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Last updated: 2/8/2002 |
Posted: 12/1/99 This journaling thing is hard. I'd wanted to keep this web site updated with articles, creative writing, anything that struck me on a given day. But, it's turning into an online journal, which is exactly what I didn't want. By sticking to a required structure (a topic, etc.), I'd hoped to force a little discipline. I must reluctantly admit I'm not ready for that yet. Grinding out a well-rounded essay takes more energy than I have to put into it; it's just too damn hard. Writers need to write as a habit, and I have a long way to go toward building that habit. I need to write so much it's like smoking and I can't stop. If I'm going to do so, it seems I have to keep the chunks small and approachable, so I don't wimp out. Anyway, today is a free-write. -shift- I'd taken several pages of notes on my trip to New York. Over the past several weeks, I've hammered them into a rambling essay. Tip-toeing around the theme, hinting at it in boring, narrative prose, the essay just doesn't do the trip justice. The theme? New York changed my life. That sounds too grandiose. Perhaps I should say it caused a subtle but radical change in my perception of myself and the world. What a Wyatt thing to say. The first day I felt exactly as I expected: overwhelmed, jet-lagged and intimidated. That wore off after about 24 hours. By the end of the trip, I got it - in the psycho-existential sense. I got New York, and it felt good. I grok (heh) that I could go anywhere and do anything. It's one thing to understand that - quite another to really feel it. Now, a few weeks later, the feeling has faded a bit, but still drives me. I'm a little tired, that makes it weaker. -shift- I spent a week back in the Midwest with my family over Thanksgiving; it was nice, but exhausting. I love spending time with them, but seem to go through an emotional cyclone whenever I hit that geographic region. I can say now without acrimony, but with some surprise, that I had a pretty unhappy childhood. I didn't notice it while it was happening, but driving through the cluster of small towns that helped create me, I feel a weird pressure; like nostalgia is trying to get through, but all that squeezes in is a bitter regret that smells like cigarettes. I look at pictures and feel the emptiness and angst of those years like the pull of gravity, threatening to tumble what I've built of my life. Wow. The poor kid. I look back at myself from my birth photo, brow already furrowed in frustration. I drove around in my rental car (everything there is spread out - my sister's place is 15 miles from town), telling myself to be glad that I've escaped that pit of sadness, low self-esteem and self pity. But I can't shake the feeling that I've cheated myself. Roughly 20 years of my life were spent unhappily. I can't decide if I should be sad, furious or inspired to embrace my current, happy life. I settle for wavering resignation. You can never go home again. I don't know who said that, but it's true. The places that made me are still there, but the character is dead. I can see it as ghosts, but they are hollow and empty. I don't want to go back anyway, but the scars it left itch like crazy sometimes. Like a real scar, scratching will only make it worse. Just leave it be and it might make a good conversation piece when you get drunk. Strange to look back at the hole you climbed out of, only to see you dug it yourself. -shift- The World Trade Organization is in town as I write this. Protesters have almost closed downtown. I'm no great fan of the WTO - but for different reasons than most of the protesters. Unfortunately, they just sound like a bunch of whiney, protectionist morons to me. Watching them get tear-gassed and hauled away bound in zip-ties, there are looks of proud martyrdom on their faces. Most of them are young and look painfully naive. Others have the crazed look of middle-aged, closet communists who's perceptions are so far removed from reality, they can't see the flaws in their dead ideology. Actually, there is no consistent ideology behind the protests. I suspect I probably agree with someone down there, but any voice of reason is drowned out by unions bitching about cheap foreign steel or the girl in the Nikes protesting distant (assumed) sweatshops. It's all about emotion and "sending a message." There is no Reason. Most of the protesters were peaceful. They seem shocked and amazed that the 40-60,000 of them (reports vary) included a number of vandals and looters; and insist that the peaceful rioters be dissociated from the violent. Well, you're the ones who threw the party, you morons. What did you think would happen? What did you expect the cops to do - tell you apart by smell? You're all wearing Guatemalan prints and Birkenstocks, the cops can't tell you apart! Sorry, tirade.... -shift- Recent reads: Don Quixote (Cervantes), Cryptonomicon by Neil Stephenson, and back and current issues of Reason Magazine. I wouldn't recommend Quixote unless you have to for school or something. Current music: Belle and Sebastion, Mule, The Flaming Lips; as usual, lots of Pond and Bob Mould (in his various incarnations). Recent films: End of Days (*), The Matrix on DVD (****), Life is Beautiful (***), Wild Wild West (*), Suicide Kings (* 1/2), Bringing Out the Dead (**). Okay, I have enough to make a post. As usual, I'm not sure if it's a good idea to put this sort of shit up on the web; but, what the hell? |