Supposedly once you start writing you loosen up (down?) the literary bowels enough to end up with a case of verbal diarrhea. Amazing, I've typed out the word so many times in casual conversation that I actually know how to spell it right. Makes you - and me, quite frankly - wonder what kind of chats I've been having.
So, what do I write about? Doesn't help that this is the perpetual question that I face when I put my head down on the block, so I'm just going to have to fob this entry off as one of those "don't have anything to write about, will write anyway" pieces. You know, the ones that are full of fuck-I-don't-want-to-read-this-horsecrap content. Little do you know how much the author in these cases is struck by a case of fuck-I-didn't-want-to-write-this-either-itis too (notice how I've cleverly seemingly switched the cause and effect around without really saying it outright? That's right, I blame everybody else for my woes and assume they're stupid enough to believe it too.)
Well, that's patently not working this time. Reading and reviewing the compost-worthy material above doesn't make me feel any better about it than you, o mystical reader. For lack of anything else, though, it's going to stay up. Also to see if this advice really works.
I don't know what to talk about, honestly. Ideally I'd like to talk about moral codes and qualities and matters more in the idealistic and metaphysical realm, but...well, but. Those kinds of questions seem to need (either or all the following, I'm not sure which) certain preconditions, namely:
1. Somebody willing to argue with me, and preferably good at it;
2. For me to be at least somewhat intoxicated, enough to loosen my mouth at least; and finally,
3. A place somewhere out in the middle of the dark lonely nowhere with no cars and nobody in sight - this is somewhat optional.
Lately, as I grow older, I've begun feeling that condition no. 2 grows less and less important, but no. 1 is absolutely vital. For me, that is. I need someone to play the straight man to my fool. It's only when you get older that you realize the importance of having good friends. The ones that are genuine, honest, caring and wise. Ones that you're equally comfortable enjoying a good argument against or sharing a long silent session with.
And this is the most important thing that's been missing in my life lately, or it could just be that I've grown old and world-weary and more and more unwilling to invest the effort to "discuss" idealistic scenarios and life dilemmas anymore (I just want to win, dammit.). Perhaps that is more likely. Plus everything seems a repeat of what it was the last time around, so it isn't even that intellectually stimulating. A discontent with deja vu, if you will.
So that avenue looks like it has pretty much been closed off until further notice. Someday when I get into the vein of writing things - or am properly painted - I may give things a go again. Until then, it's time to examine option B - talking about my life and events in it.
So where's the catch in that? Although this may seem like a flimsy excuse, it's because I come off as judgmental and a snob; my tastes don't seem to match the general population's. This reason not to write, though, is not something that comes from a worry of people's opinions - it's something that really bothers me. I guess the whole thing stems from a desire to be truly gracious, and not knock everything I see. Grace is a word seen so rarely these days in a crass, materialistic, fad-filled world (aha, you sneaky judgmental bastard, you, I can hear you say) that I'd like it to have some meaning in my life. Anyway, that explains my hiccups with writing about what other people do, in case it turns out that I'm being unnecessarily mean and vicious (you can see it in my natural desire to be defensive and preface everything I say with an explanation).
For example, I watched a movie called English Vinglish a while ago, and while the rest of my extended family was raving about it rather, I wasn't too impressed. I know it's easy to be a critic, and hard to be a producer, but frankly, there wasn't much to appeal to me in the movie. For those of you that haven't seen it, it's about a liberated but downtrodden housewife whois feels oppressed by everybody she knows and cares for (two kids and a husband, apparently) because - would you guess it - she can't speak English. She finds she has to go to the US for her American niece's wedding, where she will be quite conveniently alone for some time. The rest of the movie deals with how she uses the opportunity to learn English on money she's made from a successful business selling samosas in India. Also, there's a french romantic interest who's not her husband. How quaint yet daring!
The lead is played by a slim and dapper Sridevi, apparently plasticized and suitably made up as a Saree-Clad Naive Indian Woman whose...idea...of......a.....beginner.....speaking.....a....new.....language....is.......to.....speak.....every......word.....haltingly....but...........with.....perfect.....grammar.....and.....no....laughably...inappropriate.....substitutions. Not smushtogethersomewords in the hope that thelistener overlooks my mayhbe wrong grammar and...vindaloo enunciatioun, or maybe an askent and some general arm flailing to makethelistenerunderstand, the way I've seen people unfamiliar with a language try to speak it. No,....this......has.....to.....be....dignified.....lady.....speaking.....slowly.
The learning segment itself deals with the drama of her interacting with her co-students rather than the hours and the sweat put into learning something new - the downright passion and the skill needed to learn a language in a few weeks. I believe that's enough spoilers for the day, I'm sadistic enough to make you want to watch the movie if you really want to know what happens. Plus I don't want to relive the experience more than I have to.
To me, the movie didn't have bite, the way Cast Away for example does. My favourite movie, by the way. How plebeian. Maybe I should write a post someday on why that movie appeals so much to me, I haven't really asked myself about it. Add to to-do checklist.
Anyway, I think the above is a decent enough example of how and why I shouldn't write about my daily life. I come across as a miserable old bastard who complains about a lot of stuff, if not everything. Is the world inane, or am I jaded already? My apologies if the ending to the post seemed rather hasty, it's because I got rather tired of writing. My apologies.
So, what do I write about? Doesn't help that this is the perpetual question that I face when I put my head down on the block, so I'm just going to have to fob this entry off as one of those "don't have anything to write about, will write anyway" pieces. You know, the ones that are full of fuck-I-don't-want-to-read-this-horsecrap content. Little do you know how much the author in these cases is struck by a case of fuck-I-didn't-want-to-write-this-either-itis too (notice how I've cleverly seemingly switched the cause and effect around without really saying it outright? That's right, I blame everybody else for my woes and assume they're stupid enough to believe it too.)
Well, that's patently not working this time. Reading and reviewing the compost-worthy material above doesn't make me feel any better about it than you, o mystical reader. For lack of anything else, though, it's going to stay up. Also to see if this advice really works.
I don't know what to talk about, honestly. Ideally I'd like to talk about moral codes and qualities and matters more in the idealistic and metaphysical realm, but...well, but. Those kinds of questions seem to need (either or all the following, I'm not sure which) certain preconditions, namely:
1. Somebody willing to argue with me, and preferably good at it;
2. For me to be at least somewhat intoxicated, enough to loosen my mouth at least; and finally,
3. A place somewhere out in the middle of the dark lonely nowhere with no cars and nobody in sight - this is somewhat optional.
Lately, as I grow older, I've begun feeling that condition no. 2 grows less and less important, but no. 1 is absolutely vital. For me, that is. I need someone to play the straight man to my fool. It's only when you get older that you realize the importance of having good friends. The ones that are genuine, honest, caring and wise. Ones that you're equally comfortable enjoying a good argument against or sharing a long silent session with.
And this is the most important thing that's been missing in my life lately, or it could just be that I've grown old and world-weary and more and more unwilling to invest the effort to "discuss" idealistic scenarios and life dilemmas anymore (I just want to win, dammit.). Perhaps that is more likely. Plus everything seems a repeat of what it was the last time around, so it isn't even that intellectually stimulating. A discontent with deja vu, if you will.
So that avenue looks like it has pretty much been closed off until further notice. Someday when I get into the vein of writing things - or am properly painted - I may give things a go again. Until then, it's time to examine option B - talking about my life and events in it.
So where's the catch in that? Although this may seem like a flimsy excuse, it's because I come off as judgmental and a snob; my tastes don't seem to match the general population's. This reason not to write, though, is not something that comes from a worry of people's opinions - it's something that really bothers me. I guess the whole thing stems from a desire to be truly gracious, and not knock everything I see. Grace is a word seen so rarely these days in a crass, materialistic, fad-filled world (aha, you sneaky judgmental bastard, you, I can hear you say) that I'd like it to have some meaning in my life. Anyway, that explains my hiccups with writing about what other people do, in case it turns out that I'm being unnecessarily mean and vicious (you can see it in my natural desire to be defensive and preface everything I say with an explanation).
For example, I watched a movie called English Vinglish a while ago, and while the rest of my extended family was raving about it rather, I wasn't too impressed. I know it's easy to be a critic, and hard to be a producer, but frankly, there wasn't much to appeal to me in the movie. For those of you that haven't seen it, it's about a liberated but downtrodden housewife who
The lead is played by a slim and dapper Sridevi, apparently plasticized and suitably made up as a Saree-Clad Naive Indian Woman whose...idea...of......a.....beginner.....speaking.....a....new.....language....is.......to.....speak.....every......word.....haltingly....but...........with.....perfect.....grammar.....and.....no....laughably...inappropriate.....substitutions. Not smushtogethersomewords in the hope that thelistener overlooks my mayhbe wrong grammar and...vindaloo enunciatioun, or maybe an askent and some general arm flailing to makethelistenerunderstand, the way I've seen people unfamiliar with a language try to speak it. No,....this......has.....to.....be....dignified.....lady.....speaking.....slowly.
The learning segment itself deals with the drama of her interacting with her co-students rather than the hours and the sweat put into learning something new - the downright passion and the skill needed to learn a language in a few weeks. I believe that's enough spoilers for the day, I'm sadistic enough to make you want to watch the movie if you really want to know what happens. Plus I don't want to relive the experience more than I have to.
To me, the movie didn't have bite, the way Cast Away for example does. My favourite movie, by the way. How plebeian. Maybe I should write a post someday on why that movie appeals so much to me, I haven't really asked myself about it. Add to to-do checklist.
Anyway, I think the above is a decent enough example of how and why I shouldn't write about my daily life. I come across as a miserable old bastard who complains about a lot of stuff, if not everything. Is the world inane, or am I jaded already? My apologies if the ending to the post seemed rather hasty, it's because I got rather tired of writing. My apologies.
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