May 18, 2004

Some Like it Hot

I'm listening to Patti Smith's Horses, one of the 10 cds that I'd save if my house caught fire.

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It's really fucking hot outside and inside my house.

I started writing "You Were There," a story I've been meaning to write for at least 8 months. The first chapter is run-on sentence after run-on sentence, and the whole thing threatens to be this big, sprawling mess, but I don't care. I'm writing it and that's all I need to be doing. As a bonus, I might finish it (and edit it) before the end of the month, so I can submit it to something-or-other for publication.

The bad news is that my house is being overrun by a teenaged, high school basketball team. This means that I must find somewhere to go, immediately. Therefore, I must stop writing. But now that I've gotten started, I should be able to get through it all.

I hope, I hope.

Posted by Machine at 08:52 PM

May 15, 2004

The Gap

Working full-time is not for me. Or maybe it is, but not at the shop. There's a gap of at least one full generation between myself and everyone else working there. They turn everything I say into some snarky, teenaged verbal missile. Defenses are up every time I walk into the room. In fact, I'm suffocated by my politeness. If I were any nicer, I'd be fake.

In order to cope, I drive to Shane's apartment almost every day on my lunch break. Mostly, I just lay around, or bring his clothes in from the dryer in the hall, or waste 30 minutes trying to unstick his window. Sometimes he lets me nap in his bed. Sometimes he has food waiting for me-- mostly Tim Hortons, which I like. Sometimes we just smoke and talk. Regardless, it takes all my stress away. He harasses me about not writing, though. He hasn't read anything new in months. That's because I haven't written anything new, which is partly due to the fact that I haven't been reading much.

But soon. The very first full-length, complete story of Rae and Michael ought to be written by the end of the month. I hope so, anyway. I'd like to submit it to either Grain of Spring, and both deadlines are June 1. If I miss both, I don't really care. I'm happy with the story as it grows. It's My Own Private Idaho meets Lost Souls, The House of Yes, and some other shit.

Saw Waiting for Godot on TV, as part of Beckett of Film or whatever. It was awesome. I loved it. I never thought it could be filmed, but they did it perfectly. I didn't much like the art direction, but whatever.

Speaking of art and direction...

I used to think the local artists' community was this large, supportive, sincere thing. But I think, now, everyone is so ersatz. The generation I'm in, especially, isn't as honestly artistic or talented as I thought it was. It's vindictive, it's imagistic, and it's difficult to become involved without cheating one's way in. I don't want to play the connection game or the name game. I don't want to stagger through it with a lot of acquaintances and a talent like a broken leg. I used to be bitter that my mom wasn't a big flaky artist like she should have been, or that neither of my parents were involved in the artistic community for my sake when I was younger. You know, get a foot in for me.

But I really don't care. I want it all on my own terms, for the right reasons, and having done it all on my own. I may have to give in someday, but for now I'm still stupid and young enough to say that I don't want a fucking thing to do with an elitist community that has no reason or right to feel elite. My generation is a fucking vacuum, stuck between an age of sincerity and raw talent (and self-destruction), and a younger generation that is unapologetically hooked on image, instant gratification, and trends. The result is this fucked up, ersatz generation that is fascinated with eyebrow rings, Bikini Kill, hand-woven beanies, studded belts, tattoos, tanning beds, pot, nice cars with big speakers, emo, Jack White, and philosophy (i.e., feminist theory) but only to a limited degree. The really cool kids are the metrosexual males, the homely and sincere granola artists, and the stylized (i.e., unconvincing) neo-emo-punks.

I swear my friends and I knew where we were going until suicide turned us on our asses and all our CDs got stolen and lots of the things we liked became cool to other people. So we're angry at a time when anger is out of style, and we fight a lot when that's not cool, either. We hold on to bad habits, like smoking and whiskey, when pot and coke (in just-expensive-enough amounts, taken in just-public-enough situations that your friends and acquaintances will hear about how mature you are, you've moved on to designer drugs, and do you see how skinny Crystal has gotten?) are clearly the rage. Personal problems are so interesting [to the larger generational group], but only if they are dramatic and might conceivably make a really cool scene in a movie. Bisexuality is still quite the thing, too, as long as you're not serious about it. Also, everyone wants a career or a degree in something.

I should digress. But I can't. But one day I might. You can only hit a home run if you play ball, or some such shit, right? Too bad I don't know how to swing a bit, except in violence.

If I think about this too much, I'm going to fuck myself up. I'm going to forget what I really like, who I really care about, and whether what I do is intentionally subversive, honest, or insincere. So what does one do? Truck 'er on through? Play ball, so to speak? I'd get on the band wagon, but it moves a little too slow, and see, I'm really bad at directions and I won't get too far running on my own. It's a shame, too, cause I can run fast. And I like stepping in mud. And I can stop whenever I want a smoke, or I can go to sleep on the hood of someone's car, or snap some pictures of the things I see. No pace is necessary. I can bring people with me. I can use my own discretion when following other people. I can talk. I can listen to my own music, with the volume turned up above a whisper.

I can write, if I ever decide to.