Saturday, April 12, 2014

My thoughts zoom in and out

I ripped this off of a text I sent a dear friend, and have elaborated amongst what I wrote off the cuff.

I'm not sure where I'm heading with this, but I've been thinking a lot about how people assign worth to their existence, both in how we perceive it and in the choices we make as a result of that, and in our almost inability to stay in the moment.

And what I place value on, and why? Like why can I have a very productive day, but feel like I have done nothing "important". I don't think there's any wright or wrong in there, but I keep finding myself in one breath trying to categorize things, people, whatever, as "good," "bad," right/wrong, and in the next admitting that it's more complicated than that.

How much of all that is human, how much of that is society, and at what point are the two blurred since it is humanity that brought about society?

It keeps tracing back, I think, to the idea of what's considered valuable and what's considered worthwhile. Which can be such a microscopic and yet macro question all at the same time. Like zooming in on a person to find their body encompasses a city that holds people, and you zoom in on them... Like one of those freaked out gifs.

I feel the need to create something. I feel explosive and weirdly still but energetic. I've been dancing in my apartment, but frustrated that I'm dancing alone. I want to share this with someone but lack an idea concrete enough to proceed with. It's like grasping at water.

TL:DR? Existential Aaaanngst with a sad lack of velociraptors.

Monday, April 7, 2014


The egg cracked on the edge of the frying pan, two halves of shell with neat jagged edges lifted away confidently in the palm of her hand as the yolk and white sizzled onto the pan. "Over-easy," her head turned and she glanced over her shoulder at where I was sitting, "or scrambled?"

"Over," I muttered. My hands, far less confident than hers, held either side of the coffee mug, palms warmed by the ceramic. I held it as a ritualistic offering. Gods of Caffeine, cure this headache,  pardon my sins with this offering. Brought up to my lips, it burned the tip of my tongue. Still to hot to drink. Curses. Instead, I kept my eyes on the steam and tightened my grip along the curved edges. The mug grounded me to reality; the hangover threatened to take it away. Recently, it has been too easy to slip away from reality.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014


Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Ralph Waldo Emerson

The quote above, with the mantra to "let it all go" was today's the transform suggestion from a  few days ago.

What is in a writer's voice? Is it the writer truly as themselves, or as they want to be seen? Is it possible that it is both?

I doubt that Hemingway always sounded like Hemingway, or that Joyce's Joyce was always just so. Did their style of writing grow with them or did writing change who they were? Sometimes it feels like a humpty dumpty version of the chicken and the egg riddle, except in this case it's the riddle that is missing its pieces, unable to be put back together again. I'm not even sure what it is I am trying to put my finger on. Or - rather - I know what I want to ask, but the words are eluding me.

Writing is a talent that can be improved upon with practice and a critical eye, but like any art-form based talent there has to be a spark from somewhere. I've never been, or feel that I have never been, good at description. I am not good with storytelling. I am not eloquent with words.

I want to be better.