Self-Help Books and the 4th Century BCE

A lengthy treatise could quite legitimately be written on this subject, but naturally, that’s not what I’m about to do here.  No, we’re simply going to highlight a couple fun ideas that have come down from antiquity.  It is the playful intention of this blog post to show that the Greeks invented the self-help book, and what’s more, they were better at it than the Christians or anyone that came later.  But already we’re being too thorough and there isn’t anything fun about that.

When the Greeks wrote about the Gods they treated them as if they were a pet dog that a neighbor was watching for the weekend.  There was a practical sense to the whole affair that would seem almost insolent to the “God-fearing” types of the modern era.  As you might remind your neighbor to put down a certain amount of food, evening and night, and leave the TV on so poor Fido doesn’t feel alone, so the Greek philosophers laid down guidelines and rules of thumb focusing on time tables rooted in the agricultural calendar.  These prescriptions were mostly an aside to the more pressing concerns of agriculture proper, sociology, and commerce, but maybe the most prevalent concern of them all was truly, “the self”.

Although you wouldn’t see “Plato’s Guide to Getting Any Woman” (This, in fact, would be the primary concern of Ovid’s “Erotic Poems”, but that would be much later and Roman besides) antiquity has preserved a great deal of regimen, friendly advice, and speculation on the self from the father’s of western thought.

What exactly are these prescriptions, I hear you not asking?  They were tied up primarily in maintenance of the soul and management of the estate.  And so, at long last, we come to the point of the matter.

Throughout the major texts the same principles of moderation are referenced time and again in all facets of human existence.  Unlike the Christian prescriptions that would follow, human nature was not considered an evil that needed to be checked, but rather a web of useful (although potentially dangerous) desires that needed to be managed to maintain equilibrium of the soul.

In regard to exercise, alcohol, sex, and food the guiding principle was moderation rather than abstinence.   The idea, generally speaking, was to master oneself.  Far from being the Christian austerity associated with prohibition and self-denial, the Greek model aimed to make a symphony of the soul without any element neglected.

The prescription would be condensed as such:  Eat what’s necessary, but not to excess.  Have sex (with boys, slaves, or your wife) but don’t let desire rule your life.  Exercise, but not so much that it becomes an end unto itself.  To condense even further, “Let everything have it’s place and nothing more.”

So anyway, on a personal note, I’m giving this mentality a shot.  I’ve created a “regimen” that includes all of my aims, and in the Greek manner it isn’t a set daily routine so much as a checklist that has daily, weekly, and monthly goals.  We’ll see how it goes.

Romance, Cars, and Masculinity

This certainly isn’t the first time this subject has been approached.  More likely than not a google search on the collective subjects would give you ten gazillion pages rattling on and on like… well… like I’m about to do.

What makes the car an object of male obsession will vary depending on who you ask, and, fittingly, you can probably determine a lot about a guy based on the car he owns. We’ll explore some examples of that as we go along, but first let’s take a look at why cars are so important to the modern man.

You could take two approaches here:  The car as an extension of a man’s masculinity or as an object/embodiment of desire.  Let’s have a go at both ways and see which we prefer.

As an extension of masculinity the correlations are obvious; it may compensate for a lack of… something, it embodies a man’s social status, it stands as a testament to his tastes, and it expresses his core values.  If a man drives a Toyota Camry he’s not much of a playboy, but he probably doesn’t sculpt his pubic hair “just so” in an effort to “enhance” his appearance.  He doesn’t put much stock in appearances and he probably doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.  He values reliability, practicality, and modesty.

If he drives a 7 foot tall truck with mud tires and straight-headers (for that world-shaking exhaust note) he’d probably shoot himself in the face if he caught his son watching wrestling videos on you tube with the lights off,  his girlfriend/wife will be the most attractive specimen he can land, but she probably isn’t a beauty,  and he beats his dog when he has had a bad day at work, he can’t get an erection, or whenever his masculinity is called into question.  His values are Jesus, Mary, and the holy-fucking-ghost.  Oh and he loves AC/DC.

This approach has its strong points, but it isn’t altogether accurate.  In cases of guys that drive lifted trucks it’s certainly a good starting point.  There isn’t any desire in 30” tires, unless it’s the desire for a bigger penis.  But what about the British Racing Green XKR Jag, the debadged M5, and the classic 911?  These seem to belong to our other category, the embodiment of desire.

When a guy tells you about his childhood dream-car chances are he’s not sporting a semi.  No doubt, sex and cars are not separate entities altogether and male sexuality can be seen in a sports car’s feminine lines and contours, but there’s more than superficial lust in the glassy-eyed face of a man transported by the memory of his dad’s ’76 porsche.

The car holds a distinct place in the Western Man’s ethos.  It’s been romanticized to the point of absurdity and examples are not in short supply.  From a 16 year old boy’s civic hatchback with a loosely attached body kit that doesn’t match the original color to a 70 year old man’s 20 foot Cadillac which inevitably kills several small children and their mother on the way home from bingo night the car plays a part in every step of the male life cycle.  It stands for freedom, success, independence, and love.

The love a man has for his car is both paternal and romantic.  Truly, all man’s variations on love can be observed in his love of cars.  Or, more to the point, the love of his car.  Especially if that car isn’t very pretty, none of the gauges work, it’s missing (often important) bits of the interior, it breaks down or runs according to its own whimsical nature, and girls think it’s terrible.  Despite it all, a man will love a shitty car like a beaten puppy will love his redneck master.  Only because, perhaps, it’s his.  He has a loyalty born of mutual hardships overcome together, no, as one, even.  And that’s not just the mark of a good car, but perhaps a good man as well.

Perhaps we’ve diverged from desire somewhat, though.  Let’s get back on track.

Of the possessions a man can own, none has more personal value than the car.  It acts as a conduit to every aspect of his life.  From cruising the parks for fags in the bushes to taking the kids to soccer practice it applies to the whole spectrum of Maledom.  It’s the study in which he contemplates fantasy football or Nietzsche’s eternal reoccurrence of the same.  It’s where he lost his virginity to his 16 year old girlfriend in the volvo station wagon his parents gave him for his birthday. Its the first place he got stoned with his pals just prior to getting hopelessly lost in a safeway parking lot.

We define the stages of our lives through jobs, girlfriends, and of course, our cars.  Selling or scrapping a car is like deleting an ex from your myspace.  Whether you do it with anger or sorrow you feel like your life has changed forever.

A new car has it’s honeymoon phase, where you notice the things that don’t work, the panels that done line up quite right, noises that aren’t quite proper and will eventually drive you nuts (the analogy here is people that eat loudly… it was really vague, so let me just say, if you eat loudly I want to FUCKING KILL YOU and so does anyone with a soul) but none of them get to you now, because you’ve got the aim of your desire and it might not be perfect, but its yours all the same.

…I’m running out of analogies at this point…

A car is like a guinea pig because… er, hang on…

A car is like not wearing a condom with your girlfriend because…

… it’s better than a bicycle and you’re pretty sure you won’t get AIDs?

Alright… I think we’ve covered it.  A man without a car is not a man at all.

[I had intended to take this a bit further (thus the abrupt and lame conclusion), but really all I was trying to say is I’m making a car my first priority in life.  Out of love!  Well, and, I’m sick of walking everywhere.]

Free Air in my Black Lungs

Ah the new year!  Always an excuse to look at the bright side, make bold new plans, and of course get severely drunk on a thursday.   Well and why not?  If the gregorian calendar doesn’t do it for you what will?

So about new plans.  I think primarily owing to a conversation with my good buddy (and veteran) Nick, I’ve sacked the military plan.  Now you’ll of course be saying I’m a waffling truant, and, I’d be hard put to disprove your accusation, but let me relate the conversation anyway.  Also, if you read the beginning of this paragraph and actually said aloud ‘Waffling truant!” you’re clearly my soulmate, no other explanation would serve.

Anyway, Nick told me that I shouldn’t expect to accomplish anything in the military besides being in the military for four years.  Theoretically I could get a degree during the term, but, unless I suddenly became chinese, I wouldn’t possibly have the motivation to do it.  Additionally, any dreams of a newly acquired discipline are precisely dreams.  Only cornfed 17 year old kids buy into it and Nick, knowing me better than I know myself, insists I would breeze through basic without my personality altering so much as a pinch.

But enough negation.  The benefit of the experience is this: I’ve come to appreciate my freedom.  What exactly does that mean, you ask, with a wry look and disbelieving eyes? (Again, if you’ve done that, soulmate)  Well, simply, I’m 24 and bound by nothing.  I haven’t lost an arm, fathered a child, married my high school sweetheart, sullied my criminal record, or well, joined the military.

So, if you wanted to be a prick about it, you might say I’ve managed to do very little with my life. (If you had called me a waffling truant and glared with disbelief yet now throw this accusation… it was are farce, you’re not my soulmate after all)  Well… fair enough.  Life isn’t a race, as any 50-something deadbeat will tell you.

But again, we’ve gone on and on, what are these new plans I hear you yelling at your computer screen with a look that could freeze the air in my chest? (If you’ve done this… well… you’re a super hero of some kind.  If you’d like a soulmate, I’m game, assuming another one of your powers is flying to france with a laden lawn chair on your back)  So, I’m going to finish my degree, get a job in a coffee shop and rent a room in the mission district, or maybe sunset.

I think my biggest problem at the moment is that I’m stuck in Redwood city feeling bad for myself.  I tend to fall apart when I leave the city, but I need a firm will to get back there, so, no more complaining idly for our beloved hero.

Once I’ve got my academic record brushed up a bit maybe I could study in Paris.  And wouldn’t that be something?

As a general aside, I’ve been diligently learning guitar and I think I will probably be fronting a crappy indie-rock band within 8 months.  That would be, to put it academically, fucking tits, dude!

Anyway, life is good, amigo.  And that’s what it’s really about.

[Note:  Special thanks to a friend is due for her ongoing contributions to my well being, no matter how irritable they've made me. Gracias.]

The Magic of Self-Discovery

Well faithful readers, I’ve run out of things to blog about.  My life has become so monotonous that every day could be summed up with the same paragraph.  That paragraph, however, would be so boring I think attempting to write it would drive me to suicide.  Although it’d be a short trip I think all the same I’ll spare us the discomfort.

I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time daydreaming lately.  I think the details of a daydream, if its one that you find yourself wandering through frequently, are probably the best indication of your heart’s contents.  Think about it for a moment.  The place you daydream about is the place you really want to be.  The person you daydream about is the person you really want to be with.  The things you do in a daydream are the things you really want to do.

Perhaps, the whole issue of life can be solved by looking at the components of your daydreams and making them a reality.

If this is the case, my task in life is… difficult.  Somehow I need to get to the french alps, buy a moderately sized house, a ferrari california, and marry a french news reader.

One aspect of this daydream that I find ironic is that I don’t do anything in it.  It’s pretty much just what I’m doing now, listlessly,  except I’m in a ferrari in the alps with a french news reader…

…oh, okay.  Irony isn’t involved here.  Well.  Hmm.  I think, what that adds up to then is… I’m kinda shallow.

I mean, really.  I want a hot chick and a ferrari?  I swear it wasn’t long ago I thought I was unique.  Now we come to find I’m like every guy… ever?  That’s sort of depressing.

Yes.

… I don’t have a counterpoint for that one.

[FADE OUT]

Theme Songs to a Teenage Suicide

Here are a few memories recalled through songs that “take me back”.  I’ve decided to disregard chronological concerns because, well, that would turn into a memoir, and, I’m not going to write that much… and who would read it?  This is the condensed, best and brightest moments from my sordid little existence. Enjoy.

The Stars – “Your ex-lover remains dead”

I was walking from my apartment to meet a woman I’d known for a few weeks.  I was 19 (posing as 22; more on that later) and she was 28.  She called me sounding distraught and our conversation had been brief, but she asked me to come over.  I had consented without hesitation, despite the fact that it was nearly 2 in the morning and the last time we’d talked we had quarreled.  I was sort of in love with her, in the way you might “love” someone that you hardly know.  I think what that means is I wanted to have sex with her, with maybe some bells and whistles that we won’t attempt to comprehend here.

When I got there she answered the door looking half crazy and it didn’t take long to determine that she was coked out of her mind.  This was, after all, the only time we hung out and her purposes for me were limited. (As painful as that is to admit, even now)  We did lines and drank vodka mixed with berry-flavored fresca.  She asked for my I.D. when she poured me a drink and I responded casually that I hadn’t brought my wallet (this might have been true).  I’d been drinking at the bar she worked at for about a month and had managed to avoid being carded the entire time, but I betrayed my youth regularly and she had suspicions.  In the two years that we knew each other we never discussed it again.  We met again two years after our absolute “break” and had a few drinks/shots.  Ending up back at her boyfriend’s house (who happened to be out of town for a few days) we rehashed a lot of old dramas and when an accusation was thrown at me concerning some cruelty on my part, my response was simply, “I was very young then.”  We’ve never seen each other since and probably never will.

During the course of that night and morning we talked about every horrible thing imaginable.  She told me her rape story and even read me letters she had written from the period directly following it.  I at some point starting crying and asked her to stop and despite her own tears she carried on insistently.  We ran out of vodka and I somehow managed to buy beer from 7-11 with her credit card and I.D.

When we were both thoroughly blasted we ate a handful of prescription sleeping pills and an hour later she was holding me up while I took a piss, probably ODing and completely out of my wits.

I walked home around 5 pm the next day feeling like I’d been run over by a labor day parade.  I listened to the same song on my way home and it has reminded me painfully of that fateful night ever since.

Muse – “Muscle Museum”

I was in an abandoned parking lot near Mission Valley with all my worldly possessions in the trunk of my 1989 Toyota Celica. (which had a broken lock) It was winter in San Diego and I was getting ready to fall asleep.  I had run out of money after a week of staying in hotels and my dogs and I were about to start the most trying period of our lives.  I was 18 and not sure what to do.  I sat in the passenger seat wrapped in a blanket staring at traffic passing on the 101 freeway; a thousand miles from the last place I considered home.  A few days earlier all of my clothes and cd’s had been stolen from my car while I slept and I only had the one cd that happened to be in my cd player and the clothes I was wearing.

I had left the bay area because I had gotten a write-up for taking a long break at the grocery store I worked at.  In a moment of brilliant teenage bravado I declared I was leaving in two weeks and I did so.   I picked up my last pay check as I set out.

The few days I spent in that parking lot were long and uneventful.  I maxed out my credit card on a pack of cigarettes and ate crushed up top ramen out of the bag.  I met my future roommate outside a taco bell and the rest of the story doesn’t go with the song.

Dave Brubeck – “Blue Rondo A La Turk”

I was sitting in my apartment in Capital Hill writing a short autobiographical story for an english class I was taking at MSCD.  I’d recently discovered jazz and spent most of my free time writing blogs and doing homework while listening to the “greats”.  This was my first semester and I was doing pretty well.  I was just becoming a cocaine addict and hadn’t the slightest idea that I was about to spiral out of control; leading to an ultimate break down some two years later.

I was writing about my recent dabbling in the realm of hard drugs and I did so with all the naivety of a 20 year old kid who doesn’t know shit about shit.  My kitchen table faced a window in a quaint little dining room and I genuinely liked this apartment (the only time this has ever been the case).  The view from my position was an incredibly picture-esque scene of Denver city life in winter.  Across the street there were victorian era houses covered in pearly white snow, shrouded by mature landscaping typical of the area.  I took several pictures from that window and still have them.  Looking at them now I’m struck by an odd mixture of regret and amusement.  I was a hot mess, but I did a lot of growing up during that time.  I worked at a coffee shop that was just around the corner and I hardly managed to make it to work most days; either hung over, still drunk, still high, or a ragged mixture of the three.  The whole time seems to have been accompanied by jazz.  I might always associate jazz with those days; a mixture of agony, joy, excitement, and disappointment.  It may not have been glamorous, but damn if it wasn’t life at fever pitch!

Murder By Death – “Intergalactic Menopause” & RJD2 – “Ghostwriter”

I was sitting on a greyhound bus, watching the Chicago skyline cutting in and out of m view as I set out towards a life I had no interest in rebuilding.  What I remember most from that time is walking around aimlessly for hours, thinking about nothing, happy to be without thoughts.  Chicago will always be a strange memory for me.  It was as if I’d step out of my life for a week and I was bound by nothing.  Later I would regret this attitude, but at the time nothing was important and life was just a picture show without purpose.

I spent all the money I had the first day or two I was there and my situation was pretty ridiculous.  I don’t think I recognized this at the time and I took liberties with my host that are not uncommon to me, being a somewhat thoughtless person despite possessing very little real malice.  I may have been acting indifferently to avoid showing how much I cared about her, but it wasn’t a conscious effort.

For days I walked and “Ghostwriter” became my theme song.  I can’t hear the song without feeling a sick delight in the recollection of the city that stole my heart.  I was in love, with the city and my daydreams of a life in it that would never come to fruition.  And not least of all with the girl who took me there.  That would never come to fruition either.  That “relationship” (I use the word loosely, this time there was really no relationship to speak of, in any sense) would continue to redefine itself until it became a distant friendship punctuated by moments that would seem like more than that.  Happily, it has remained so, and if I gained anything from that time it was this lasting acquaintance, which has been regularly to my benefit regardless of what my battered heart might say (it would have nothing good to say of anyone, if it were asked).

Sitting on that bus, going back to a life that was genuinely in ruins, feeling the full weight of my plight, I cried silently and bitterly until I felt a dumb numbness that kept me company until little Denver swept out from the hills.  I called the friend I was staying with and he read me the riot act.  I walked back to Capital hill and started patching my life together.  That story is long and hasn’t yet reached it’s conclusion.  I still can’t listen to Intergalactic Menopause all the way through and I rarely try.  When i think about it I see Chicago from the highway and feel like crying my little eye’s out.  It’s a mean old world, but it makes me laugh all the same.

Defeat is defeat, however you doll it up.

Well, some dreams die hard.  Even ones you didn’t know you had.  Let me tell you a story before we get into it though.

Many years ago I was working at an Albertsons as a grocery bagger.  I was 17, living alone, in a new city, far from everyone I’d ever known.  I spent most of my time drinking with college kids I’d met through a co-worker and I would occasionally wake up in some girl’s dorm room.  I suppose, in comparison to other 17 year old guys, I wasn’t much worse, although perhaps this was the time that shaped who I would be for a long time there after.  But I’m giving you too much back story; it’s unnecessary.  I became friends with a girl who worked in the bakery at my grocery store.  She was 23 and, as I found out toward the end of our acquaintance, she had a 4 year old son.  She lived with her mother who probably did most of the child rearing although my friend frequently complained about her.  Don’t let me mislead you, though.  Generally she was a good natured girl who was not altogether brilliant, but possessed of a certain intelligence.  We had a relationship that could not be classified as dating, although I suppose we went on dates, in a manner of speaking.  Mostly we went on walks together and discussed various things that failed to hold my interest.  At the moment, I can recall very little of what we talked about.

There was however one exchange that I’ve remembered quite clearly ever since.  I was walking her to the train station; she had done her homework while waiting for me to get off work since her shift ended an hour before mine.  This was before our relationship had become physical and thus things were not yet complicated or uncomfortable.  We ended up sitting at the train station for several hours chatting, and a few trains went by while we conversed.  It was dark, no one was around, and we talked about all sorts of personal subjects with trust and earnestness.  I told her all about my fabulous childhood and exile to california.  She in turn told me about her abusive father and first love (I found out later, also the father of her son).  Most of this, I won’t lie, emerges in fragments from the shadows of memory.  The part I set out to tell you about, however, is still very clear.

We were talking about the mysterious road ahead.  To me, at this time and ever since then, that road was something I couldn’t point out, or describe, but rather a concept that I maintained.  Life is a progression.  We learn to walk and set out from point A.  Point B is there somewhere, and eventually we’ll forget how to walk and finally say, “Ah, point B… so this is it.”  Anything in between is just the road connecting those two points.  The mysterious road of life!  All the more mysterious when you’re 17 and discovering the world.

I remember that she was sitting on a bench with her knees together, her hands pressed flat between her thighs, looking remarkably innocent.  Well, we know better, but this was how she looked.  She had black hair and extremely green eyes.  I was standing up, lecturing in the manner I often assume, probably looking every bit the lost 17 year old boy I was while I did so.  She listened to my grand scheme of heading to San Diego and starting a new life of adventure which was much longer than the description I’m giving here and, feeling I’d said my piece, I asked her what her great plans for the future were.

She looked at me without reservation and told me that she was an actress and one day she would be famous.  To my credit, rarely can I give myself credit for anything, but here, to my credit, I didn’t laugh.  When I came to realize that she was serious, that she maintained this belief firmly, as one would hold a life preserver in a black ocean on a starless night, I remember a sick feeling of pity twisting around in my stomach as I tried to skirt the subject delicately. To hurt her with any cold truth in that moment was beyond even me, the darker descendant of Godless rogues that I am.  It seemed, in her one delusion, she had some warmth in what was otherwise a pretty grim reality.  To be special!  To be more than some sad, fitful 23 year old girl working in a grocery store bakery.  To have a bright future somewhere down that mysterious road headed toward point B.  At the time I may not have known that this was what kept her going.  Maybe it wasn’t.  Maybe if I had summoned all my cruelty and laid bare the absurdity of this fantasy she would have admitted it and told me she really wanted to be a nurse.

As I remember it though, it seemed otherwise.  I think this absurdity was an almost religious delusion and it kept her plodding along her dreary road.  To admit that would mean admitting her life was unimportant.  It would be to admit that there was really no point at all.

And so I find myself.  Her on the brink of my mid twenties, looking into the abyss.  I never imagined myself doing much, but somehow I assumed I would matter somehow.  I would do something that would make every horrid moment on the long and lonely road to point B necessary.

But, alas.  We get older.  We see ourselves a little better, with older eyes that laugh less and sink more.  We put ourselves to work.  ”Gainfully employed.”  The simple solace of the faceless masses.  We formulate theories on everything and at every turn we see our expendability.  A cog, nothing more.  Oh how we wished to be anything but a cog!  Even nothing, if a cog was all we could be.

So here I am about to sign a contract, selling myself to the state for four years, only to emerge on the doorstep of my thirties with little more to show for it all.  An ill-born child from Alabama could say the same at 21.  A veteran?  I despise this country.  Will I even make it?  Won’t I hang myself in a closet, without a note, purely to escape the end of this beloved delusion, that I meant more than that 23 year old girl working at a grocery store bakery?  I had talent!  Genius!  Or didn’t I?  My youth, rarely enjoyed, is slipping through my fingers and rather than a sense of urgency I feel only a melancholy remorse.

Defeat has never felt so bitter.  I wonder about that girl.  Now she would be… 30?  Maybe she’s a nurse.

The writing process:

For those of you unfamiliar with it, never fear, I’m here to break it down for you.

First, you’ll need a good topic.  After 6 months of not coming up with one, you’ll decide, however, that this simply isn’t gonna happen, and since you fancy yourself a writer, it’s about time to start writing something.

So one morning while you’re taking a piss you’ll be thinking about a dream you had and it will strike you that a single scene of this dream had a very cinematic quality to it, and, with a little time and effort, you could probably build a pretty solid narrative around this concept.  Feeling pretty jazzed, you go play ultimate frisbee and put it off til later.  Later, you don’t feel like doing much so you stream southpark and internet porn until you fall asleep at 3 am with nothing accomplished.

A whole lotta time and no effort later, you decide that you really do need more than a little effort, so you sit down to write with a pretty well established idea in your head from all the daydreaming you’ve been doing. (since you don’t have a job and you’re not doing anything time consuming, like writing)

After getting the first two pages down (over the course of several hours of struggling with this idea that seemed really great, but actually doesn’t have any clear narrative to it what so ever) you read what you’ve got and, with a sigh of frustration, you sooth yourself with the idea of a re-write. (despite the fact that you’ve never rewritten anything, ever, and most of the time you don’t go so far as a proof-read)

The next day you bang out a half-page and then spend the night streaming southpark and internet porn, but the important thing is that you’ve accomplished something today.

The following day you sit down to write, look at what you’ve got, decide the direction is all wrong and you scrap the project.  With a blank page in front of you, you close word and surf the net. (See: Southpark and internet porn)

The day after you start a new story, based on the first, but more in line with the ideas you came up with while failing miserably at your first attempt, which you thought passed for character development, but was so boring you fell asleep during your first attempt at a rewrite.  This time you move the plot and lay hints for the audience, write a page and a half and feel pretty amazing.  You reward yourself, thus, with southpark and internet porn.

The next day you write two pages and everything is going pretty solid.  You go to the gym, burn yourself out completely and don’t write the two additional pages you assigned to yourself, without fail, before going to sleep.  (After southpark and internet porn, naturally)

The next day you write a page and a half and things are starting to roll.  You’ve reached the pivotal moment in the first act where the shit hits the fan and you’re pretty amped, but you’re not really sure what to do with this next scene so you leave it for tomorrow.

The next day you put off writing all day, get in front of your computer, spend twenty minutes writing and rewriting the first sentence, then dejectedly, you decide to write a blog to get your creative juices flowing, but all you can think of is bitching about how you’re struggling with a narrative that is actually looking pretty good.

And that, my friend, is the writing process.  More to come.

(Oh, and, naturally, the treatment for the screenplay I’m writing will be posted in three parts, after the first re-write, and it’s coming along a lot better than I’ve made it out to, but, I’m struggling with a very important scene that sets off the second act.  We’ll see what goes down.)

On Fashion:

The bottom just fell out of summer and fall is pissed right the fuck off, it seems. If you’re here in Denver, I’m sure you’ve noticed, if not, suffice to say its a bit dreary, and pretty dern cold, to boot. I’m not complaining. In fact, I was just thinking that seattle really should be the american fashion epicenter. The weather is perfect for it. You can’t really look classy in REI, puffy down winterwear, after all. No, the ideal winter style needs 40’s-50’s to really allow some latitude.

Why is it winter makes you want to buy shit? I know it’s not just me. Although I suppose not everyone daydreams in the peculiarly materialistic manner that I’m often overtaken by. That isn’t to say I don’t daydream during the summer, but it doesn’t have the severe attention to detail that these winter-dreams contain. Imagery must’ve been born in the winter. All the best colors for the mind’s perception blossom a little clearer when the flowers of summer have failed fall’s preliminary gauntlet.

The blacks laced with inviting cream highlights, or blood red coursing about an earthy chocolate brown ensemble, here’s where color cozy’s up to the mind’s eye and says let’s share a cup of cocoa and talk of what we’ll be one day when we’ve grown up, all with shining eyes and mockingly conspiratorial laughter, that hints, if you kissed me full on the lips just maybe I’d be alright with that. It isn’t just colors either. No, the accessory never felt the limelight’s subtle warmth so fully as it does during the season of cold feet and runny noses. Scarves, gloves, sweaters and vests holding close the collared shirts and turtlenecks that seem less claustrophobic without summer’s grasp tightening about a flushed and sweaty throat.

People themselves gain inviting characteristics. Only in winter does a carefully groomed head of lush black hair wear a crown of wintery diamonds, melting into beads of liquid adamant over a blushing strawberries and cream complexion, radiating about a blood red blossom of rosy, ripe lips.

…and so this monologue runs out of gas. I’ll say this though, I feel more creative when I’m mildly lonely and a little bit listless. Winter is great for that, too.

Sic itur ad astra!

This is a footnote to a blog that has yet to take shape.  I’ll do my best to create some sort of identity for these writings, and, if possible, some sort of common vein for them to follow.  If I were to offer an idea of what this will be?

Well, this is the story of a boy who isn’t quite sure what kind of man he should be.

[Note: The title is a quote taken from Virgil, it means, "thus you shall go to the stars."]