There is no real reason for putting this here, except that it's the more recent thing I've written, even in this most informal of methods, that has me reaching for opinions and thoughts on basic and abstract ideas. Just a couple of emails that went back and forth between myself and a friend who'd asked me about what I liked to write one day. . . . . .
Them: "how are you, everything going good? anything new? have you ever thought about writing a novel? a girl i grew up with was a writer. she was into auto biography's and non-fiction fiction type of writing. i didn't talk to her for a few years but she had a website and i would kinda stay up on what she was doing on there. over the couple of years we didn't talk her writing was getting darker and darker, it was good but it got real dark and i guess kind of abstract would be a way of describing it. so she called me up and wanted to write about me. i thought it was pretty cool lol. cuz i have kinda lived outside the box and been involved in things and experienced alot of things most people haven't. so for like 3 or 4 months we'd meet like once or twice a week and we'd talk, like starting from my earliest memory and all the way up to when i was 26 which is how old i was at the time. so like 2 months later she says she's almost done with it and wants me to be the first to read it. a week later she was dead, overdosed.
she had been dead 3 days before anyone knew, they found her with the needle still in her arm! "
Me: "That's kind of the way it goes sometimes. I won't lie to you, a lot of times the best writers I know do some of their best writing while their under the influence or something or another. Myself included. We all have a drug or choice and it's not always illegal. It's just whatever gives you the edge and high that gives you that excitement, that feeling of needing to get your thoughts down immediately. Not having to worry about dressing up the nouns or exaggerating the verbs and conjunctions. Most of that, I think, has to do with not getting the joy out of it that you once did. Hunter Thompson once wrote that writing was like fucking, which is only fun for amaeteurs. Old whores don't do a lot of giggling. We, those of us that even make an effort at doing it regularly, have a passion for writing, words and the printed media. If we didn't, we wouldn't do it, but every so often, no matter what the passion is for, a passion needs to be relit, or the subject warped. Otherwise it's just another blow job for twenty-five bucks.
The novel idea crosses my mind every once in a great while, and as quickly as it floats in it is as quickly dismissed. I don't have the attention span for a novel. Nor do I have the discipline or the talent. All of those same reasons are why I'd never win the World Series of Poker. It's why I will probably die young and why I live my life the way I do. My greatest fear in life is that I will die and no one will notice, care or remember my life. I don't want the fame or the glamour, at least not in the convential terms anyway. I want the stories, I want the infamy, but not until I'm dead. And then I only want it among the people who knew me best. Sure, it'd be awesome if someone somewhere wanted to write a book or direct a movie about me, but the idea of going down as a legend that can only turn into an urban myth is so much more facinating to me.
That sounds really self involved. And you know what, maybe it is. Maybe I am. But it's who I've become and I'm learning to embrace that. All of that. Whatever it is that makes a person a person should be embraced and carried around like your heart on your sleeve."
Them: "No, i understand exactly what your talking about! Sometimes I think "legacy" would be so amazing had i died when i got shot. Like, exactly what you said becoming an "urban legend." My name would have lived on forever, I was at the top of the game. and as bad as it sounds, the way i lived there was no better way to end it than in a hail of bullets! Instead i lived, and it took my name and rep to a place I could have never imagined. You see, I know how it feels to walk around have people hate me but fear me and i prefer that to everyone loving me. That might sound sick, but its a power and ego trip that becomes addicting! But instead of dying on that night and my name and story lasting forever you get older and just kinda fade outta the game and your just another gutter celebrity who got hot for awhile and then faded out. They never found what she was writing about me, but i guess she had been talking about it with one of her friends. I kinda wish they had found it just so I could read it. "Only the good die young, so i guess that makes me young and bad" "
Me: "While great for greeting cards and Billy Joel radio hits I think "Only the good die young" is more of a warning than a rule of life. Sounds like you have flirted with death and just plain beaten it. I've had my own version, most people at some point of another get their own version of cheating death, though it's not usually walking through a hail of gunfire, (that's awesome, by the way) but it's looking death in the face and giving it the finger.
Only the good die young is a sentiment meant to get a person to break out of a shell of 'good' and do some actual living. And I don't think the young part of the saying really has anything to do with age at all. I think it's a measurment of the living you did. If you didn't do anything, stayed good, then how can you be anything but young in the grand spectrum of living experience. If you're looking for forever go out and do something about it. Cheat death. Laugh at danger. Have that one night stand. It's all relative anyway.
I do truly hope that someday that manuscript is found. It's always amazing to read about yourself from somebody's else perspective. Even if it was a biographical type retelling, it was still being told through her eyes and what she considered important. And that is what is so amazing about the writing process. Three people can all see the same series of events, ask them to write about them and you'd get three completely different stories.
Creativitiy is all too often misunderstood as the ability to make things up. I think more often than not it's the ability to see things. See them, remember them and bring them back to life. In whatever form you decide it needs. Writing, sculpting, painting, music.... In any case, in every case, you need to become an expert at seeing. Become obsessed with it. Creativity, in my opinion, can be taught, but the magic of it comes naturally."
Been wondering if I died?
Well, I haven't. Not yet.
Many a late night though lately.
Not the greatest of sleep patterns.
Some weird writing.
I don't even know what to make of it.
You all seem to be up to exciting new adventures though.
You know who you are.
Cool new jobs.
Cool new kicks.
GOING TO GET IT DONE TONIGHT!!! WOO!!!
Leavingin about twenty minutes actually, I'm pretty excited. I'll get pictures up ASAP.
Ame = Happy.
Okay, so the weekend didn't go exactly as was planned... but it was still pretty good.
We ended up not getting tattoos this weekend because my sister wants to get one too but has another week of water polo, and since you can't submerge a new tat in water, it means we have to wait until she's done with polo. No big deal really. Just means another week or two.
So, I went to the gym again today. I'm making it a habit to go at least 3 times a week, and it's working. Some weeks I go five times, but at the very least I go three times. It's actually working better than getting on the treadmill here everyday. Mostly because I will always be here on the computer or watching TV or whatever and think, okay five more minutes than I'll go get on it. And then not get up for like... another hour and by then I've just lost motivation. If I actually have to get up and change and go then I actually go. Does that even make sense?
Anyway, I know I said I wasn't going to do the weigh in thing, and I'm really not, but I did get on the scare at the end of last week, just to kind of see what's going on in that department, and... I lost 12 pounds in January. It's not huge, and it could be more if I actually kept with my no drinking thing, but I'm weak, but it is pretty good. If I can keep it consistent like that it'll be easy.
Anyway, just a quick update. See you all in the sequel.
Tattoos this weekend! Woo! I'm pretty dang excited. And it will make only the beginning of a hugely fun packed weekend.
Extra shift at work! (This does not sound like a woo! moment, but it is.)
Paying rent (not fun, but important to remember)
Dinner with family and friends for birthdays! (Mine was Tuesday, Grandma's Wednesday, Dad's Friday, Mom's next Friday and TJ's next Sunday)
Hug A Jew Party! (For those of you that may be offended: It's not at all religiously based or in any way antisemitic. It's HUG a Jew day for cryin' out loud. It'll all in good fun. :] )
Work (only a regularly scheduled shit, so no woo!)
New Bra!! (This is for extra woo!s Going to get fitted for one so that it will actually fit PROPERLY. I can't even explain how excited I am for that.)
Dinner with friends (again. Dang, we go out a lot.)
Isn't that how a lot of things go? The story's not as good if you didn't hear it first hand, the inside jokes just sound like code exchanged between your best friends. But you can't be everywhere all the time, and so sometimes you have to stand on the outside of the moment. Coming back to reality from a instant that lasted thriteen months, one week and two days, leaves you standing outside a lot moments. Yes, a lot of things are different now.
The most amazing thing for me was not feeling, or realizing, the lapse in time. For whole minutes. Long minutes. I woke up alone, in a hospital room I'd never seen, to the sound a telephone ringing at the nurse's station down the hall. Woke up to the sound of the phone. I've done it every day for years. Woken up at the smallest sound. The vibrating of my cell phone from a text message. The dog barking at the sliding glass door when she sees a bird in her yard. My sister opening my bedroom door to borrow a pair of shoes while she got ready for school. All of these things, and so many others, have brought me out of whatever level of sleep I'd ever been able to accomplish. Somehow, though, this ringing was something entirely different. This ringing demanded attention. The tones were harsh and sharp, reaching out to anyone and everyone that happened to be in the near vicinity. And they went on for what felt like forever. Ring after ring after mother fucking ring. And it begs the question: Why is it that in a wing of a hospital where one out of the every four people admitted to it will die, that a paitient coming out of a coma is the only one to hear the god damn thing?
My disorientation and confusion and reentry into the present was interrupted and smashed to fucking oblivion by the ringing of this god damn phone. How is that for a rude awakening? It was in that moment, that the idea crossed my more than well rested mind, that maybe none of it had been real. After all, how could it have been when I'm laying in my bed and listening to the fucking phone ring down the hall? Bad dreams happen, man. And in my distraction from the phone that is what I had convinced myself had happened. I'd fallen asleep with the TV on and a nightmare happened. That's all. But distractions only last so long, and you have to come back to the task at hand. Just then my task at hand was consciousness. And consciousness was now fully setting in. This was not my room. The white walls and bad flourescent lighting. The too small bed and the overwhelming smell of intense clean. The setting in weight of situation realized was one I was not at all prepared for. One second ago I was laying on the ground bleeding and now...
"Somebody answer the fucking phone!" The sound of my own voice was one I didn't recognize, but the attitude was one that despite a year and change hadn't changed at all. That's got to be a good sign, right?
A year ago I was shot.
Yesterday I woke up.
A lot of things are different now...
To describe how one gets to a particular time or place in the world is a task not easily done. Too many things need to be explained, in this case especially, in order to fully appreciate how the story starts and goes. It all leads up to something else and in order for me to tell you about the important parts you need to know the less important parts. You needed to be there.