Day 4

I want to go to a movie theater where they make you pop your own popcorn.  They give you this paper tub with an apparatus on the bottom.  Maybe it shoots hot streams of butter up out of it, too.  Watched Howl's Moving Castle yesterday.  Great!  Found this program called spreeder.com that allows you to speed read things at a million times as fast as you probably should be trying to read them.  I have a feeling at one point speed reading seemed like a good idea to a lot of people.  Fuck it, that's the kind of thing I'm into so I'm going to ride it out.  If you crank that puppy up to 2000 wpm you can read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in 20 minutes.

Getting onto the train of thought someone established years ago is about as good as getting your own stream of consciousness going.  The trenches and grooves are already there, all you have to do is fall out of the cart and get swept along in them like an avalanche.  The secret is the opposite of zen, you get your brain cooking at 20 thousand miles per hour and try to have your hands keep up with it.  This is my personal motivational speech before beginning writing, it should be in parentheses.

Day 2 of the story from yesterday.  It's not that I'm feeling unoriginal, but this George guy should go into town and buy some spelunking equipment.  There's nothing more interesting than buying gear.

            Story about the hole continued

            That night George had a long vivid dream that he could not recall in great detail in the morning.  He was performing in a sort of balancing act, the rest of the performers were women dressed in Hula gear.  He was jumping onto a series of wooden pegs, avoiding being pummeled by a barrage of fruits and legumes being hurled by the towns folk.  The inhabitants of this island village looked cross and angry simultaneously, clapping at individual rhythms and shouting foreign words at the sun.  Dream George tried his best not to make eye contact with the crowd, as is the nature of dreams if he had been able to do so it might have shattered the whole series of thoughts, but even so he thought it of the utmost importance to keep his eyes focused on his feet.  The pegs George jumped from varied in height, and as he jumped from one to the next he was never able to establish a real rhythm or confidence.  In the distance, he saw a little cabin with a light on which he recognized without a doubt as being his own, yet he felt no desire to return there.

            Sitting upright in bed and rubbing his forehead with his thumb and index finger, George started to wonder about the hole.  He reached for the chain on the lamp next to the bed, and the mattress moved with him as he turned.  Winslow was asleep next to the door of the trailer, ears and arms in a heap.  Looking out the window, George saw only pitch dark other than a crescent moon jumping out of the darkness like the tab in a popup book.

            Flipping on the light, George thought of going through his belongings which were still tied together in a neat square and covering the majority of the trailers floor.  The thought of uncovering his cellphone and checking the messages alarmed him, however as it was an inevitability he hoped there’d be no reception in this hinterland retreat.

In the closet George found a series of old magazines and a few hat boxes full of old receipts.  There must have been more here at one point.  More people, more than just Uncle Smokestacks.  Sitting down on the bed, George started pawing through some National Geographics.

The morning sun pierced through the window as if it were a magnifying glass.  Tossing the magazines off his stomach, George rose and struggled in vain to exercise a crick from his neck.  Refilling the dog dish with fresh circular meat chunks, George grabbed the water dish and a jug for himself and headed down to a forested spring.  The spring was on the opposite side of the lake, beyond the interstate over a few brooks. 

Before he could set off, he caught sight of of Uncle Smokestacks in the distance, waving his hands overhead. 

“I’m riding into town, few things I need to pick up!”  Smokestacks called out.  “Want to hitch a ride?”  George thought better of tredging a sabbatical the few miles to the spring, opting instead to buy bottled water in town.  “Great!”  George called out.  “One minute!”

Quickly running inside to change into the same thing he wore yesterday, George dumped what was left of a thermos of day old water into the dogs dish, thought about chaining the dog to the house, but then realizing he had no collar decided instead to take the guy with him.  It’s like taking care of a baby with the reverse Midas Touch, he thought to himself.

George had to sit in the back of the trailer, the passenger side of Smokestacks Pickup had no seat in it.  They tried to keep a conversation going shouting over the sounds of the road, but Smokestack had this bad habit of trying to make eye contact when he was in a conversation, and George thought it would be better to mind his own business and enjoy the passing scenery. 

Outside of some tall grass, a water tower, telephone wires, and an occasional barn there wasn’t much to see.  George hadn’t been able to explore around town much; arriving at the bus station he had too much stuff to carry with him to do much on foot.  Still, from what he did see there wasn’t much to get excited about.  A decent sized general store, 1950s era gas station, a diner, some trailers hitched to the back of such places, that was about all there was to see.  A few indiscriminate abandoned buildings sat boarded up and useless around the periphery, this was a veritable ghost town.

The truck jumped when Smokestacks pulled up the emergency break, and recoiled again when he slid out of the cabin.  Dust and bits of straw flew up into George’s face, and in the process something got into his right eye.  Squinting, he grabbed the dog and released the hatch of the truck, jumping out onto a sandy dune.  Smokestacks gesticulated to follow him, and began a lazy saunter towards the general store. 

“Truck can only hold so much,”  Smokestacks warned.  “Wouldn’t say anything, but the last guest I had didn’t understand that.”

Grabbing a cart, George was impressed by the amount of American flags in the store.  The place was wall to wall decorated with flags.  Collecting some bottles of water, a rope, a wrench, some knee high waterproof boots, some of those stretchy gloves, a few cans of baked beans, and beef jerky.  The cashier chuckled at him at the register, making a wisecrack about digging for buried gold.  “The kids new in town”, Smokestack said, eyeballing the many varieties of chewing tobacco behind the register.

On the trip back, George thought about what was left of his life.  It was just him, his dog, this old farmhand, and a giant hole.  When life gives you that giant hole, it’s better than nothing.  He kept his mind off of what his family and friends were doing back in the city.  It was usually enough to think about his fiancee to keep his mind from wanting to wander.

You kind of picture what the next thing that is going to happen is like in a movie, but try not to move to it too quickly.  It's about not getting too excited, I think.  This all has to become something you naturally do, alright; the quality I'm looking for here is confidence.  See ya tomorrow.

Day 3

No time to write to you!  Did stay true to my word on Day 3 though.  Unfortunately, it was raining too hard to run outside today (my excuse).  It's important to test your mental and physical limits every day, not just one or the other.  So, my writing might not be up to snuff.  But I did do 1000+ words.  That's what counts.

            It lived in that hole.  Nothing else lived in there.  At a time it seemed like nothing could live in there at all.  The reeds jutted up from impossible angles.

            “Ain’t nothing in that pit but eels,”  Uncle Smokestacks adjusted his straw hat and stood directly above the pit.  “If you lost a dog down there, that thing is as good as gone.”

            George took this with a grain of salt.  Smokestack was a great man, but he was readily dismissive.  George looked down at his hand, still holding the leash, the collar ripped like a loose noose.  Bending down to look past the rocks, he saw if he only went undereath the bridge and climbed down by the banks of the river he might get a better look. 

            “Thanks for the help, pops,”  He said.  He knew he was going to have to get his hands dirty this morning.  And I just bought these pants, he thought. 

            It happened like this.  George hastily made the decision to not get married, and instead moved into a lone camper on his southern relatives land.  His family was surely going to side with his fiancee about the matter, she was the bread winner and pants wearer in the relationship.  George didn’t care for his parents much either way, and it wasn’t until he tried living alone that he realized he could do it.  Ol Uncle Smokestack would help him out with dinner every night, and he had plenty of time to 

            The noon sun rose over head.  Really a beautiful peace of land, George thought to himself taking a deep breath of salty lake air in.  Kind of a malformed, asymmetrical lake his lot had come into, but the weather was agreeable enough and they were miles from the nearest city.

Uncle Smokestack had returned to his tractor work, but was using the wooden pole end of a broom to unlodge something from the motor of it.  George could hear him cursing at himself under his breath, in a squat position not able to fully commit to going down on one knee.  He jarred whatever it was clogging the thing loose, and George sighed with relief when it wasn’t his four legged friend.

The bank descended sharply, and George tried to keep up.  Half running and half trying not to fall on sticks and rocks, he came to realize if he DID fall there was no way to catch himself.  He’d splatter on the hard earth like scrambled eggs.  Once his life was done flashing before his eyes, he found himself upright at the bottom.  Like the moment Road Runner would stop for a second to say “beep beep”.  Regaining his composure, he heard a soft gutteral bark emanating from the rocks. 

Winslow, his only friend, was wedged between two sharp rocks.  It looked like he was stuck in a chimney.  Paying little attention to where he was going, George stubbed his big toe on a pointy rock.  While he was pretty sure his sock would be soaked with blood, he was worried Winslow would have trouble breathing in his tight fix.

George grabbed the little cocker spaniel by his front paws and proceeded to pull.  This dog is going to give out far before the rocks do, George thought to himself.  He thought of going up to the barn and retrieving some tools to assist himself, but the ascent looked even more perilous.  These rocks were firmly in place, this dog isn’t going anywhere.

He called out to Uncle Smokestacks in vain.  He pictured his Uncle riding through the fields, already completely oblivious to the dog situation.  The old man obviously wouldn’t be any help.

George weighed the options in his mind.  Pulling too hard could result in the dog losing some of its skin.  He pictured Winslow’s skeleton escaping its shell, and himself sitting here at the bottom holding its carcass like a broken pinata.  Even if he were to get a chisel ot hammer, taking any wack at these rocks would inevitably cause the formation to collapse in on itself.  Hearing Winslow weasing again, he decided to throw caution to the wind.

He gave a hard tug again and the dog came loose.  It slipped out like falling out of a trapdoor.  It shook itself off, tested out each paw for breaks like Tom Arnold in True Lies when he thinks he got shot, and was ready to go. 

“We got no leash, buddy,”  George looked directly into Winslow’s eyes.  “You had better avoid any pits this time around.” 

The dog stared up at George, obviously not contemplating a word.  Relief, as usual, leaves us prone to accidents.  Sauntering along with its butt up in the air, the dog immediately found a new hole to fall into.  As the dog fell through, the hole steadily expanded, like ice on a lake when the temperature rises.  The hole steadily made its way over to the lake, gobbling up water into an undeground cavern. 

Grabbing onto a nearby root extending from the quarry, George managed to grab the dog by its mid section and book it up the hill like a All Pro running back.  The lake disappearing like Christopher Columbus’s edge of the world nightmare.  There’s a difference between edge of the world and end of the world.  Finding a spot under a tree, George sat sprawled out with the dog next to him.  A loud sucking noise enveloped the area.

Later that night, it was showing no signs of letting up.  All of the water had been sucked up, and the mud from the lake floor was unsettled and crumbling into itself.  George had relocated with Ol Uncle Smokestack to the top of a nearby hill.  Smokestack stood with his hands on his hips, with an expression like a dog that had just seen a cat for the first time. 

“I knew there was something was not right with that lake,”  Said Smokestack.  “Me, living up here by my lonesome, I just the same kept away from it.  It’s bad news, that lake.”

The rocks stood unaffected above the cavern like an avante garde art project.  Somewhere there were humans dying to take credit for it.  The whole thing looked like a sculpture, propped upright like a third arm coming out of a stomach.  The cavern, like a lower stomach armpit, was shrouded in a dark mist on the inside.

 

Real day 2

Work as a means to an end.  The final goal is to make enough money to support yourself. 

It's better when everything is a trade.  Well, everything is a trade.  It's better when you realize everything is a trade.  Just as there are good locksmiths, fighter pilots, doormen, banana farmers, there are good goof-offs.  The show must go on because the show must go on.  We don't have to have anything planned out.  You just act as-if it's going the way it's supposed to and phone that sucker in.  Work is rewarding for being work.  You feel good without realizing what for.  So when you turn being a lazy goof off into work, however inane and irreverent the skills you hone by doing so are to anyone but yourself, you can assuredly see improvement.


9/28 exercise

“..And when he came back out, his hands had been turned into STAPLERS!”  The assistant from accounting shouted, turning the flashlight on and off.

“That only works with light switches!  You just look like a strobe light moron.”  Shelly lambasted his weak ego.  “Now gimme that!”

“If you really want to hear a creepy story,”  She spoke in a low gutteral tone, in a bad impersonation of the witch from Legend.  “You are going to have to follow me.”

Once a year, the office had a sleepover lock-in.  It was mandatory, failure to make it would identify any unfortunate employee as a scaredy cat, and not a team player.   Each year was a different event, with Shelly delighting in the frightening of her fellow employees.  They would tell shitty ghost stories around a fax machine, (to which many preplanned faxes would be sent at a designated time when no one was in the main lobby), eat graham crackers and drink coffee (both of which were free regardless), and prevent others from sleeping by leaving them in a room alone when they passed out, followed by making spooky ghost noises over the intercom.  This was all great for office moral.

Tim started sharply in his makeshift office chair and desk type bed when he heard the sounds of whistling over the loudspeakers.  Silhouttes from behind his office door scampered.  “Very funny, guys.”  Tim thought outloud to himself.  “I am going right fucking back to sleep.  It’s not like I haven’t slept in my office before.”

Shelly led her gang down the tornado emergency tunnel, making sure to walk at a slow enough pace that would enhance the creepiness of the situation.  A few interns were playing games on their cellphones, a particularly exciting game in which the objective is to jump over fire or sometimes sharks.  On occasion the sharks would look like fire, or the fire would turn into snakes.  It was the job of the second player to control the sharks or fire.  Overall, anything to keep your mind off these creepy halls.

Shelly knew well to keep her fear hidden.  She considered herself an honorary bogeyman, more of a member of the nights team than her day team.  One of the phantoms.  The little more experience she had than the rest of her staff did allow her a slight advantage.  However, that creepy shadow hand waving like a dead tree branch in the wind did reach directly into her mind and toy with her senses.  The voice in the darkness calling “Accounting floor, accounting floor!”, which she was positive only she could hear, egged her on when it should have been discouraging.  Shelly smiled through her gritted teeth, and as she looked back on the line and saw the solidarity in indifference amongst her line, she knew they had to continue deeper into the heart of the matter.

Stirring once more, Tim thought it would be a good time to make a quick vending machine run.  Careful to check the door to his office for boobey traps or a well hidden commission based telephone salesmen, Tim stepped out into the hallway.  Beats being at home with the kids. 

The vending machine had a vast assortment of goods.  Any of these tasty treats would survive a nuclear holocaust, so their ability to fortify the human immune system should not be questioned.  There were the cream based Fizz-Pies, the explosive nugget centers of the French Fried Freedom Donuts, the especially savorable (Mesquite Barbeque) Wedge Skins, and the reflection in the vending machine window of the office door at the end of the hall slamming violently open and shut.  A brisk wind whistled down the hallway, encouraging Tim to pick something and make haste back to his own office.

Shelly saw the (literal) light at the end of the tunnel.  It felt similar to being in a prison escape movie; the escape takes you from an enclosed controlled space where paranoia is instilled in each innocent noise to an agoraphobic outdoor world in which nothing is familiar and treachery could be hiding behind any corner.  As she turned the doorknob, moments from last years employee lock-in flashed through her mind.  Although only one man had disappeared, and the survivors had been satisfied by the  subsequent pay-raises and liability waivers, the fact remained that one man had disappeared.  Word around the office was that it was an elaborate stunt, the alleged disappearer was stepping down the next week anyway, and their was a bonus in it for him if he played along.  Furthermore, it wasn’t a guy anyone particularly liked, and he was relatively quiet most of the time.  It wasn’t worth it to cover it up.

Shelly’s biggest worry was that Alan, the disappearer, was still in these back rooms.  Reaching for the doorknob, she knew what was behind.  A division which went on indefinitely, winding corridors leading to more winding corridors.  There were too many dead ends to discern whether or not there really was an end, a sprawling genesis of workspace.  Pushing the door open released the golden light from within, flooding the hallway with dancing golden graham dust particles.  On the inside, it was just as she remembered it; rows upon rows of empty desks.  The outlines of word processors, staplers, and desk lamps hung like ghosts on the vacated desks, the line of which extended in a single column like tombstones in a mist. 

“Uh, Shelly,”  A voice from the line of employees asked.  “This would be a lot creepier with the lights off.” 

“If this isn’t creepy, do you dare follow me into it’s depths?!”  Shelly gave a weak Vincent Price impersonation.  Shrouding herself in an imaginary cape, they proceeded through the tightening catacombs.  “You’re right about the lights though,”  Shelly admitted under her breath.

           Shitty ghost story, yeah!  I kind of hate when you get too many characters involved.  Character management is what you should be working on, brain.  Note to subconscious:  figure out what to do with characters.  They're supposed to lead me to the end of the story, or whatever.  I also noticed the biggest problem of writing from your dreams, which is there usually isn't any ending to those stories.  A lot of ghost stories use that cop out ending where everyone is frozen forever in some ghastly stasis, but I definitely don't want to do that.  Now the big question is whether or not I want to do a new story every day (which I'm leaning towards) or do a weekly thing where I do each one of these stories more on a weekly basis.  The point is 1,000 words so that makes no difference.  Then, next thing you know, 2,000 words!  Building endurance.  I had better stay motivated.  

       REAL DAY TWO IS OVER.

Instead of writing about writing in my writing blog, while separately writing every day, I'm going to combine the two.  This from now on will just be my writing blog, which is fine considering no one reads it anyway.  Instead of framing my own life with negative comments and the translucently palpable disillusionment of a 90s kid, I'm going to allow itself to weave into my admittedly shitty prose exercises.  Maybe I'll do some parentheses stuff on occasions.  Two thousand words for the next five years.  Then, this shouldn't be mechanical anymore.  No more using paltry qualifiers like "so", "many", "very", or "anymore" after this point!  Writing, like any other job, is like figuring out the rules and learning what you can get away with.  I guess.  It's pretty obvious the best writers are good at it from practicing and enjoying themselves from an early age.  Ever notice how obvious it is whether or not someone had fun when they were doing something?  Which is why B-movies are more fun than A-movies.  To an extent.  Don't know if that would hold up in a court of people who are nerdier than me.  But, I communicate better than you nerds.  You're just spiteful and cliquey in that weird last frontier internet sort of way.

*puts self out there*

Oh another disclaimer.  I don't care whether or not anything happens in these stories.  There's nothing like a good shaggy dog story to accurately reflect the way that nothing happens in real life.


            Inner City Travelin'

            It’s as simple as this.  If you have to ride the bus, stay on the routes that pass through neighborhoods you wouldn’t be afraid to walk in.  The bus is like an inner doldrums of the side streets, it’s home to those people who have simplified their lives to the point that they think movement is productive.  Simply being in constant motion makes their lives worthwhile, and what’s even worse they feel at home in these things.

            Jimmy’s car has been out for a couple of weeks.  A coolant leak resulted in an embarassing engine fire in a fast food parking lot, a situation which would have been easily rectified by cellphone possession.  The little dog in the back of the car ahead of us in the drive through window yapped incessantly at the smoke rising from the hood and disintegreating into the sky. 

            The buses doors mechanically fix themselves shut.  Arthur, an overweight out of work alcoholic subsisting on a subsidy from the city, shakes his pockets in an attempt to locate change.  The front right pocket of his smelly homeless guy coat produces enough shillings to appease the bus driver.  Although they see each other every day, they do not make eye contact.  Gary, the driver, knows better than to make the acquantance of any of his riders. 

            They are all potentially crazy.  You never know what’s in that wheely backpack thing the guy with the patchy beard and librarian style bifocles is carrying.  The only thing clear is that it smells like urine.  People who live in their own urine are one step closer to being animals than us well adjusted folks.  Part of believing you are more civilized than other creatures is being as clean as possible.  Cleanliness is godliness, and although most of us heathens assume as tacit distance has been established between themselves and their unfortunate brainwashed brothers, we never become as godless as we’d hope. 

            As Arthur saunters by, the bus tires reinflate and a general shakiness takes over.  The tires might as well be square, turning over with loud street destroying thumps ever few inches of progress reached. 

            People you have never seen in your life, who may as well be from a different planet, wave frantically and attempt to call you over when you’re on the streets.  Those unfortunate wayward souls, so easily dejected, run waving their arms and explaining their latest night of debauchery and chemical abuse.  This is not so different from the self-depreciating masochistic behaviour Jimmy has been partaking in whenever there is a free moment, but he prefers staying busy to being bored.

            Keep the blinders on.  Avoid any unnecessarily long interactions.  Two of the least aware and self conscious people babble excitedly over a grocery flier.  Their faces, so obscured with age and grime, make them part of a society which no longer needs familial or kindred bonds.  They look the same, they live on the bus.  Now they will go hassle the attendant at the grocery store.  He is never going to get that Yoohoo put away. 

            Each set of headphones occupying the riders on this bus serves as an informal incubation system.  As long as the music keeps playing, everything is going alright.  The catchy chorus on that familiar tune is a dredging machine.  It clears out each starchy layer of low self esteem, a pristine filament avoiding corrosion while also careful not to become contaminated itself.  Nothing more than elevator music on this endless crusade.  When the music stops, these people become active again.  We hope that the music doesn’t stop.

            Pulling the chord for his stop, Jimmy decides it best to turn his baseball cap around into the forward position.  The long-reaching arm of consumer based spectator sports provides protection for those who recognize each other as fans.  The local sports team is having a great year.   Sure enough, a gang of vagrants across the street wore antiquated jerseys of players from long ago.  There was that relief pitcher who got signed to the giant contract after having one decent year.  A relief pitcher on a small market team of perennial losers is almost guaranteed to be traded at the allstar break.  But when he’s gone, there’s thousands of jerseys flooding the market.

            Life isn’t fair when you let other people make the rules.  I’m on foot today, Jimmy thinks to himself.  The treeless blocks and decadent buildings support the frivolous, manic depressive lifestyle of the creatures living on these streets.  Why not get some malt liquor. 

            With his jug of King Cobra, Jimmy used his newfound confidence to set his sights on getting his old job back.  There were worse things than working for the telephone company, Jimmy thought.  With people comes pressure.  I should be satisfied with whatever work I’m doing, as long as it covers the bills.  We should all stive to be mindless enough to become content with our unrealized dreams.  Our dreams become hobbies, work becomes the be all end all.

            Marching into the office, old memories wafted through his glands and into his senses.  The sound of fax machines whirring and bleeping, coffee machines perpetually gurgling.  The newsroom.  Yellowed clippings paperclipped haphazardly to every inch of bulletin board.  The secretary, Sally, recognized Jimmy immediately.

            “Back already, hun?  Your big job search didn’t pan out, huh?”  She laughed to herself. 

            “My car broke down.  I can’t find another.  This is the only thing I know how to do.”

            “Well, you’re too late.  Jerry already replaced you.”  Jimmy knew they had given the job to Harold, his arch nemesis.  Harold was envious of Jimmy’s position, just as anyone who is lower on the totem pole always is.

            Jimmy insisted on waiting for Jerry, although he anticipated being lowballed, and at best ending up in the mailroom at a lower wage.  Mailroom isn’t so bad though, he thought.  I get my tunes.  It’s pretty well ventilated, never warm enough to break a sweat. 

            Working in the mailroom felt like living undeground.  Jimmy had to slap himself around when he noticed he was becoming fascinated with the different designs on stamps, the different fontheadings on return addresses, the unique smell each persons home which transfixed itself onto their envelopes. 

            Most days, he’d simply have to sort and classify the mail.  Distribution was Ernie’s job.  An eighty year old man with a healthy walk, Ernie treated each mission delivering mail around the building as an exciting jaunt into the unknown.  Being the bearer of mostly innocuous news, Ernie was able to truthfully represent himself: a man completely contented with lifes doings.

            Shitty, right?  I think I may have one or two good lines in there.  Quantity over quality.  Now, for a first real day of writing for writings sake (Work Relaxation Don't Think), it could be shittier.  And I should anticipate an improvement.  Gotta stop feeling mechanical and the only way to do that is practice.

           

Brewers win the pennant!

                Off the record, glad we signed Braun to that giant contract and aren't willing to overpay Prince as much as he wants.  The tape measure, jaw-dropping, excessive distance homeruns are great, but it's just one run.  Like a layup compared to a dunk.  I'll miss the big fat lug, but I want someone who shows a little more commitment.  My Milwaukee sports teams are like  the beautiful girls I'd marry on the spot.  You need to be as good to them as they should be to you.  No flings.
               Dreams are pretty good inspiration.  I had one yesterday where I was in an abandoned castle with this columbine type of guy, a misunderstood kid who thought he had no option but to use his shotgun on all of his house guests.  We were friends, for some reason, he must have recognized something of himself in me.  Or, I wasn't going to spread the news he had killed all of his party guests.  Or, maybe I was a loyal companion.   The logic of dreams.  After all o these deaths, he dropped the gun but I foolishly reminded him to pick it up "Sir, your gun".   We piloted his plane, the run way was an extended dirt trail between mountains and trees.  It probably would have been a nightmare f I wasn't looking for inspiration.  This has to be an active pursuit.
              The Ray Bradbury book showed up.  His first point was that a writer has to write every day.  We're responsible for creating art to sacrifice in honor of our animation.  "Life is a priveledge."  He puts it more elegantly.  "You must stay drunk on writing so the world cannot destroy you."
             Just having a good day in general seems like enough reason for people to be drawn in to you.  They don't seem to notice that anything has changed.  It's a tacitly understood collective unconscious yadda yadda thing.  It also becomes more apparent when people are being passive aggressive dicks when you're having a good day.  If you're having a bad day those sort of subtle little things don't pop up.  I must have been having a bad year, maybe. 
            Better meet a good girl soon to keep my time focused!  I'll move to Nebraska. 

              I almost thought I wasn't going to do this today but I am.  What would I have done if I didn't?  I read all of Strunk and White's book and I'm trying to implement as many of the advice as possible.  You can tell that I read it.  I'm being authoritative (author) and direct.  Notice how I didn't say "more direct", just direct.
            Conan O'Brien has a giant vein under his eye.  Now I feel better about my giant forehead vein, atleast it hasn't reached my eye yet.  For the record, the "Keep On Top" option on VLC revolutionizes computers.  Damn it I'm being vague.  Luckily, I'm not describing anything important.  Also, Conan is violent. 
            I think describing every mundane task I trick myself into doing in as much detail as possible is a great writing exercise.  According to Strunk and White the most important part of my sentences should go either at the beginning or end of the passage.  You won't get all of that ordinary, boring descriptive nonsense; I'll write it in a shitty little journal next to my bed.
           You can't intrinsically be better than other people, you have to produce something to prove it.  Like showing clearance at an airport.  But, I'm violating a couple of Strunk and White's laws there.  Can't editorialize too much.  If you hate cats and the guy from the cat hospital asks you to come, you can politely deny the invitation without being transparent about your opinions.  Conan said to act "as if" at all times, which is as if everything is always going fine.  I should start doing that in real life. 
           Writing has been pretty good.  I'm getting less scared of portraying other people in my writing.  No bullshit, my story started as a guy on a desert island.  That represents the part of my personality that doesn't want to have to talk to or interact with people at any point.  Yet I work retail.  Yet is always better than some other word.  I forget what word it is, Mr. Strunk.  But, if I use "yet" as much as possible, I can't lose.  I'm too conscious of punctuation now.
          See me tomorrow, Bloggo.  I better see some improvement in this blog over time.

Interests of the mind

Interests of the body are superficial.  Need for possession is superficial.  Insecurities are superficial.  Entertainment isn't real.  Creations are official.  Character is real.  Ethics are finely tuned.  Money is (obviously) not real.  It's great but it's not real.  Interests, existence, gratitude, are effects of life.  "Civilization is costume revery, culture by coercion."  Production production production.  Things need to happen because when they don't nothing is created.  Sober and TV.  11:27.  See ya tomorrow.

We have to get stupid again

            I have got to find some inspiration.  Thinking about quitting the job.  Really don't want to fill out that Grad School application.  I'll do it at work.  Then... I can't... quit.
            Practical skills?  Maybe get good at computers?  I've gotta read and take notes on how to write something that you would want to read/  I went out and drank a couple of beers yesterday and told my traumatic life story and it took me a minute and a half.  When things suck I want to get them over with in a hurry.
           Was thinking of making a list of athletes who are crazy enough to potentially change their names.  In honor of Ron Artest becoming Metta World Peace.  Then we obviously have Chad Ocho-cinco.
          Stephen Jackson
          Nyjer Morgan
          Mike Tyson:  Puncher Collins
          Ray Lewis (He did kill a guy)
          Tiger Woods:  If his original name wasn't funny enough.  I think it's like a "Flaming Moe", because you're used to hearing it there's nothing weird about it anymore.
          This has to be an ongoing list.  Ya know how when you are waiting for the mail it never shows up?  I never stop watching cartoon shows.  Regular Show is pretty great.  Gotta be purposefully eccentric but not too pretentious.  I realized there was a big list of pretentious things I was up to, so I'm trying to get out of that.  Like, actually listening to all of the 12,000 songs on my Ipod instead of just the 900 best rated ones.  But, hoarding isn't pretentious. 
          Am I improving at this writing thing yet?  I'll give it a couple more weeks and go back and read everything I've put down.  Suaze.  Am I counting on the internet to become extensions of my thoughts?  Can this thing just be my brain in awhile?
           The difficult thing about writing stories is figuring out what you want to happen and not having it happen in two lines.  I need to find a website where I can do a journal type of thing at work.  Everything with "blog" in the title is blocked.  It'll be a lot easier to write when I have nothing else to do.  Having nothing to do should be great, not boring.

              Nothing in the mail.  It turns out it's a lot easier to get a start on a story on paper than it is on a computer.  I think I attribute this to the ease of deleting on the computer.  It's like there's always something better out there.  Few other things I've noticed:

              • Can't write anything at all when there's sound going on.  Not even classical music.  I thought I might be able to filter my thoughts through an intermediary but all that comes out is a reinterpretation of what's on the screen.
             • Much easier to write when you have the name of characters.  Read some more interviews, lots of authors don't know what's going to happen to their characters and don't have a giant preplanned outline.  About all school is good for is telling you to implement arbitrary rules.  But maybe I'm just special.
             •Everyone has a novel in them?  That makes it seem like if you just work hard enough for long enough it will exist.

             I went to Subway, Rochambo, AND American council for the blind today.  This might not seem like an accomplishment but I'm agoraphobic.  I have no problem going out and doing anything I feel like when I'm with someone else, but when I'm by myself I lack the motivation.  I've never had to do anything out of necessity, never "wanted" for anything.  Baby steps.  I'm Bill Murray in What About Bob. 
           So I think my story is going to be about the strong man in a circus winning big at a casino.   He buys a new house, hires servants, repays all of his old debts, rewards his friends for their loyalty.  But he doesn't have to be strong anymore.  Yeah made up.
           Today sucks for writing.  This is what we call writers block.  Already.  I guess I should read more.  Let's cultivate our imaginations awhile.

3

Welcome to the new age.


First of all, ordered 2 new books.  Got a Ray Bradbury one about channeling your creativity or something.  Also, one about writing a novel in 90 days.  Sounds about perfect, because in 90 days I should be back in grad school.  Should.  Yeah, putting in the work for it.  3 hours a day.  Not a lot to show for it yet.  I think I've produced slightly more the first 3 days of this experiment, though.  I liken it to the way Murakami relates it to running, it's about building endurance and stumbling over those stumbling blocks enough times to stumble and keep on going. 

Here's another show where Zooey Deschanel plays a quirky person.  Why did they let her do the theme song?  I can't wait to watch "The Complete Series" on DVD in 5 months.  I sing to myself just like Zooey Deschanel, like a cross between Jack Black and her.  Seriously, when a hot girl answers a craigslist add to move in with 3 guys, those three guys are going to be a diverse group of cleanly, well adjusted, well-behaved dudes.  They are going to consider whether or not to let you live with them based on the fact that you have hot friends.  None of them will talk about who wants to bang you in the bathroom.  In the interest of Fox sitcoms, we have to adhere by the sitcom rules.  Well, at the end of the episode the one guy said he'd "do" her.  That's better.  Maybe there's still hope.

Watching Chasing Amy yesterday, even back then you could tell Ben Stiller was better than the rest of those guys.  Oops, Ben Affleck. Matt Damon just looked too young to hit it big, I think he made a small cameo.  Those 10 years where Ben Stiller was phoning it in, if marrying Jennifer Lopez was phoning it in, he knew he was more talented than the majority of those writers/actoors out there.  Yeah, he was just a smug douche who looked down on his friends. I meant to find a picture of some of the disgusting 90s outfits he wears in the movie, but none of the pictures are online. On an unrelated note, in a boisterous prognostication,  I bet the dude wins a best director oscar at some point.

Ok here's my problem with school.  People who use school to create an over supportive group of school friends.  Then, once you're out of school, you go back to school, and meet a new group of over supportive people who want to tell you how great your writing is.  If they do, you'll tell them about how great they are.  I guess I would hope people would hold themselves to a higher standard than the low writing-group-vindication one.  Or, no, I wouldn't.  Mediocrity.

Bleak

Day 2:  The merits of watching anything other than sports.  Culture vs... what's the opposite of culture?  Uncouthness?  Money makes everything grow out of proportion.  At one point this was just a game played between two teams for... fun?  It's still for enjoyment but we get all worked up about it for no reason.  We can do nothing but spectate, and you don't learn anything new or see anything you haven't seen before.  especially in baseball.  The "rich history of the sport" hasn't actually affected the trajectory of the society since Jackie Robinson.  Maybe the irrelevance of the spectator sport is responsible for the lack of great art in America.  I'm waiting for that next great American Novel.  Oh yeah, I'm trying to write it.  Fat chance.  But I'll keep trying.

The real problem with sports is it's intellectual infertility.  Watching sports every day feels like a trap you willingly fall into, a drug.  Not unlike "religion is the opiate of the people." It's disgusting the way this thing has grown. It's watered down and spread thinly over the country.  Media the all encompassing taciturn beast.  I love you spellcheck.

Atleast movies feel like different experiences.  Although it's all for the lowest common denominator.  I'd rather be able to talk about movies than be able to talk about sports.  But it's all so superfluous.  I better do some reading again and get my brain going.  

The way ice fractures when you pour water over it.

Trying to write a novel! Will be up all night

        I have always felt this unexplainable pressure to push myself harder.  No one has ever explained to me what I'm supposed to do, or work towards, or be.  The term "Jack of All Trades" never made sense to me until recently, when I finally pieced together the fact that only being pretty good at a majority of things, and nothing with no possibility for capital return.
        So, I thought I'd try to write a book.  The key to this is to try to write every day.  Recently reading Haruki Murakami's book about running at work, I became privy to the information that most writers should try to do so 3 hours a day.  So, it's supposed to be something that becomes natural.  Raymond Chandler would sit at his desk with a closed door each day for 3 hours regardless of if any ideas would come to him.  This must have been a lot easier to do before there were so many distractions.  First of all, I'm used to writing on computers.  This means there's Facebook.  Also, videogames.  Everyone in our current generation probably has a degree of attention deficit disorder.  It's not even a disease, just a generalized statement which explains the malaise that prevents me and my friends from accomplishing anything.  It's about replacing bad habits with good ones.  Creating some sort of consistency or balance.  Gravity is equal to centrifugal force.  A growth in population correlates to lower life expectancy.  When my friend shaves his beard off I start growing one.  It's one of those unstated laws of the universe.  Time and effort are equal to production.  Sounds simple until you aren't writing and all of the Saturday night goings-on that sounded boring earlier now start sounding great.  
       Anyway, so the book thing.  Stephen King has a book called "On Writing", (Which I think is a tongue in cheek reference to "On Writing Well") in which he explains writing a novel as digging up a fossil.  He says you just have characters, put them in a predicament, and it all figures itself out.  The problem here is that I don't want anything to happen to my characters.  I enjoy movies where nothing happens, or at the very least there's little conflict.  I don't need a villain.  I want to watch charismatic people charm each other and make me believe that there are people out there who could bring that out in me.  Like there's someone out there who is a catalyst and can reawaken my passion for running around and effectively being a person.  You need to have someone you want to go out and do things with.  Someone that represents you well and you want to be seen with.  This seems to be asking too much.
         So, writing also is supposed to come from experience.  I have a lot of experience.  The majority of adventures I go on are so I can have stories to tell everyone about later on.  But then again I don't know how to talk on an interpersonal level without alcohol.  But, going out drinking doesn't seem constructive.  So instead I'm at home trying to force myself to write something to feel constructive.   Digging that fossil out is difficult until I can figure out what animal that fossil is.  Now that I'm trying to write a novel, I feel like I should be writing a song.  It's like the prize fighters getting into a squabble at the weigh-in, before the fight even starts.
         This is the calmest I've felt in awhile.  Presence of mind tied to the organization of thoughts.  Your subconscious is a mother hoping your rational mind and body succeed.  It's happy to see any kind of progress.  It likes to know you can do this if you try hard enough. 
          Also, it's a lot easier to write when you hope no one finds what you've written.  An element of risk and reward.  It has to become fun.  Balance.  Why does risk improve enjoyment?  I should have settled down and been happy when I was 16 years old.  Trust is the biggest risk of all.
          This is a warm up.  I don't care what kind of rambling word frenzies I get into or how scatterbrained I sound, it feels like I smashed that word pinata.  Wish me luck, everybody.