"I am the weirdest person you'll ever meet."
I just looked at her. She didn't know I was the real thing.
"My writing is...scary. (Chuckles.) Sometimes I question my own sanity."
I didn't question mine. I both knew I was and wasn't crazy at the same time. Many times I did crazy things--heinous things--but I was in control of myself when I did them.
She shoved a notebook into my chest. "Here," she said, looking down. I heard a few more words come out of her, too, which I'm not even sure she knew she was saying: "Take it, look at it. It probably isn't much, but, this represents who I am--take it or leave it."
We made eye contact and I looked down at what she had written. This is the trainwreck of words I then read:
He sees me
But I don't see him
I see him and imagine
Killing him
Biting his neck as the vampire
As he kisses me
A chandelier shatters
"Um, interesting. Do you...imagine doing this to some guy?"
"No, I was just, yaknow, sitting around, and the thought just sorta came to me." She was shaking her head around and opening her eyes wide whenever she thought she said something crazy. "The last line was, yaknow, just something that came afterwards. I liked the alliteration of those words. They sorta stuck out to me, yaknow."
"Hm, yeah, yeah," I said aimlessly. "I was um, wondering about that."
"You know, what's really scary is I've thought that I could be crazy enough to do something like this!" Her eyes were as big as golfballs.
"Hm, yeah," I said. "You seem pretty crazy." We were friends, so I could talk like that to her.
"Yeah, yaknow, that's me!" With a jump of the eyebrows she turned and walked off.
Wow, wow, wow. If she knew what I do, she'd stop entertaining the idea of being crazy. I guess it helped her confidence, behaving like she did. Accepting that you're crazy lowers expectations of your social abilities, so when you're rejected in some way, it won't hurt so bad. But what spontaneous crap that confidence had caused her to write! I don't blow a horn and announce my personality over a megaphone. I'm not always spontaneous, either. Always I have to choose to write, even when inspired. My muscles don't move on their own. This girl was not inspired--she was infected. People think spontaniety is the wellspring of genius. Not true. Well, of course, I've been trying to discover myself what is genius; what is great. However, I know we don't gain an avenue by writing a bunch of nonsense. Ideas are out there, and--in my personal, individual, singular opinion--writers should strive to write out these ideas as best they can. These "Spontaneous me" fanatics aren't on the right track. If there is no system or control of their expression, how will they then communicate?
I'm the real thing. I write from a conviction that there is something to be written about. It isn't just something inside you, waiting to be spoken by a moment of supposed inspiration. Sorry for not explaining the part about my heinous acts. I will not go into that--so again, sorry--for mentioning it.
(note: this isn't necessarily me talking, even though I've obviously infused some strong opinions, as the title of this post suggests. This narrative is fictional.)
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
'\o Things cha-aaaaaa-a-a-aaange... '\o
Ah! I love this song.
Interesting video, too. I can't tell if her expressions are funny or scary. I think they're something on the brink of both.
Interesting video, too. I can't tell if her expressions are funny or scary. I think they're something on the brink of both.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Start of a story...
When I was alive, I was a very enthusiastic sort of guy, both in mood and in mind. Especially in my mind, though. For, even when people are mellow or down in the dumps and their outward actions are somewhat droopy, their minds are usually working. These droopy times in body and physical expression are likely the periods in which our minds are most active. Imagine you’ve been insulted by someone you wanted to be your friend. If you’re me, outwardly you’re sort of a mess: you become pensive and keep your feelings mostly inside, but everyone can tell you’re troubled. You get depressed and it shows (unless you’re one of those people who put a smiley face mask in front of them whenever they go into public; I’ve never understood you.) However, though more or less bored-looking on the surface, inside you’re going through all the ways in your head how that other person could fall into some kind of misfortune that’s related to you and see the error of their ways. Your mind is going crazy about it. Is it like this for you? No? Well, I tried to relate. Anyway, this story isn’t about relating to you. In fact, it’s about a very unrelated experience. But before I tell about that, I must continue to explain the reason for which this story started in the first place.
Like I said, very enthusiastic; lively mind, all of that. At nights it was the worst. If society would let me, I would have become completely nocturnal. The darkness provoked my imagination and that’s the time I was most productive. If something was on my mind, I wouldn’t be able to fall to sleep. In fact, it was a chore for me to try and make myself become drowsy. This probably had to do with frequently sleeping in till 3pm. However, even when I was good and got up at 8am, and didn’t take a nap during the day, I’d usually have the darnedest time getting to sleep. Whenever a new thought found itself to my head, I would have to actively dismiss and forget it, or else I’d stay awake. Now, it’s a shame having to dismiss and forget good ideas. It’s a blessing to be able to do the same to bad ideas, such as, thinking of all the ways an acquaintance might accidentally injure you and then feel awful about it and apologize to you in tears. But they both kept me up; good or bad idea, they were both nearly impossible to dismiss when all I wanted to do was get out of bed and write a story, or read a book, or watch a film. Simply put, when my mind was unsatisfied with something when I went to bed, I would get up again. The dissatisfaction in this story has to do with not knowing how I died (or was killed), and “bed” means “grave.”
What I remember is it was really late, around 4am, and I was walking around my house. My parents were asleep, and the house was silent and still. I knew outside it was windy and cold, but I couldn’t hear the wind, and inside the house it was comfortable and warm. Before I finally decided to go to bed, I took a notebook and pencil to the bathroom and wrote out a short something as I cleaned out my intestines. Then I got a drink of water from the kitchen, notebook in hand, loose socks on feet, and walked down the hall, silently as not to wake my parents. I was in a strange mood, as always I was that late, and held a piece of writing equally as strange in my hand. I had that feeling that I could almost hallucinate, my mind was that detached. Opening my bedroom door, I imagined some hideous troll standing before me (I said I was feeling strange). See, this was a way of scaring myself. I don’t know why, but people seem to like to excite their fears. In Tim Burton’s A Nightmare Before Christmas, some of the first words in the opening song say, “Life’s no good without a good scare.” We seem to like to be scared, and that’s what I was doing. I figure I mine as well have been. Nothing was really in my house at that time of night—yeah, so I thought. Hopping onto my bed, I began fluffing up my sheet and pillow. Then I fell forward with a sudden jolt, my sheets were dyed red, and I felt an immense pain in the back of my head. It only lasted for a second though, and then I was dead.
Like I said, very enthusiastic; lively mind, all of that. At nights it was the worst. If society would let me, I would have become completely nocturnal. The darkness provoked my imagination and that’s the time I was most productive. If something was on my mind, I wouldn’t be able to fall to sleep. In fact, it was a chore for me to try and make myself become drowsy. This probably had to do with frequently sleeping in till 3pm. However, even when I was good and got up at 8am, and didn’t take a nap during the day, I’d usually have the darnedest time getting to sleep. Whenever a new thought found itself to my head, I would have to actively dismiss and forget it, or else I’d stay awake. Now, it’s a shame having to dismiss and forget good ideas. It’s a blessing to be able to do the same to bad ideas, such as, thinking of all the ways an acquaintance might accidentally injure you and then feel awful about it and apologize to you in tears. But they both kept me up; good or bad idea, they were both nearly impossible to dismiss when all I wanted to do was get out of bed and write a story, or read a book, or watch a film. Simply put, when my mind was unsatisfied with something when I went to bed, I would get up again. The dissatisfaction in this story has to do with not knowing how I died (or was killed), and “bed” means “grave.”
What I remember is it was really late, around 4am, and I was walking around my house. My parents were asleep, and the house was silent and still. I knew outside it was windy and cold, but I couldn’t hear the wind, and inside the house it was comfortable and warm. Before I finally decided to go to bed, I took a notebook and pencil to the bathroom and wrote out a short something as I cleaned out my intestines. Then I got a drink of water from the kitchen, notebook in hand, loose socks on feet, and walked down the hall, silently as not to wake my parents. I was in a strange mood, as always I was that late, and held a piece of writing equally as strange in my hand. I had that feeling that I could almost hallucinate, my mind was that detached. Opening my bedroom door, I imagined some hideous troll standing before me (I said I was feeling strange). See, this was a way of scaring myself. I don’t know why, but people seem to like to excite their fears. In Tim Burton’s A Nightmare Before Christmas, some of the first words in the opening song say, “Life’s no good without a good scare.” We seem to like to be scared, and that’s what I was doing. I figure I mine as well have been. Nothing was really in my house at that time of night—yeah, so I thought. Hopping onto my bed, I began fluffing up my sheet and pillow. Then I fell forward with a sudden jolt, my sheets were dyed red, and I felt an immense pain in the back of my head. It only lasted for a second though, and then I was dead.
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