst. I got more and more worried, thinking how I probably hurt her and that she may have...
She may have...
I continued to check in with messages for months afterward, but nothing. I then sent a final message six months after the incident, saying how I was truly very, very sorry and I hope that she's okay and happy somewhere, wherever she may be. I hope that she forgave me, because I've never been able to forgive myself.
I may have killed her.
I should add that I'm not incredibly oblivious to the goings-on of the Internet, and that she (most likely) just got fed up and stopped logging onto Neopets. And AIM. And Gaia Online. All at once. But try as I might, these thoughts bring little comfort. I really screwed up, this I know, and for that I may have made a depressed girl to kill herself.
Coming up next is a more recent friendship- I had it back in my freshman year of college, it's that recent. And the pain of it is that much fresher. It hurts just to write it; I'll have to turn in for now for fear of getting nightmares tonight
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
I've Got Dem Creative Writing Blues
I was brutally reminded today that I indeed have this thing called a blog, and as the owner of such blog I should do the responsible thing: take it out back with a shotgun. No, no- what I meant to say it that I should actually write in it once in a while. My professor made me feel especially guilty, inquiring whether or not I have made any new posts in it today. Thus, I immediately whipped out my tablet and started to write. Thankfully, I have much more to say than just guilt tinged with shame.
Yesterday, I participated with my Creative Writing club I helped establish on campus with my old English composition professor. I usually bring a poetry piece or on rare occasion a short (key word here is short) story about death or other lovely subjects. Since the only other guy moved away to England for his Study Abroad session, I've been surrounded by the fairer sex. Not that there's a problem with that, of course- it's just a little odd. This semester, it seems like the school is determined to create an illusion in which I am the only male in everything I do. My literature class of ~15 people features only one dude- me. My other classes also show a noticeable uneven balance of genders. Just one quirk of being a psychology major, I suppose.
Now, I helped create the Creative Writing club in order to easily find people who I could relate to and share ideas and creations with. It is ironic then that I find myself questioning why I even bother attending. See, I imagined at nice, dedicated group of individuals where each of us could take turns in reading our work and then discussing its meaning, theme, imagery, etc. It would be neat, orderly, but still fun and interesting- a perfect learning experience for amateur writers like us, the college students.
Unfortunately, this isn't what it has turned into. For starters, the number of participants are constantly dwindling- we went from eight to six to five. Just yesterday, one of our regulars hasn't shown up for the third time in a row, so now it looks like it's just me and three other girls. Awesome. I expressed concern for this lack of attendance, and in turn I thought it'd be a good thing for the club if we contributed in spreading the word around campus through flyers, posters and the like. If we could get some advertising going, we'd have more students interested and thus our club would feel more "official". But to my shock, the other members wanted the club to be like this, a small group of four. They thought if felt good to belong to such an "exclusive" club, and more members attending would "ruin the atmosphere". I said that at this rate, we may as well not call ourselves a club, rather a group of students who happen to write meeting at a predetermined place. They brushed off my claims, laughing all the while. They then proceeded to talk about not what they've been writing, but random off-topic subjects for then next half hour until I intervened. This is another frequent issue: the other members like to go on and on about something or other that's completely unrelated to what the club's about. If they wanted to talk about the next vampire movie or whatnot, they can do that outside of the club meeting! I find myself to be the unappointed "leader" of the club, solely because of my constant insistence that we stick to the topic at hand. It makes me feel like an old, bossy curmudgeon that wouldn't look out of place at a dusty library, yelling at random children to shut up while I read my Voltaire.
Another real problem we as a club face is the apparent lack of post-sharing discussion of our works. I try to kick the conversation off by saying things like "I liked how you used nature to symbolize her painful choice of reality and fantasy" or "I think you should add more to your character's description; you lost me at that part". The author would quickly nod, then sit awkwardly in silence. I glance around the other members, and they either look lost or disinterested, usually looking at their newest text messages. Then someone would start enthusiastically talking about a viral video they found online, and the whole topic would, without fail, derail once again. It's beyond maddening.
Also, one of our members is so enthusiastic about her writing that she'll start spoiling what happens after she's finished sharing a portion of her novel. Seriously, she'll say how this character dies or how the main guy kills his dad or whatever- completely without abandon! Maybe I was interested in just waiting until next time to find out- you don't have to tell me everything! It's the most confusing/frustrating thing I've ever had to go through!
You know what? I take that back; that's not the most frustrating thing about this "club". Wanna know what's the worst thing? Whenever I finish sharing my work, which took several hours of writing and editing, only to then hear a little "huh" of appreciation or a chorus of "I don't get it!"
This is the worst. THE WORST.
Those four words are the most dreaded thing an artist would have to hear. That phrase of "I don't get it!" (usually followed by a "Can you tell me what it means? This makes no sense!") is just...phew. My heart can't take this.
It's not like I'm being pretentious by suggesting that they're too incompetent to understand my 2deep4u poetry or story. It's just that this is the Creative Writing Club. It was supposed to be designed for writers to share and comprehend each other's thoughts and ideas. If my work can't be discussed in depth (along with everyone else's, mind you) then it completely defeats the purpose of sharing! Why would we share? Why would we dedicate our time to painstakingly create something that we want other people to enjoy if they WON'T enjoy it? They have outright refused to!
Yesterday, I shared a series of nine poems that were designed to tell a story. Sure, it wasn't the most obvious of stories, but that was supposed to be the point: the story isn't obvious because I wanted to have a nice discussion after I read it so that we as a group can explore it and in turn find the ending together without me just resorting to just lamely grumbling what everything means and what they were supposed to symbolize, etc. I know that feeling all too well- I've had to to that throughout my life. My parents and friends either didn't care to read it in the first place or couldn't bother to put at least a smidgeon of effort to explore what I truly mean. I thought this club could change this. It didn't.
I think I'm done attending- at least for now. Maybe I'll come back a few weeks later with another work, printed for everyone to read for themselves. I'd hate to to that, cuz it'd seem like I'm forcing them to read, but I'm out of ideas and I'm fed up. Fun stuff.
Yesterday, I participated with my Creative Writing club I helped establish on campus with my old English composition professor. I usually bring a poetry piece or on rare occasion a short (key word here is short) story about death or other lovely subjects. Since the only other guy moved away to England for his Study Abroad session, I've been surrounded by the fairer sex. Not that there's a problem with that, of course- it's just a little odd. This semester, it seems like the school is determined to create an illusion in which I am the only male in everything I do. My literature class of ~15 people features only one dude- me. My other classes also show a noticeable uneven balance of genders. Just one quirk of being a psychology major, I suppose.
Now, I helped create the Creative Writing club in order to easily find people who I could relate to and share ideas and creations with. It is ironic then that I find myself questioning why I even bother attending. See, I imagined at nice, dedicated group of individuals where each of us could take turns in reading our work and then discussing its meaning, theme, imagery, etc. It would be neat, orderly, but still fun and interesting- a perfect learning experience for amateur writers like us, the college students.
Unfortunately, this isn't what it has turned into. For starters, the number of participants are constantly dwindling- we went from eight to six to five. Just yesterday, one of our regulars hasn't shown up for the third time in a row, so now it looks like it's just me and three other girls. Awesome. I expressed concern for this lack of attendance, and in turn I thought it'd be a good thing for the club if we contributed in spreading the word around campus through flyers, posters and the like. If we could get some advertising going, we'd have more students interested and thus our club would feel more "official". But to my shock, the other members wanted the club to be like this, a small group of four. They thought if felt good to belong to such an "exclusive" club, and more members attending would "ruin the atmosphere". I said that at this rate, we may as well not call ourselves a club, rather a group of students who happen to write meeting at a predetermined place. They brushed off my claims, laughing all the while. They then proceeded to talk about not what they've been writing, but random off-topic subjects for then next half hour until I intervened. This is another frequent issue: the other members like to go on and on about something or other that's completely unrelated to what the club's about. If they wanted to talk about the next vampire movie or whatnot, they can do that outside of the club meeting! I find myself to be the unappointed "leader" of the club, solely because of my constant insistence that we stick to the topic at hand. It makes me feel like an old, bossy curmudgeon that wouldn't look out of place at a dusty library, yelling at random children to shut up while I read my Voltaire.
Another real problem we as a club face is the apparent lack of post-sharing discussion of our works. I try to kick the conversation off by saying things like "I liked how you used nature to symbolize her painful choice of reality and fantasy" or "I think you should add more to your character's description; you lost me at that part". The author would quickly nod, then sit awkwardly in silence. I glance around the other members, and they either look lost or disinterested, usually looking at their newest text messages. Then someone would start enthusiastically talking about a viral video they found online, and the whole topic would, without fail, derail once again. It's beyond maddening.
Also, one of our members is so enthusiastic about her writing that she'll start spoiling what happens after she's finished sharing a portion of her novel. Seriously, she'll say how this character dies or how the main guy kills his dad or whatever- completely without abandon! Maybe I was interested in just waiting until next time to find out- you don't have to tell me everything! It's the most confusing/frustrating thing I've ever had to go through!
You know what? I take that back; that's not the most frustrating thing about this "club". Wanna know what's the worst thing? Whenever I finish sharing my work, which took several hours of writing and editing, only to then hear a little "huh" of appreciation or a chorus of "I don't get it!"
This is the worst. THE WORST.
Those four words are the most dreaded thing an artist would have to hear. That phrase of "I don't get it!" (usually followed by a "Can you tell me what it means? This makes no sense!") is just...phew. My heart can't take this.
It's not like I'm being pretentious by suggesting that they're too incompetent to understand my 2deep4u poetry or story. It's just that this is the Creative Writing Club. It was supposed to be designed for writers to share and comprehend each other's thoughts and ideas. If my work can't be discussed in depth (along with everyone else's, mind you) then it completely defeats the purpose of sharing! Why would we share? Why would we dedicate our time to painstakingly create something that we want other people to enjoy if they WON'T enjoy it? They have outright refused to!
Yesterday, I shared a series of nine poems that were designed to tell a story. Sure, it wasn't the most obvious of stories, but that was supposed to be the point: the story isn't obvious because I wanted to have a nice discussion after I read it so that we as a group can explore it and in turn find the ending together without me just resorting to just lamely grumbling what everything means and what they were supposed to symbolize, etc. I know that feeling all too well- I've had to to that throughout my life. My parents and friends either didn't care to read it in the first place or couldn't bother to put at least a smidgeon of effort to explore what I truly mean. I thought this club could change this. It didn't.
I think I'm done attending- at least for now. Maybe I'll come back a few weeks later with another work, printed for everyone to read for themselves. I'd hate to to that, cuz it'd seem like I'm forcing them to read, but I'm out of ideas and I'm fed up. Fun stuff.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Cheeky Tongues
Well, time for this lazy good-for-nothing college "student" to pack up and leave home again, back so he can "study". I'm looking forward to the next semester but I'm also a little anxious because I'm (finally) moving into a bigger dorm room than I had before, and with that comes new roommates, new introductions- social interaction, to be blunt. After wasting away in my room, staring at my monitor like the light at the end of a tired tunnel, looking for distractions and answers, I'll have to learn how to interact with people again. Hopefully I won't forget my name or to put on pants when I step outside to the mysterious unknown world of "the outside".
Of course I'm exaggerating as always- I actually know the guys I'm gonna be staying with; they were in the play production with me last semester. The dorm is a six man suite, with three rooms, two people per room, and one little common area connecting the rooms together. I haven't seen the room I'll be moving into, but I'm familiar with the layout- a half-friend of mine invited me to his to throw down some cards (Yugioh, that is). Yeah, that's as nerdy as it sounds.
I don't know what to expect from my classes. In a previous post, I talked about how I met with an adviser who set me straight and lined up my schedule for me. I got psychology, math, philosophy- all the things I need for that elusive degree. I also sneaked in a literature and poetry course too; I can't help myself. These poems won't analyze themselves, dammit.
All in all, this semester's looking to have in store some of the bigger changes for me, for my life and future. Don't ask my how I know that- I can just feel it. It started with the change to the blog title; my professor (you know who) suggested I put up something more original and less "tongue-in-cheek" in regards to her class. Unfortunately for her, my tongue is planted firmly in my cheekbones, but I took the suggestion to heart anyway. The new title comes from something I wrote before, the one about my old, beat up diary. It stuck with me, scalded me as I tried to catch some sleep. Something deep, something hard to explain. Somehow, it defines a big part of me, not just one small point in time, a disjointed memory.
It's true, though- I did write these silly eulogies for these made up friends I had. They were these anthropomorphic animals I based in the Redwall universe, a book series that has cemented itself deep in my childhood memories. I had a what I guess you could classify as an "active" imagination, and every night, when everyone else was asleep, I shut off the lights, opened up the blinds, and let the moon be my own personal spotlight as I acted out scenes of epic battles and Mexican standoffs. In doing so, I gave names to all of my supporting cast, names that stuck around and grew into reoccurring characters. One day, probably after another confrontational spat with my mom about something or other (we never remembered what we argued about, only that we're angry and we're still angry), I sat staring at the wall of my room. In a fit of emotion, I grabbed my diary and a pen and wrote down what I can see now: the equivalent of a thirteen year-old writer trying to kill off major characters in a critically-acclaimed drama. In short, it's horribly written. Short, one-paragraph depictions that never did the character any justice, followed by a simple "I'm sorry". I proceeded to go on an on about how they're stupid imaginary animal-people that I made up and should stop pretending and blah blah blah melodramatic BS. Embarrassing? Yes. Very, very much so. Not so much that I actually wrote this, but the fact that I can literally smell the angst oozing from the pages. And everyone has 'em: angst-ridden moments that make them cringe at the mere thought of 'em. And yet here I am, writing out just one of many moments for the whole Internet to see and laugh. Oh no, my secret's out.
Of course I'm exaggerating as always- I actually know the guys I'm gonna be staying with; they were in the play production with me last semester. The dorm is a six man suite, with three rooms, two people per room, and one little common area connecting the rooms together. I haven't seen the room I'll be moving into, but I'm familiar with the layout- a half-friend of mine invited me to his to throw down some cards (Yugioh, that is). Yeah, that's as nerdy as it sounds.
I don't know what to expect from my classes. In a previous post, I talked about how I met with an adviser who set me straight and lined up my schedule for me. I got psychology, math, philosophy- all the things I need for that elusive degree. I also sneaked in a literature and poetry course too; I can't help myself. These poems won't analyze themselves, dammit.
All in all, this semester's looking to have in store some of the bigger changes for me, for my life and future. Don't ask my how I know that- I can just feel it. It started with the change to the blog title; my professor (you know who) suggested I put up something more original and less "tongue-in-cheek" in regards to her class. Unfortunately for her, my tongue is planted firmly in my cheekbones, but I took the suggestion to heart anyway. The new title comes from something I wrote before, the one about my old, beat up diary. It stuck with me, scalded me as I tried to catch some sleep. Something deep, something hard to explain. Somehow, it defines a big part of me, not just one small point in time, a disjointed memory.
It's true, though- I did write these silly eulogies for these made up friends I had. They were these anthropomorphic animals I based in the Redwall universe, a book series that has cemented itself deep in my childhood memories. I had a what I guess you could classify as an "active" imagination, and every night, when everyone else was asleep, I shut off the lights, opened up the blinds, and let the moon be my own personal spotlight as I acted out scenes of epic battles and Mexican standoffs. In doing so, I gave names to all of my supporting cast, names that stuck around and grew into reoccurring characters. One day, probably after another confrontational spat with my mom about something or other (we never remembered what we argued about, only that we're angry and we're still angry), I sat staring at the wall of my room. In a fit of emotion, I grabbed my diary and a pen and wrote down what I can see now: the equivalent of a thirteen year-old writer trying to kill off major characters in a critically-acclaimed drama. In short, it's horribly written. Short, one-paragraph depictions that never did the character any justice, followed by a simple "I'm sorry". I proceeded to go on an on about how they're stupid imaginary animal-people that I made up and should stop pretending and blah blah blah melodramatic BS. Embarrassing? Yes. Very, very much so. Not so much that I actually wrote this, but the fact that I can literally smell the angst oozing from the pages. And everyone has 'em: angst-ridden moments that make them cringe at the mere thought of 'em. And yet here I am, writing out just one of many moments for the whole Internet to see and laugh. Oh no, my secret's out.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Let's Get Down to Business
Man, what a break. It always feels foreign to me whenever a break lasts this long, as if I forgot what's it's like to just wake up and just do...nothing. No deadlines, no schedules, no memorization. Just make sure to get up at 6 to watch my brother (who always stays with us here for the holidays) until the grownups get home twelve hours later. I've been passing the time playing some new video games and griping to whoever will listen about how much the new Youtube layout sucks (edgy, right?). But lately I've decided to take on something bigger. I'm gonna try to pick up writing again.
Nah, not writing fruity pretentious poetry; I'm tiring of wearing out my voice screaming at the top of my lungs "YOU JUST DON'T GET IT! NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME, I DEMAND ATTENTION!". Yes, I made sure to stick my nose as high in the air as I physically could while typing that last sentence.
Nor am I gonna tackle bite-size short stories; I've already written a couple over my last semester in college and although they were indeed fun to write, I found myself constantly frustrated trying to fit in every beat of the plot without either dragging it out for too long or coming up too damn short. I'd also struggle to help the reader of my stories interpret just what I mean behind every idiom, every simile, or even every onomatopoeia. There's a lot of pressure put on short story writers in order to convey a good plot, a deep ulterior meaning, and an appropriate ending all within ten or so pages. It hardly leaves any room for character development, and it's tricky incorporating a sense of buildup, a rising action to accompany the climax, ultimately leaving an impression on the reader (for better or for worse). And for that I admire short story authors; I respect them for their understanding of the art.
But I digress- what I mean to say is that I think it's finally time for me to pick up the (metaphorical) pen again and attempt to tackle one of my lifelong goals: to write a novel. Or at least a novella, give or take just how long this project will stretch out.
For the first time in a long time, I actually have a tingle in my bones, my fingers! No, no, it's not my inevitable arthritis from too much video gaming. It's a spark of this concept called self-confidence. Optimism. Ooh, it burns. The optimistic feelings burn. I dunno if I like it- it's scary.
In all seriousness, yes I'm gonna try to go head on and finally do something worthwhile with my life, for once. I already have a few ideas bouncing up in the empty space that formerly housed my brain, and they've been rattling ever since. Here's hoping I can apply them with my more matured skills of planning and outlining in order to avoid fiascos like my first, unsuccessful attempt.
Woo 2013. Unlucky for some, unluckily lucky for me.
Nah, not writing fruity pretentious poetry; I'm tiring of wearing out my voice screaming at the top of my lungs "YOU JUST DON'T GET IT! NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME, I DEMAND ATTENTION!". Yes, I made sure to stick my nose as high in the air as I physically could while typing that last sentence.
Nor am I gonna tackle bite-size short stories; I've already written a couple over my last semester in college and although they were indeed fun to write, I found myself constantly frustrated trying to fit in every beat of the plot without either dragging it out for too long or coming up too damn short. I'd also struggle to help the reader of my stories interpret just what I mean behind every idiom, every simile, or even every onomatopoeia. There's a lot of pressure put on short story writers in order to convey a good plot, a deep ulterior meaning, and an appropriate ending all within ten or so pages. It hardly leaves any room for character development, and it's tricky incorporating a sense of buildup, a rising action to accompany the climax, ultimately leaving an impression on the reader (for better or for worse). And for that I admire short story authors; I respect them for their understanding of the art.
But I digress- what I mean to say is that I think it's finally time for me to pick up the (metaphorical) pen again and attempt to tackle one of my lifelong goals: to write a novel. Or at least a novella, give or take just how long this project will stretch out.
For the first time in a long time, I actually have a tingle in my bones, my fingers! No, no, it's not my inevitable arthritis from too much video gaming. It's a spark of this concept called self-confidence. Optimism. Ooh, it burns. The optimistic feelings burn. I dunno if I like it- it's scary.
In all seriousness, yes I'm gonna try to go head on and finally do something worthwhile with my life, for once. I already have a few ideas bouncing up in the empty space that formerly housed my brain, and they've been rattling ever since. Here's hoping I can apply them with my more matured skills of planning and outlining in order to avoid fiascos like my first, unsuccessful attempt.
Woo 2013. Unlucky for some, unluckily lucky for me.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Dear Blog...
Oh hey, I forgot about this. I forgot that I had a blog, and I should write stuff into it. I should- but will I? That's a whole different issue.
See, this whole "writing down whatever on the Internet" thing was compelling...when it was a requirement. This is a huge problem for me that I no doubt share with a lot of other individuals on this blue-green earth: I produce best under stress, so much so that when I'm not I lack the motivation to continue doing it. I'm reminded of those poor people on that show I like watching; what was it's name again? Oh yeah- HOARDERS. Wow, that's really cutting to the chase on that, isn't it? No screwing around there, they are/were hoarders. They lived in squalor and filth, owning too much junk or too many cats. Sometimes they acknowledged their problems, and sometimes they refused to, even with professional help literally right at their doorstep. The reason why I'm reminded of the show is because of what happens later, when the camera crew pack up and the dump trucks drive away, chock-filled with junk. There's this text box that appears over a frozen still of the hoarder in question, a glimpse into the future of the person. It offers a little more on what happened to the individual after the show. Do they finally start changing their ways, see a therapist and organize their house into something respectable, or do they shut down and close off all doors to society, vowing both that they have no problem and they will never change their ways of life? What did they do after leaving them to their own devices?
These questions I find similar to my present situation (indeed, to many of my personal situations). How will I choose to carry on with something if there's nobody there to really pressure me into actually doing it? How, and why? What really is the point in writing more of this blog, now that the class is over, winter break is settling in, and I now have so much more time to do other things that I've done before, like playing computer games or going out to the River Walk with companions?
I still don't know why, to be perfectly honest. Maybe it's in hopes of my professor continuing to read this crap, and maybe even offering a little comment here and there. Maybe it's to just let out some thoughts I had so I could preserve it for years to come.
So in that case, is this a blog or is it a diary? A diary is something you ought to keep secret, but as I've stated before, I'm tired of keeping secrets. I once had a diary, now that I think of it. It was a Harry Potter diary, with an inaccurate drawing of the man himself on the cover. I probably still have it somewhere, but I should throw it out. There are huge gaps in time within its pages (no joke, it goes from the fourth grade, fifth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth within 30 pages or so). It's really embarrassing to go through now, since it captures all of my awkwardness, angst, and naive hopes for the future in less than half of the actual length of the book itself. It has some thoughts of my parents' divorce, the constant moves between states, responsibilities of my brother, eulogies for my dead imaginary friends- you name it. I even thought I could draw- ugh! These drawings should be buried, they aren't fit for society. Well, maybe the Museum of Modern Art- I hear they'll accept anything nowadays. I chuckled at the crude sketches of a Gamecube and an Xbox back when I was 11 or so- it really shows how much video games were a thing of my life (they still are, not gonna lie).
But anyway, I digress. What I'm saying is, maybe this blog will be an experiment of sorts. I'm not used to being public about myself, so why don't I consider this blog a sort of "public diary"? That way, I guess I could justify continuing to write down all of this verbal diarrhea. Hello world- I present to you, my verbal diarrhea!
See, this whole "writing down whatever on the Internet" thing was compelling...when it was a requirement. This is a huge problem for me that I no doubt share with a lot of other individuals on this blue-green earth: I produce best under stress, so much so that when I'm not I lack the motivation to continue doing it. I'm reminded of those poor people on that show I like watching; what was it's name again? Oh yeah- HOARDERS. Wow, that's really cutting to the chase on that, isn't it? No screwing around there, they are/were hoarders. They lived in squalor and filth, owning too much junk or too many cats. Sometimes they acknowledged their problems, and sometimes they refused to, even with professional help literally right at their doorstep. The reason why I'm reminded of the show is because of what happens later, when the camera crew pack up and the dump trucks drive away, chock-filled with junk. There's this text box that appears over a frozen still of the hoarder in question, a glimpse into the future of the person. It offers a little more on what happened to the individual after the show. Do they finally start changing their ways, see a therapist and organize their house into something respectable, or do they shut down and close off all doors to society, vowing both that they have no problem and they will never change their ways of life? What did they do after leaving them to their own devices?
These questions I find similar to my present situation (indeed, to many of my personal situations). How will I choose to carry on with something if there's nobody there to really pressure me into actually doing it? How, and why? What really is the point in writing more of this blog, now that the class is over, winter break is settling in, and I now have so much more time to do other things that I've done before, like playing computer games or going out to the River Walk with companions?
I still don't know why, to be perfectly honest. Maybe it's in hopes of my professor continuing to read this crap, and maybe even offering a little comment here and there. Maybe it's to just let out some thoughts I had so I could preserve it for years to come.
So in that case, is this a blog or is it a diary? A diary is something you ought to keep secret, but as I've stated before, I'm tired of keeping secrets. I once had a diary, now that I think of it. It was a Harry Potter diary, with an inaccurate drawing of the man himself on the cover. I probably still have it somewhere, but I should throw it out. There are huge gaps in time within its pages (no joke, it goes from the fourth grade, fifth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth within 30 pages or so). It's really embarrassing to go through now, since it captures all of my awkwardness, angst, and naive hopes for the future in less than half of the actual length of the book itself. It has some thoughts of my parents' divorce, the constant moves between states, responsibilities of my brother, eulogies for my dead imaginary friends- you name it. I even thought I could draw- ugh! These drawings should be buried, they aren't fit for society. Well, maybe the Museum of Modern Art- I hear they'll accept anything nowadays. I chuckled at the crude sketches of a Gamecube and an Xbox back when I was 11 or so- it really shows how much video games were a thing of my life (they still are, not gonna lie).
But anyway, I digress. What I'm saying is, maybe this blog will be an experiment of sorts. I'm not used to being public about myself, so why don't I consider this blog a sort of "public diary"? That way, I guess I could justify continuing to write down all of this verbal diarrhea. Hello world- I present to you, my verbal diarrhea!
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Reflexive Reflections
The final stretch. Sitting here on the couches of the dorm's barely-used lounge, studying up on my poetry before my final. Not that I'm worried about it, of course- poetry's always been easy for me to understand and analyze. My poetry professor knows that; I'm sure he'll expect a good essay from me nonetheless.
Anyway, I guess I should follow through with that whole "class reflection thing". Well, let's go down the list here. For starters, I didn't think I could have ever walked away from another class knowing more about myself than the curriculum of the class itself. That's certainly not meant as a stab against the class, no, no, heavens to Betsy no. I personally thought that this was actually a good thing, being swept up in my own internal search, looking deep in the metaphorical dictionary where I fall under and what my definition is. The age old question of "Who am I?" comes into mind. Well...who am I? WHO am I? Who AM I? Who am I?
I'm a guy who never knew that I don't sit up straight or walk upright. I'm a guy who had it rough at times but is still alive and fighting the good fight, so to speak. I'm a guy who wants to write but never had any real encouragement or self-confidence to really do anything. But now I do. Now I do, thanks to this class and this dumb rule of having to write a blog for a grade (that was sarcasm, in case my vampiric demonic demi-god of a professor gets offended again).
Uh oh, I'm gonna drop my mask again. Watch out.
Thanks. Seriously. For once, I can't think of what to put here, so I'll just say it again. Thanks. For everything. I don't know if I'll make it doing what I do, but if I do I'll be sure to think of this class as the starting point. Where it all began. See you on the other side, Professor Ivey.
Anyway, I guess I should follow through with that whole "class reflection thing". Well, let's go down the list here. For starters, I didn't think I could have ever walked away from another class knowing more about myself than the curriculum of the class itself. That's certainly not meant as a stab against the class, no, no, heavens to Betsy no. I personally thought that this was actually a good thing, being swept up in my own internal search, looking deep in the metaphorical dictionary where I fall under and what my definition is. The age old question of "Who am I?" comes into mind. Well...who am I? WHO am I? Who AM I? Who am I?
I'm a guy who never knew that I don't sit up straight or walk upright. I'm a guy who had it rough at times but is still alive and fighting the good fight, so to speak. I'm a guy who wants to write but never had any real encouragement or self-confidence to really do anything. But now I do. Now I do, thanks to this class and this dumb rule of having to write a blog for a grade (that was sarcasm, in case my vampiric demonic demi-god of a professor gets offended again).
Uh oh, I'm gonna drop my mask again. Watch out.
Thanks. Seriously. For once, I can't think of what to put here, so I'll just say it again. Thanks. For everything. I don't know if I'll make it doing what I do, but if I do I'll be sure to think of this class as the starting point. Where it all began. See you on the other side, Professor Ivey.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Maybe, Maybe (Neutrality Part 9- Final)
From then on, I shut myself off from everything and everyone. I sat in the back of classes. During lunch, I went back to my lonely table and afterwards would sit outside of my classroom until the bell rang. I learned to understand how silence was truly golden.
After a disappointing graduation ceremony, I thought that my nightmares were finally over. I naively thought that the source of my depression stemmed from me being a "typical angsty teenager angry at the world" and that going to college would be the answer. And in a way, it kinda was. Everything was new, there were no silly teenage circles, and everyone were strangers (at least the Freshmen were, I mean to say). I gradually made some new half-friends in class, but I still sat alone at the dining hall, still scarred from before. Ironically, the professors were more like friends to me. That's why I really seemed to feel comfortable in college- the professors were always right there, ready to help with a question or to just give advice. It was nice, but I still felt alone, and still carried the weight of the past with me. I still had depressed bouts, insomnia. I found taking spontaneous strolls around the campus late at night helped ease the tidal wave of emotions that would normally cripple me. Even if it made me look more than a little creepy, a tall guy in a hood stalking the campus grounds way past midnight, I would feel at ease, a welcoming if fleeting feeling. There, I wouldn't feel so worthless and weak. I wouldn't be reminded of my failures, nor of my own insignificance. For a brief moment every night, I felt content with the world. It never lasted.
And now here I am, still in college, finally having a sense of stability to combat my anxiety for the future, my life not feeling like a constant battle just to crawl out of bed, to wake up and face the day. I don't feel so weak anymore. It's been a long time coming, but maybe I can finally let go of the past. Maybe I can think about letting people in. Maybe I can start looking straight ahead when I walk instead of gazing at my shoes.
Maybe I'll finally become an adult, and let the weight of my teenage years off of my shoulders. And just like lifting any other kinds of weights, I've grown stronger because of it. I think it's time to embrace the future, and put away the past.
"I am man. I belong here. How do you do world- good evening!"
After a disappointing graduation ceremony, I thought that my nightmares were finally over. I naively thought that the source of my depression stemmed from me being a "typical angsty teenager angry at the world" and that going to college would be the answer. And in a way, it kinda was. Everything was new, there were no silly teenage circles, and everyone were strangers (at least the Freshmen were, I mean to say). I gradually made some new half-friends in class, but I still sat alone at the dining hall, still scarred from before. Ironically, the professors were more like friends to me. That's why I really seemed to feel comfortable in college- the professors were always right there, ready to help with a question or to just give advice. It was nice, but I still felt alone, and still carried the weight of the past with me. I still had depressed bouts, insomnia. I found taking spontaneous strolls around the campus late at night helped ease the tidal wave of emotions that would normally cripple me. Even if it made me look more than a little creepy, a tall guy in a hood stalking the campus grounds way past midnight, I would feel at ease, a welcoming if fleeting feeling. There, I wouldn't feel so worthless and weak. I wouldn't be reminded of my failures, nor of my own insignificance. For a brief moment every night, I felt content with the world. It never lasted.
And now here I am, still in college, finally having a sense of stability to combat my anxiety for the future, my life not feeling like a constant battle just to crawl out of bed, to wake up and face the day. I don't feel so weak anymore. It's been a long time coming, but maybe I can finally let go of the past. Maybe I can think about letting people in. Maybe I can start looking straight ahead when I walk instead of gazing at my shoes.
Maybe I'll finally become an adult, and let the weight of my teenage years off of my shoulders. And just like lifting any other kinds of weights, I've grown stronger because of it. I think it's time to embrace the future, and put away the past.
"I am man. I belong here. How do you do world- good evening!"
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