Ξ November 5th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ life |
today, im a writer. tomorrow, I may wake up and realize im a firefighter or a pilot, but today, im a writer. look out pulitzer, theres a new sheriff in town, and he’s coming for you.
I’ve literally been devouring books lately. its part of my new diet. coffee, cigarettes, and a diet paperback. sometimes I cheat and sneak a late night comic book or fantasy novel, but I make it a point to stay an extra 30 minutes on the eliptical the next day to avoid feeling guilty.
I finished “Waiter Rant” yesterday. if you work in the business, you’ve got to read it. it offers a brief glimpse into our life style few rarely get to see unless you’ve somehow ended up dating one of our kind. aside from the obvious comical moments that any casual reader could understand, the books humor, for me atleast, rests in it’s all too familiar situations and scenarios. forevery customer he mentions, I’ve got one to match. catty coworkers? check. appreciation for a drink before/during/after a shift? double check. addiction to the money at the cost of selfworth? please, if you know me, I don’t even have to dignify that with a witty response. its our lifestyle. definitely a must read. he’s got a website as well, which is actually where he got started, but im posting via mobile now, so ill have to link it in a later post when I get home.
currently, I working on a christopher rice book. normally im not a fan of gay authors but I’ve found the occasional exceptions in my readings (Rice, Sedaris, etc.) most are through recommendations, and I hate the idea of passing up a possible good read. the story itself is very compelling, but focuses a little too much on some of the sex scenes. a problem with so many gay writers. there are times when I have to hide what im reading as I feel im reading some kind of cheap romance novel. sex sell I guess though. can’t imagine that there are many heterosexuals into reading 3 page trysts discussing the shape of a supple man-ass or a college boys nocturnal emissions, nor can I believe that there is a gay demographic large enough to make up for the afore mentioned breeder crowd. but he makes it work I guess.
the two books together got me to thinking though. I wait tables. I have funny stories. im gay. why can’t I do what they’ve done. pretty presumptuous, I know. cocky even. no formal training or studies, but I’ve come to learn that all the formalities involved with writing generally lead to very boring reads.
what I do have is experience. I have a story in me. I also have a free medium by which to be seen. so what’s keeping me from actually going through with it?
1.) Lack of time.
Between both jobs, I put in a 12 hour day, 5 days a week. Calculate into that, the roughly 5 hours of sleep I get a night, the 2 hours to get ready and bus in, with the hour and a half long ride home, im left with roughly 3 1/2 hours for personal time. not exactly the amount of time condusive to creative writing.
2.) Lack of filler
I have a tendancy to rush my writings. I skip over minor details and end up turning a potential novel into a hundred page short story. not that the short story isn’t a valid literary form, but all my attempts have left me feeling unfulfilled and unhappy with my final product.
3.) Lack of confidence
who the fuck do I think I am, pretending like i know anything about writing. what if I suck? I’ve never been one for stepping outside the box and trying something new. im so afraid that my work would come off as juvenile, and thereby, prove not only to others but to myself, that im not anything other than a waiter. not a risk im willing to take.
even now, sitting here writing this very entry, I’ve lost my motivation. gotten distracted with customers. been side tracked with work. run out of time. what are the chances that ill finish an entire book if I can’t even finish a damn post? not a probability id be comfortable putting any amount of money on. fuck, even that last sentence ended in a preposition. are these the kind of stories you want your children readin? I think not. I think not.
its raining again. its always raining anymore. that’s october for you. its always amused me that if you asked someone to paint a picture of halloween, the trees are bare. eerie spooky looming behemoths, with branches out stretched reaching to pull you in. if you asked someone to draw the same scene at thanksgiving though, somehow the trees miraculously have leaves again. sporting their gold and amber leaves. I suppose it has to do with how we see the world at differet times. cold or warm, alive or dying, lonely or surrounded by love. october and november. fucking november.
I found a notebook today. I suppose I should have thrown it away or tucked it aside in hopes the owner would return momentarily to reclaim their lost possession. but my curiosity got the best of me and I started to read it. to whomever it belongs, im sorry. it was not my place, I know, but I have always had a need to read to learn and to know.
I probably read it 4 or 5 times, each reread catching something new, something I missed before. the 6th time I read it, I had to fight the urge to add my own entries. the pen was in my hand clicking nervously, anticipating the moment when my morals wane and id begin filling the pages with my own text.
and then I stopped, just before id finally give in, and I realized why I wanted to add to the pages. reading them over and over, I saw myself in someone else’s words.
looking at it now, im sure its my notebook. the pages on a lover who hits me, surely I wrote two years ago. the pages about my inability to try something new for fear of failure, I wrote last month. and the pages on addiction, physical and mental alike, I wrote only yesterday.
but they were not my words. it was not my notebook. it was, instead some stranger’s whom I had not met and did not know. the notebook is still here at work, waiting for it’s owner to come. surely the boy who wrote those words will come back for them. they were beautiful not for their prose or meter, but instead for their ability to show me that I am not alone.
who knew october could be so warm…even in the rain.
ps. by some chance happenstance, if you are the owner of said notebook, know that it is safe and sound awaiting your return. and please, don’t give up hope. every moment where I have contemplated quitting, there has been something new that I have found to give me faith. you just have to wait it out.
Ξ October 6th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ life |
where does the weekend go? honestly, you blink and they’re gone. before you know it we’re back at work behind the register, wiping down the same counter you do everyday. if you’re not careful, you end up in autopilot, without so much as a thought to what you’re doing.
but how do you break a pattern like that? or do you? I mean the work gets done, you get paid, then you’re released into the world again. only, you have to come back tomorrow, and do it all over again. where do you draw the line between work, life, and solitude. currently, im a little stuck between the first and the last, with only sparse fragments of the second when and where I can get them. its my curse for now but, fingers crossed, i’ll find the happy medium somewhere in there.
in other news, im currently blogging from work. the café doesn’t open until 11 so im cleaning odds and ends, occasionally flipping my phone open and jotting down a few more lines. reading over my last post, I remembered how good it feels to get some of the thoughts down on paper, or in this case, digital paper. its almost therapeutic. so few people in the world are even worth talking to. its gotten to the point where its become impossible to pretend anyone is even listening. have we become so immune to faked interest that even when someone actually cares, we automatically assume they are insincere? it starts a vicious cycle, bouncing between personas. one, pushing everyone away, fearing that anyone who gets close is either after something or manipulating you for their own personal gain. the other sits alone in the dark at night, deprived of affection because of the actions of the first. to compensate, we search out for anyone who we can, throwing our hearts at them in a desperate attempt at humanity. naturally, it ends badly, only reenforcing the cycle, teaching us that humans have become cold, heartless, and self-serving. another habit to break I guess, but where do you start? which do you interupt first? do you magically pretending that there is good left in the world, or does that imaginary land only make you a hypocrit because you’re lying to yourself and everyone around you? maybe you end the cycle by continuing to doubt everyone and at night we search for a way to hide from our need to be with someone.
some of us work late at the office to distract ourselves from that little voice. other drink that voice into oblivion along with any other conscious thoughts. and some of us can’t quite ignore the voice or drown it out. infact, we encourage it, embolden it, push it to the limit of imagination, in hopes we’ll burn ourselves out. blow the emotional fuse that sparks so many problems when unchecked. and by morning, we’ve done so much damage to our minds that we don’t even remember our heads hitting the pillow. and we don’t want to because we know the thoughts in our mind are so hopeful and unrealistic that we just couldn’t deal with it everyday.
I guess that is a lot of people’s problem. we become jekyl and hydes. our inner desires masked to protect our, and we take it to such an extreme we come off as the exact opposite of who we are. over time, we become the mask. in essence we’re killing ourselves to protect ourselves.
its all cycles. patterns. expected outcomes where you balance the gain and the loss only to really break even. but its not even. we put so much work into juggling the two that by days end, we’re exhausted. its like our economy really. we keep shoveling money in, in hopes of getting money back. maybe we just need to crash and start over. maybe we all need to remember where we started, and build something safe and stable, with a sturdy foundation, wary of the preditory lender, or the boy who says he wears his heart on his sleeve. both are so risky, it’s no wonder we’re in the state we’re in.
falling in love has become a job. one that pays shit, with long hours and no benefits. cycles. everything repeating. love becomes work, work leaves you exhausted, and in our restless sleep, we’re reminded, more like haunted, by dreams of love. so when we wake, we search it out. punch the same old time clock and end up behind the register wiping down the same counter you do everday.
is it the weekend yet?
Ξ March 5th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ life |
You know, i used to write in one of these things all the time. It helped me clear my thoughts. Vent. Sorted my thoughts into something that somebody else could understand. I miss that. so why don’t i do it now? or more precisely, why havent i? Simple. Im stubborn. i dont like to air my weaknesses. childish really. I’m tired of it. what’s the point of writing if you dont make it personal?
Just a heads up. I dont do grammar. I cant spell for shit. think of me as a lesser known e e cummings. His works have always had a special place in my heart. the less i understand his writings the more beautiful they become to me. i start by trying to understand what emotions and thoughts he’s trying to convey and inevitably i end up finding myself immersed in his words swimming around me. I pick and choose them at random, reassembling them into my own thoughts, adding and building until they make more sense than id ever thought possible. it’s like he took the words as they appeared in his mind and threw them on paper before he had a chance to filter them like so many of us do. so many filters. we’re afraid to hurt people. we’re afraid to hurt ourselves, or at the very least, leave ourselves vulnerable. we’re scared to lose the image we’ve worked so hard to build.
When you spend part of your life building walls, and keeping people out, you feel like you’re backtracking when you realize its time to tear them down. you feel like you failed because for so long, you measured your progress in the amount of walls you put up. i guess its all part of growth. learning. changing. adapting but not conforming. Its the end of an era for me. new territory. im both scared and curious. frightened and excited.
as i write this, i’m trying to bypass the filter. letting the words pour out of me. finding a flow that builds slowly and breaks the dam. ive always been a rambler. wordy and off tangent. no continuity but i guess thats just how my mind operates. thats the beauty of having a blog. there is no one to judge you or grade you. you can write as little or as much as you want. whatever it takes to get those thoughts out and into the air.
this website is going to be the place of my rebirth. these words are my swaddling clothes that will protect and warm me against the cold. My thoughts will be my nutrients that nourish and feed me, growing from them and progressing on. And from all this, i will find myself. you’re welcome to come along if you dare…