oh no, blank page. i thought about what was going to come next all the way home, but i forgot that when i finally got there i would have to face the one thing i fear the most. fuck it, let’s go:
“you know exactly what i want.”
he hung there like that, the center of the universe, close to the bartender, close enough to smell his breath even through the haze and smoke of the place that had seemed to melt around them. it smelled like spent powder. he had said the words so softly that the bartender would later decide that he might not have said them at all. maybe i just finished it for him, he would think.
right now, though, he just stared. not wide-eyed, not necessarily afraid, just very still. there was no other noise, no other motion; the world had been entirely reduced to the two men and the two and a half feet of darkly-stained wood between them. the bartender did not dare to blink and simply met the steady gaze of the other man with more calm than he thought possible. his only thought was: This is about the girl. It is always about a girl.
and then, as suddenly as the world had fled around the face of the newcomer as it rose to meet his, color and focus returned. the man moved slowly down and away, breaking his stare and curving his lips into an easy smile. he hooked his foot around a stool and sat in a smooth motion, then rested his chin on his fist, still smiling his relaxed and altogether-unassuming smile. “i want a drink, friend,” he said, sounding tired.
no, thought the bartender, feigning tired. he was a barman, after all: he had spent his whole life with men who drew their last day out twenty years or more. he knew tired, and this man’s eyes betrayed him: they were too bright, too alive. there was something mildly upbeat about them, too--he thought this was funny.
“fine then,” said the bartender. “what’ll it be, stranger?” He stretched the word out mockingly and made absolutely no move to grab another glass.
the man chuckled under his breath, then sighed, still smiling. he dropped his arms and crossed them on the bar in front of him. this, as with all his previous motions, was done very slowly, very deliberately, like a person trying to work with a wild animal. when he finally spoke, his voice was soft and smooth, slow and clear, just like his movements: “come on, frank, the least you could do is play along.”
the bartender tightened at the sound of his name, then immediately forced himself to loosen. he would not let this man frighten him. he also recognized the fact that this was already a lost hope. “’sthat supposed to impress me? that you know my name?” he said, his voice a little more dry than he would have liked.
the man continued his insufferable smile. “no, of course not. it’s written right there, after all,” and he pointed to the wooden carving past the bartender’s right shoulder. rae had had that made for him somewhere over on the coast, carved and burned out of the deep red trees that grew there. it announced to the world that this was, in fact, “frank’s bar.”
still, though, frank would not allow himself to let his guard down. something was undoubtedly wrong about this newcomer. he moved and spoke with the aloofness of someone either incredibly stupid or absolutely confident in himself, and frank knew better than to count this man among the former. and behind it all, frank could still see in his eyes that he thought this was somehow amusing. “well?” frank asked, remembering suddenly that he still held a glass in one hand and a towel in the other. he began cleaning it again in earnest. “what’ll it be?”
the man blinked, his smile dropping suddenly, then returning just as fast. “oh, right, a drink. i dunno, whiskey? that’s what the folk around here drink, right?” after a slight pause with no response whatsoever from frank, “yes, whiskey. i’ll have whiskey.”
frank never let his eyes leave the man as he reached under the bar for the nearest bottle, which just so happened to be tequila. he poured the man a shot, sloppily, of course, as the glass he used was barely even in his peripheral vision. when he tipped the bottle back up, he made no effort to reach for the glass; he just slung the towel over his left shoulder and rested his hands on the bar. the man reached for the shot, slowly, deliberately, safely, then brought it to his nose. he pulled away, squeezing his eyes shut. “odd-smelling tequila you have here, frank.” he brought the glass almost all the way down to the bar, stopped, then raised it back up to his face. “oh well, maybe it’ll make you feel better. here goes!” he said cheerily, and tipped back the shot.
he sputtered and coughed, and frank’s fingers twitched as he fought off another urge to reach for the shotgun. no, he thought again, his eyes. he’s faking it again. he thought perhaps it was time to try and put the newcomer off a bit. “you don’t have to pretend you don’t like it,” he tried smugly.
“oh,” said the man, coughing again, “i’m not pretending. that shit is terrible.” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “like, completely terrible.” putting the glass down, he straightened. “but i’m relatively sure that’s not what you meant.” his smile returned.
frank could feel his blood rising up through his arms, up through his stomach. he was beginning to get angry--no, he realized, he had been angry from the start, he was only now starting to lose control over it. “who are you?” he growled. it was only after he said it that he realized he did not really want to know the answer.
“my name is will,” he replied calmly. this was not the answer frank had expected, and he didn’t really know how to continue. clearly, will saw this in his eyes and continued himself: “we’ve already been over what i’m doing here, so you needn’t ask that. perhaps a ‘where do you come from?’ is in order?” he paused again, waiting for frank’s response. frank continued to stare, hoping that his blank confusion came off as simple anger. it didn’t.
“all right then, frank, i’ll tell you. i come from a place where there aren’t any of you,” his voice twisted the word, providing the first outright bitterness to come out of him, “where the dead stay dead, where people like you can never go. Will never go.” His smile had slowly faded, and again, with it went the rest of the bar, the rest of the world. Frank could feel his fingers tightening on the edge of the bar, could feel the blood that had risen with his anger slide out of his face.
“is this about--”
“of course it’s about the girl, frank.” he smiled again, but the world stayed dead around him. “it’s always about a girl.”
8/8/06
7/22/06
that claws and tears and challenges you to stay
there was a pause as they sat out there in the fading light of the summer evening, talking about nothing, a movie, maybe, or a song, or something, it didn't matter. what did matter was the pause, a short stop where no one said anything and everyone breathed in deep and somehow saw the world at its simplest, its most beautiful. [a] would later reflect on those five seconds and realize that they were five of the only ten seconds in his entire life that he was truly calm and really at peace, both with himself and with the world. the golden sliver of the setting sun across the glittering bay lit the faces of his friends and wiped away all their flaws and their troubles and their pasts and in those five seconds he never loved them more. life became a painting, perfect in its stillness, deeper and sharper than it had ever been before; it was a moment apart from the world.
7/14/06
always been cowboys
it rolled over him like a wave, this overwhelming feeling. he had been leaning low on the bar, tired arms resting on tired elbows, idly cleaning a glass, the classic image of the classic bartender: just a touch past his middle years, balding, graying mustache, muscular, but only in that lumpy, almost-out-of-shape way. it had been an uneventful night--no, an uneventful decade, he would think later--abnormally slow for a saturday, when all the hands and their more successful counterparts would come in for a drink or three and perhaps a game of cards. but this feeling, this indescribably oppressive feeling that both terrified and excited him, had washed over him until he felt he was swimming in it. he had looked around to see if anyone else had felt it, but apparently no one had.
it was a very odd feeling, perhaps made more so by how absolutely certain it was. it scared him, but not in the way that the beasts of the night scared his children; that was a fear based in imagination, compounded by it. this was a fear of absolute certainty. when it hit him, his first thought was this: i’m either going to die tonight or i’m not. either way, this is the end of my life.
he didn’t really know what that was supposed to mean, but it didn’t stop him from thinking it. he did, however, have a feeling as to how such a thing was going to be decided. it was the man who would bring him his next life, whatever that might be, the man who had followed through the swinging saloon doors after the wave, swimming with it, or perhaps pushing it outward. he was not tall, nor was he particularly menacing; his girlish black hair flowed out from under his dusty hat to curl around and end just above his ears, and his beard was thin and neatly trimmed. he wore no guns, a fact that the man behind the bar had picked up immediately with well-trained eyes, even though he had his long brown coat wrapped tightly around himself. he had entered the saloon with a casual but steady pace, the walk of a person who knows where they are going but are in no hurry to get there, though he paused ever-so-slightly when he was fully inside. the man behind the bar saw his eyes flick up toward the bar, and then he was moving again; the pause and the glance were so quick that the man behind the bar wasn’t sure it had really happened.
the newcomer continued his slow walk toward the bar, and with every step the overwhelming feeling of change seeped further into the bartender’s bones. or maybe it was finality--the feeling seemed to press in on the bubble of his consciousness, exerting a powerful force but never revealing its true nature. i think this is what destiny feels like, he thought.
the man never sped up, never slowed down. he just kept on moving slowly toward the bar, eyes downcast, but his destination was clear. the man behind the bar fought back the terrible urge to reach for the shotgun just inches from his waist and take the first shot. he could separate the man’s head from his shoulders before he could even raise his eyes again, the damned devil, and--no, he thought, we’ll see who’s the devil yet. the man continued his inexorable march across the worn-out wooden floor, seeming to pay no mind to the men at the surrounding tables playing cards or the girls serving them drinks and flirting away their coins.
after what seemed like an eternity--and perhaps it was, in the grand scheme of things--the man stopped in front of the bar, directly in front of the man behind it. he raised his eyes and met the other man’s, face completely blank. the bartender felt a bead of sweat roll down his back and tried to force his heart to slow down. the shotgun seemed very far away, now.
suddenly the newcomer broke into a wide smile and rubbed his well-groomed chin. “hello there,” he said in a friendly voice, with more than a hint of relief. he took a half-step forward, leaned to his left, and sat down softly on a barstool.
“Hi.” It was all the bartender could say, really. The tension was broken, but only a little, and the oppressive feeling never left him.
“This your place?” the man asked. “Your bar?” He put his elbows up, resting his chin on his fists. It made him look oddly childish, like a boy asking his father for a story.
“S’my bar, but it’s not my place.” He refused to relax, refused to let his guard down. He would play along, though: “Belongs to Aunt Rae,” he said, nodding his head in her direction. The old lady sat at her table playing cards with a few of the regulars, unaware of what had happened and even more unaware of what was about to happen. When he looked back at the man, he saw that his eyes had never unfixed from his own.
For seven interminable seconds neither man spoke. Had it been eight, the bartender would have lost what little control he had left and would have reached for the shotgun. He would not have made it. When the newcomer finally broke the silence, it was with a small laugh, then: “This would be the time where you are supposed to tell me you don’t recognize me, you know,” he twisted his smooth, youthful voice into a gruff parody, “’I ain’t seen your face ‘round these parts, stranger’ and all that.”
The bartender stared at him, eyes slightly narrowing. “All right, stranger, if you want me to ask you what you’re doing here, then fine.” He paused in spite of himself. He had a feeling he knew the answer to this question before he asked it, and he felt it was not an answer he wanted to hear. He tried to take a deep breath, but it ended shallow. “What do you want?”
The man leaned up on his elbows, raising his face higher to the bartender. He seemed to grow older as he did this, and his eyes seemed to deepen. The bartender now saw them to be a dizzying gray-green, like the color of darkened granite. The world on either side of the man’s face seemed to fade as if it were also drowning in the oppressive flood that filled the bartender’s mind. His smile faded and, eyes narrowing, he said, “You know exactly what I want.”
it was a very odd feeling, perhaps made more so by how absolutely certain it was. it scared him, but not in the way that the beasts of the night scared his children; that was a fear based in imagination, compounded by it. this was a fear of absolute certainty. when it hit him, his first thought was this: i’m either going to die tonight or i’m not. either way, this is the end of my life.
he didn’t really know what that was supposed to mean, but it didn’t stop him from thinking it. he did, however, have a feeling as to how such a thing was going to be decided. it was the man who would bring him his next life, whatever that might be, the man who had followed through the swinging saloon doors after the wave, swimming with it, or perhaps pushing it outward. he was not tall, nor was he particularly menacing; his girlish black hair flowed out from under his dusty hat to curl around and end just above his ears, and his beard was thin and neatly trimmed. he wore no guns, a fact that the man behind the bar had picked up immediately with well-trained eyes, even though he had his long brown coat wrapped tightly around himself. he had entered the saloon with a casual but steady pace, the walk of a person who knows where they are going but are in no hurry to get there, though he paused ever-so-slightly when he was fully inside. the man behind the bar saw his eyes flick up toward the bar, and then he was moving again; the pause and the glance were so quick that the man behind the bar wasn’t sure it had really happened.
the newcomer continued his slow walk toward the bar, and with every step the overwhelming feeling of change seeped further into the bartender’s bones. or maybe it was finality--the feeling seemed to press in on the bubble of his consciousness, exerting a powerful force but never revealing its true nature. i think this is what destiny feels like, he thought.
the man never sped up, never slowed down. he just kept on moving slowly toward the bar, eyes downcast, but his destination was clear. the man behind the bar fought back the terrible urge to reach for the shotgun just inches from his waist and take the first shot. he could separate the man’s head from his shoulders before he could even raise his eyes again, the damned devil, and--no, he thought, we’ll see who’s the devil yet. the man continued his inexorable march across the worn-out wooden floor, seeming to pay no mind to the men at the surrounding tables playing cards or the girls serving them drinks and flirting away their coins.
after what seemed like an eternity--and perhaps it was, in the grand scheme of things--the man stopped in front of the bar, directly in front of the man behind it. he raised his eyes and met the other man’s, face completely blank. the bartender felt a bead of sweat roll down his back and tried to force his heart to slow down. the shotgun seemed very far away, now.
suddenly the newcomer broke into a wide smile and rubbed his well-groomed chin. “hello there,” he said in a friendly voice, with more than a hint of relief. he took a half-step forward, leaned to his left, and sat down softly on a barstool.
“Hi.” It was all the bartender could say, really. The tension was broken, but only a little, and the oppressive feeling never left him.
“This your place?” the man asked. “Your bar?” He put his elbows up, resting his chin on his fists. It made him look oddly childish, like a boy asking his father for a story.
“S’my bar, but it’s not my place.” He refused to relax, refused to let his guard down. He would play along, though: “Belongs to Aunt Rae,” he said, nodding his head in her direction. The old lady sat at her table playing cards with a few of the regulars, unaware of what had happened and even more unaware of what was about to happen. When he looked back at the man, he saw that his eyes had never unfixed from his own.
For seven interminable seconds neither man spoke. Had it been eight, the bartender would have lost what little control he had left and would have reached for the shotgun. He would not have made it. When the newcomer finally broke the silence, it was with a small laugh, then: “This would be the time where you are supposed to tell me you don’t recognize me, you know,” he twisted his smooth, youthful voice into a gruff parody, “’I ain’t seen your face ‘round these parts, stranger’ and all that.”
The bartender stared at him, eyes slightly narrowing. “All right, stranger, if you want me to ask you what you’re doing here, then fine.” He paused in spite of himself. He had a feeling he knew the answer to this question before he asked it, and he felt it was not an answer he wanted to hear. He tried to take a deep breath, but it ended shallow. “What do you want?”
The man leaned up on his elbows, raising his face higher to the bartender. He seemed to grow older as he did this, and his eyes seemed to deepen. The bartender now saw them to be a dizzying gray-green, like the color of darkened granite. The world on either side of the man’s face seemed to fade as if it were also drowning in the oppressive flood that filled the bartender’s mind. His smile faded and, eyes narrowing, he said, “You know exactly what I want.”
7/13/06
then get up and be it
okay, here it goes, opening scene, ready?
open to the first credit, somebody presents something or something, then blink to an alarm clock at 6:00 am and a song starts. obviously what song it is is very important to me; it has to set the tone for pretty much the rest of the whole thing. i thought about it all on the way home tonight, and the only thing i've come up with so far is ted leo's "me and mia," which is actually pretty good, i think. really though, this is pretty important, maybe even the most important thing in the whole movie. it needs to be upbeat but somewhat melancholy. other options: sparta's "sans cosm," the shins' "kissing the lipless" (problem: probably too zach braff), rilo kiley's "spectacular views" (i think that may have taken the lead).
okay, new plan. blink to the alarm clock displaying 6:00 am and the pixies' "cecilia ann" starts playing for about five seconds, then a hand comes down to hit snooze and we blink black again for the next credit, which i imagine would be the director. blink back to the clock, nine minutes later, another song, hand again, black again, repeat two more times. at 6:36, "spectacular views" comes on. our guy wakes up. credits montage continues as he showers, brushes his teeth, shaves, gets dressed, opens the fridge and frowns and closes it and walks away, then gets in his car, looks frustrated (traffic), gets out and goes to work, gets back into car looking much more tired and dissheveled, looks frustrated again (traffic), then comes home.
let's call him wes. why? no reason, we can change it later. wes lives with his friend nick and his former best friend dan. wes is 24 years old, two years out of school, for the sake of argument let's call him a political science major who doesn't really know what to do with the rest of his life. he works in, oh, let's say a research institute on the campus of a large university. honestly, it doesn't really matter where he works, just that he hates his job because he is completely undervalued and terribly unchallenged. nick is the lead guitarist in his latest project which he thinks is really going somewhere but is in reality completely awful and he knows it, and dan is an accountant who isn't terribly unsuccessful but is easily bored. he will also happen to be dating wes's ex-girlfriend--though they only dated freshman year of college and have been strictly platonic but very good friends since. wes is, of course, for the sake of extra drama, in love with her, always has been and always will, he thinks. let's call her jenny for right now, because she should be played by jenny lewis, which, trust me, is much better than calling her scarlett.
it's important to understand that while this wes character does have a job that relates to me, and as the main character will probably have several other traits that we share, he is not supposed to be "me." this is a story about a group of friends who are angry and disillusioned by the real world and so decide to become professional criminals, and i'm not going to do that. i mean, sure, i've thought about robbing banks to make a living--if i hadn't ever thought about it i probably wouldn't be able to attempt to write this--but i'm certainly not about to go and do it. anyway, i'm going to bed, because i'm tired. maybe i'll keep going tomorrow.
open to the first credit, somebody presents something or something, then blink to an alarm clock at 6:00 am and a song starts. obviously what song it is is very important to me; it has to set the tone for pretty much the rest of the whole thing. i thought about it all on the way home tonight, and the only thing i've come up with so far is ted leo's "me and mia," which is actually pretty good, i think. really though, this is pretty important, maybe even the most important thing in the whole movie. it needs to be upbeat but somewhat melancholy. other options: sparta's "sans cosm," the shins' "kissing the lipless" (problem: probably too zach braff), rilo kiley's "spectacular views" (i think that may have taken the lead).
okay, new plan. blink to the alarm clock displaying 6:00 am and the pixies' "cecilia ann" starts playing for about five seconds, then a hand comes down to hit snooze and we blink black again for the next credit, which i imagine would be the director. blink back to the clock, nine minutes later, another song, hand again, black again, repeat two more times. at 6:36, "spectacular views" comes on. our guy wakes up. credits montage continues as he showers, brushes his teeth, shaves, gets dressed, opens the fridge and frowns and closes it and walks away, then gets in his car, looks frustrated (traffic), gets out and goes to work, gets back into car looking much more tired and dissheveled, looks frustrated again (traffic), then comes home.
let's call him wes. why? no reason, we can change it later. wes lives with his friend nick and his former best friend dan. wes is 24 years old, two years out of school, for the sake of argument let's call him a political science major who doesn't really know what to do with the rest of his life. he works in, oh, let's say a research institute on the campus of a large university. honestly, it doesn't really matter where he works, just that he hates his job because he is completely undervalued and terribly unchallenged. nick is the lead guitarist in his latest project which he thinks is really going somewhere but is in reality completely awful and he knows it, and dan is an accountant who isn't terribly unsuccessful but is easily bored. he will also happen to be dating wes's ex-girlfriend--though they only dated freshman year of college and have been strictly platonic but very good friends since. wes is, of course, for the sake of extra drama, in love with her, always has been and always will, he thinks. let's call her jenny for right now, because she should be played by jenny lewis, which, trust me, is much better than calling her scarlett.
it's important to understand that while this wes character does have a job that relates to me, and as the main character will probably have several other traits that we share, he is not supposed to be "me." this is a story about a group of friends who are angry and disillusioned by the real world and so decide to become professional criminals, and i'm not going to do that. i mean, sure, i've thought about robbing banks to make a living--if i hadn't ever thought about it i probably wouldn't be able to attempt to write this--but i'm certainly not about to go and do it. anyway, i'm going to bed, because i'm tired. maybe i'll keep going tomorrow.
7/10/06
what happens in confession stays in the confessional
i came to several realizations today. allow me to indulge myself by listing said realizations:
realization one: there was a little while there, i'd say around last october, when i sort of got the feeling that it didn't really matter where i worked, i was always going to be miserable. this is a feeling that grew mostly out of my idea that my job wasn't really all that bad, and it was completely my fault that i was so unhappy there. everyone kept telling me that life wasn't supposed to be so bad, though, so i kept looking for another job, and lo and behold, when i found another one i was happy.
for a little while. you see, eventually, i started to realize that my current job wasn't really all it was cracked up to be. i think this happened when i went from looking very hard for things to do all day to not ever having enough time to do anything despite working constant overtime. it hit me especially hard when i had to work late on lindsay's birthday, which, for obvious reasons, i was not happy about. in addition, since i'm so busy all the time, my job gets boiled down into what i hated so much about working at usd: instead of working normal times and to normal goals like a normal person, i am constantly bouncing between absolute deadlines and constantly pushing everything i possibly can back as far as i possibly can. and what always takes priority over anything actually interesting? other people's bitch work, that's what. because i am nothing but a glorified secretary, and during the busy times (read: all the time) the glorified part fades away, or at least changes into "a whole bunch of different, not to mention competing, people's." yeah, i know that's going to take you a minute or so to figure out; i'll wait for you.
ready? okay. anyway, i've lately begun to slip back into thinking that maybe there's just no way for me to not be miserable at work, that maybe i'm just not cut out for the real world. the realization that came to me today was that this is not true: it's just that i happen to have another shitty job. i should also add that calling it a "shitty job" is not necessarily fair, as that would imply that i don't like the people i work with--well, maybe it wouldn't necessarily, but i want to be clear about that distinction. just as with usd, it's not the people but the organization that has fundamental problems.
you see, i just don't buy it anymore. the particular institute that i work for is a complete waste of money--well, maybe not complete, but it certainly doesn't have a very high return on investment. i've heard this complaint from a number of different people throughout the organization, and here it is from me: we just don't do anything.
i just can't sit in on another one of these meetings where people keep talking about pushing back release 0.5 and what sort of particular organizational theme a particular data set should have. because that in and of itself sums up my entire impression of the organization: all we seem to do here is talk about things and organize things and talk about organizing things... but where are the goddamn things? we're so concerned with collaborating and innovating that we don't have time to actually do any research at this research institute. and if the poor researchers actually do find time to get any real work done and actually do succeed in creating something, they have to spend the next three weeks out of the month showing it to people so we can make money that we use to pay people to sit and talk about things. honestly, i've found myself trapped in a bizarro-world of academics who think they're corporate--or maybe it's a corporation that thinks it's academic--and i just can't take it anymore.
so the realization is this: although i do not think it was a mistake to come here--as thinking such would mean that i regret my decision, and since i've gained valuable experience here i most certainly do not regret it--it is time for me to leave.
realization two: i now have two and a half careers that i know i don't want: i don't want to ever fix another computer and i don't ever want to be a secretary again. the half is event planning: i don't like the planning part of it, because i'm really not any good at it, although i though that event management was kind of fun, if only because it's kind of fun to sit there and watch all your carefully-laid plans go to absolute hell and have to think on your feet and save the day at the last possible second. planning is just something people do to protect themselves if they don't think they can think fast enough.
so now what? well, realization two was that maybe it's time i start trying to write for a living. obviously that doesn't mean writing video game reviews or lowercase blog entries, but probably more something along the lines of something terribly dull like web or marketing or technical content, but at the very least something like that might allow me at least a tiny bit of creativity, which would be infinitely more that i'm allowed right now and is coincidentally one of the major things i miss about usd--other than the kids, of course.
so anyway, yes, i'm going to start throwing my resume around town at various writing and/or editing vacancies and see if something sticks. i mean, i might as well.
realization three: the new cursive album is really, really good. actually, i guess i can't really say that, because i haven't really listened to it, but "at conception" is completely fantastic and i can't stop listening to it. this is actually a realization that i came to the night i downloaded it, but since i used the word "several" i thought i needed at least another realization before i went to bed. honestly, though, do whatever you can to listen to "at conception," because it will be the song of the fall.
realization one: there was a little while there, i'd say around last october, when i sort of got the feeling that it didn't really matter where i worked, i was always going to be miserable. this is a feeling that grew mostly out of my idea that my job wasn't really all that bad, and it was completely my fault that i was so unhappy there. everyone kept telling me that life wasn't supposed to be so bad, though, so i kept looking for another job, and lo and behold, when i found another one i was happy.
for a little while. you see, eventually, i started to realize that my current job wasn't really all it was cracked up to be. i think this happened when i went from looking very hard for things to do all day to not ever having enough time to do anything despite working constant overtime. it hit me especially hard when i had to work late on lindsay's birthday, which, for obvious reasons, i was not happy about. in addition, since i'm so busy all the time, my job gets boiled down into what i hated so much about working at usd: instead of working normal times and to normal goals like a normal person, i am constantly bouncing between absolute deadlines and constantly pushing everything i possibly can back as far as i possibly can. and what always takes priority over anything actually interesting? other people's bitch work, that's what. because i am nothing but a glorified secretary, and during the busy times (read: all the time) the glorified part fades away, or at least changes into "a whole bunch of different, not to mention competing, people's." yeah, i know that's going to take you a minute or so to figure out; i'll wait for you.
ready? okay. anyway, i've lately begun to slip back into thinking that maybe there's just no way for me to not be miserable at work, that maybe i'm just not cut out for the real world. the realization that came to me today was that this is not true: it's just that i happen to have another shitty job. i should also add that calling it a "shitty job" is not necessarily fair, as that would imply that i don't like the people i work with--well, maybe it wouldn't necessarily, but i want to be clear about that distinction. just as with usd, it's not the people but the organization that has fundamental problems.
you see, i just don't buy it anymore. the particular institute that i work for is a complete waste of money--well, maybe not complete, but it certainly doesn't have a very high return on investment. i've heard this complaint from a number of different people throughout the organization, and here it is from me: we just don't do anything.
i just can't sit in on another one of these meetings where people keep talking about pushing back release 0.5 and what sort of particular organizational theme a particular data set should have. because that in and of itself sums up my entire impression of the organization: all we seem to do here is talk about things and organize things and talk about organizing things... but where are the goddamn things? we're so concerned with collaborating and innovating that we don't have time to actually do any research at this research institute. and if the poor researchers actually do find time to get any real work done and actually do succeed in creating something, they have to spend the next three weeks out of the month showing it to people so we can make money that we use to pay people to sit and talk about things. honestly, i've found myself trapped in a bizarro-world of academics who think they're corporate--or maybe it's a corporation that thinks it's academic--and i just can't take it anymore.
so the realization is this: although i do not think it was a mistake to come here--as thinking such would mean that i regret my decision, and since i've gained valuable experience here i most certainly do not regret it--it is time for me to leave.
realization two: i now have two and a half careers that i know i don't want: i don't want to ever fix another computer and i don't ever want to be a secretary again. the half is event planning: i don't like the planning part of it, because i'm really not any good at it, although i though that event management was kind of fun, if only because it's kind of fun to sit there and watch all your carefully-laid plans go to absolute hell and have to think on your feet and save the day at the last possible second. planning is just something people do to protect themselves if they don't think they can think fast enough.
so now what? well, realization two was that maybe it's time i start trying to write for a living. obviously that doesn't mean writing video game reviews or lowercase blog entries, but probably more something along the lines of something terribly dull like web or marketing or technical content, but at the very least something like that might allow me at least a tiny bit of creativity, which would be infinitely more that i'm allowed right now and is coincidentally one of the major things i miss about usd--other than the kids, of course.
so anyway, yes, i'm going to start throwing my resume around town at various writing and/or editing vacancies and see if something sticks. i mean, i might as well.
realization three: the new cursive album is really, really good. actually, i guess i can't really say that, because i haven't really listened to it, but "at conception" is completely fantastic and i can't stop listening to it. this is actually a realization that i came to the night i downloaded it, but since i used the word "several" i thought i needed at least another realization before i went to bed. honestly, though, do whatever you can to listen to "at conception," because it will be the song of the fall.
3/7/06
Oh, hey, check this out
http://www.dancingrobots.com
we'd rather be paid to perfect the pastimes that we have harbored based solely on the fact that it makes us smile if it sounds dope
we'd rather be paid to perfect the pastimes that we have harbored based solely on the fact that it makes us smile if it sounds dope
this is my profile on www.dancingrobots.com
bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been... well, a long time since my last confession.
where do i begin? there’s quite a bit about me that i’m not proud of. i’m filled with self-righteousness and self-loathing, conceit and shame. i’m not a gray area: i’m both white and black. i’m a contradiction in terms. i’m a misanthropic bleeding heart liberal. i’m a talentless critic. i’m pretentious and i have nothing at all to say.
i lie constantly. i lie about things i like, things i hate, things i know, things i don’t. when i don’t know the answer to a question, i make it up--most of the time i am right. sometimes i believe myself. i lie about lying.
i once stole from a grocery store. i ate some yogurt-covered pretzels out of the clear plastic candy trays in the back. i drank before i was of age and i have used illegal substances in the past. i punched through a bedroom window once. it was not my window. i gave the guy’s girlfriend forty dollars and told her that would be enough to cover it. coincidentally that is pretty much the defining moment of my life as it stands now.
i judge books by their covers. i can’t stand guys who wear hats in the gym or girls who wear skirts with uggs. within the first three-quarters of the first second we meet, i have already made up my mind about you. the worst part is, i’m almost always right.
i write in lowercase because i think it makes me sound more intellectual. i try to pretend it is a device i use to make my writing feel more natural, but it’s not. i’ll have to go back through this and un-capitalize a lot of things i accidentally wrote correctly. i like to write, but i’m really pretty awful at it. i’m much better at breaking something down than i am at building it up. i’ve never written anything truly original in my entire life, but i can’t help but feel that when i finally do it will be the greatest thing ever written.
i pretend to like bands i don’t really like because it makes me feel cooler. i also pretend to hate bands that i don’t really hate. i say things with the knowledge that i’m probably right anyway, so it doesn’t hurt to pretend. my taste in music is very wide but almost completely arbitrary; i may give reasons, but if you listen closely, the reasons don’t really make any sense.
i whine about the passing of the golden age, but when it all comes down to it a whole lot of the things i’m so nostalgic for i don’t even think i could stand now. i just don’t have the patience anymore. i’m incredibly impatient and picky and bitter when it comes to things like games now. i think i should lighten up, but i just can’t. this seems to be a chronic problem in my life.
i make my life out to be much worse and much harder than it really is. i have yet to figure out why i do this. i’m surrounded by people who love me and i have a good job and i live in a beautiful city, but every once in a while i’m miserable for no reason and i don’t really know why. it’s not that i have no direction--i have too many directions, and i can’t pick one. i have trouble making decisions. it’s also not that i have no ambition, i just usually out-think myself and get discouraged. maybe i’m too hard on myself.
that should just about do it. huh? act of contrition? oh no, i’m sorry, i’m not catholic. but thanks for listening.
where do i begin? there’s quite a bit about me that i’m not proud of. i’m filled with self-righteousness and self-loathing, conceit and shame. i’m not a gray area: i’m both white and black. i’m a contradiction in terms. i’m a misanthropic bleeding heart liberal. i’m a talentless critic. i’m pretentious and i have nothing at all to say.
i lie constantly. i lie about things i like, things i hate, things i know, things i don’t. when i don’t know the answer to a question, i make it up--most of the time i am right. sometimes i believe myself. i lie about lying.
i once stole from a grocery store. i ate some yogurt-covered pretzels out of the clear plastic candy trays in the back. i drank before i was of age and i have used illegal substances in the past. i punched through a bedroom window once. it was not my window. i gave the guy’s girlfriend forty dollars and told her that would be enough to cover it. coincidentally that is pretty much the defining moment of my life as it stands now.
i judge books by their covers. i can’t stand guys who wear hats in the gym or girls who wear skirts with uggs. within the first three-quarters of the first second we meet, i have already made up my mind about you. the worst part is, i’m almost always right.
i write in lowercase because i think it makes me sound more intellectual. i try to pretend it is a device i use to make my writing feel more natural, but it’s not. i’ll have to go back through this and un-capitalize a lot of things i accidentally wrote correctly. i like to write, but i’m really pretty awful at it. i’m much better at breaking something down than i am at building it up. i’ve never written anything truly original in my entire life, but i can’t help but feel that when i finally do it will be the greatest thing ever written.
i pretend to like bands i don’t really like because it makes me feel cooler. i also pretend to hate bands that i don’t really hate. i say things with the knowledge that i’m probably right anyway, so it doesn’t hurt to pretend. my taste in music is very wide but almost completely arbitrary; i may give reasons, but if you listen closely, the reasons don’t really make any sense.
i whine about the passing of the golden age, but when it all comes down to it a whole lot of the things i’m so nostalgic for i don’t even think i could stand now. i just don’t have the patience anymore. i’m incredibly impatient and picky and bitter when it comes to things like games now. i think i should lighten up, but i just can’t. this seems to be a chronic problem in my life.
i make my life out to be much worse and much harder than it really is. i have yet to figure out why i do this. i’m surrounded by people who love me and i have a good job and i live in a beautiful city, but every once in a while i’m miserable for no reason and i don’t really know why. it’s not that i have no direction--i have too many directions, and i can’t pick one. i have trouble making decisions. it’s also not that i have no ambition, i just usually out-think myself and get discouraged. maybe i’m too hard on myself.
that should just about do it. huh? act of contrition? oh no, i’m sorry, i’m not catholic. but thanks for listening.
10/24/05
death cab is great zombie writing music
seriously. my zombie movie will open with "i will follow you into the dark."
in other news, i followed some of your advice and moved my story to its own separate blog. you can find it here. i added a paragraph and a couple sentences to the first entry just because i felt like it needed it. i have to go to bed now, but i promise to work on the next day tomorrow.
i promise to work on the next day tomorrow. that is a very profound sentence. melodies softly soaring through my atmosphere.
in other news, i followed some of your advice and moved my story to its own separate blog. you can find it here. i added a paragraph and a couple sentences to the first entry just because i felt like it needed it. i have to go to bed now, but i promise to work on the next day tomorrow.
i promise to work on the next day tomorrow. that is a very profound sentence. melodies softly soaring through my atmosphere.
9/18/05
cryin' won't help you, prayin' won't do you no good
well, i've got to stay up for a few minutes and see if the sleeping pills i just took are actually going to have any sort of an effect on me, so what better way to spend my hopefully inane and drowsy last few minutes than a new blog post, eh? it's been a pretty long time since my last real post--not really because i haven't wanted to write anything, really, but because i haven't really been able to find the words to say what it is i want to say.
i mentioned in my last short post that just about everything i wanted to say about this whole hurricane thing has already been said by other people, most of them far more articulate than i. well, that still stands as the case, but that doesn't mean i shouldn't at least attempt to do something.
a while back--sophomore year in college, it was--i read a play called twilight: los angeles, 1992 by anna deveare smith. it's basically a series of interviews with a whole wide range of people about the la riots written to be acted out by a single person (smith herself being of course the only one to do it, she writes a lot of one-woman plays for herself if i remember right). all the people and their stories are real; smith did the interviewing herself. anyway, it painted a very different picture of the riots than the one i had had before: instead of simple outrage at the rodney king verdict, the story she tells is of a powderkeg that would have eventually exploded without such a controversial fuse. her interviews show us a snapshot of la that erupted due to social tensions that did not begin and end with race but instead dealt with a very large group of people who, to put it bluntly, just couldn't fucking take it any more. in the immortal words of one mr. bradley nowell, everybody in the hood had had it up to here, and it was indeed getting harder and harder and harder each and every year.
it's a situation that, in la, hasn't gotten any better. it hasn't really gotten any better anywhere. for a frightening percentage of our population, there is very little hope left. our urban centers have deteriorated to the point that most people really honestly think there's nothing left we can do. and it continues to get worse as our economy moves further and further away from these areas; no one wants to spend the time or the money to fix something that offers no return on investment. maybe i just listen to too much kanye, but really, what does a young kid on the streets of la or detroit or chicago or new york have to look forward to? what does he have to keep him out of the criminal element, the only success that he sees anyone around him afforded? what can he do to get out, be he black or white or brown or whatever? these cities are crushing them, destroying anything human in them, killing whatever chances they have to become what we privileged think are meaningful contributors to society.
*interlude*
you must have noticed that "we privileged" i threw in that last sentence. the most interesting interview in smith's play was with a businessman at a restaurant in hollywood. he begins his talk by referring to the day the riots broke out, and how he had been in a very crowded public place when he heard on the radio that there was rioting just a few miles away. he talked about how everyone around him started to panic and ask themselves what they should do, how they should protect themselves. the man, however, said that all he could think was not what should i do or how could this happen, he thought it's about time; we deserve it.
do i sometimes feel guilty for being an upper-middle class white guy? yes, yes i do. is it my fault? no, of course not, but how can i walk around preaching equality without first recognizing the inequality in myself? to not recognize that, to not realize the fact that i have it so much better than so many others, well, that's just wrong. but what can i do about it? apparently nothing but sit around and whine about it on the internet. this is one of those things that i try to think about but it doesn't ever go anywhere. if anyone would like to talk about racial or socio-economic guilt, please feel free to engage me. for now, i'll just continue my first train of thought and leave this for another day.
*end interlude*
so let's take this situation. then let's smash it with a huge fucking natural disaster and fill it with six hundred billion gallons of poisonous water. then let's all sit around and look at it for a couple days, then start arguing about why we haven't done anything about it yet. then let's all pat ourselves on the back with every single organization in the united states starting a charity fund and let's all fucking pretend that we're not going to forget all about it in another three fucking months.
all right, yes, i thought the same thing about 9-11. i said that we'd get all patriotic for a year or so and then we'd move on, because well, that's america. i was wrong, yes, but then again we weren't exactly allowed to forget, were we? what are we going to do to keep katrina in our hearts and minds, huh? we certainly can't declare a war on hurricanes. we can't very well blame this one on anyone, can we? i get a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that we're going to accept this just like human beings accept anything that can't be avoided: we forget about it.
we can't afford to forget about this. everyone needs to sit down and understand that we knew the fucking thing was coming and we knew what it was going to do once it came. i've spent a good ten minutes trying to write this next sentence, but it's just not coming out. i could make all sorts of comments here, saying something about the principle role of government or about how we need to put more faith in technology and advancement, but really, i just can't. i wrote a lot more than i thought i was going to, but now i'm definitely out. i hope i push the right button and this gets posted. adam out.
i mentioned in my last short post that just about everything i wanted to say about this whole hurricane thing has already been said by other people, most of them far more articulate than i. well, that still stands as the case, but that doesn't mean i shouldn't at least attempt to do something.
a while back--sophomore year in college, it was--i read a play called twilight: los angeles, 1992 by anna deveare smith. it's basically a series of interviews with a whole wide range of people about the la riots written to be acted out by a single person (smith herself being of course the only one to do it, she writes a lot of one-woman plays for herself if i remember right). all the people and their stories are real; smith did the interviewing herself. anyway, it painted a very different picture of the riots than the one i had had before: instead of simple outrage at the rodney king verdict, the story she tells is of a powderkeg that would have eventually exploded without such a controversial fuse. her interviews show us a snapshot of la that erupted due to social tensions that did not begin and end with race but instead dealt with a very large group of people who, to put it bluntly, just couldn't fucking take it any more. in the immortal words of one mr. bradley nowell, everybody in the hood had had it up to here, and it was indeed getting harder and harder and harder each and every year.
it's a situation that, in la, hasn't gotten any better. it hasn't really gotten any better anywhere. for a frightening percentage of our population, there is very little hope left. our urban centers have deteriorated to the point that most people really honestly think there's nothing left we can do. and it continues to get worse as our economy moves further and further away from these areas; no one wants to spend the time or the money to fix something that offers no return on investment. maybe i just listen to too much kanye, but really, what does a young kid on the streets of la or detroit or chicago or new york have to look forward to? what does he have to keep him out of the criminal element, the only success that he sees anyone around him afforded? what can he do to get out, be he black or white or brown or whatever? these cities are crushing them, destroying anything human in them, killing whatever chances they have to become what we privileged think are meaningful contributors to society.
*interlude*
you must have noticed that "we privileged" i threw in that last sentence. the most interesting interview in smith's play was with a businessman at a restaurant in hollywood. he begins his talk by referring to the day the riots broke out, and how he had been in a very crowded public place when he heard on the radio that there was rioting just a few miles away. he talked about how everyone around him started to panic and ask themselves what they should do, how they should protect themselves. the man, however, said that all he could think was not what should i do or how could this happen, he thought it's about time; we deserve it.
do i sometimes feel guilty for being an upper-middle class white guy? yes, yes i do. is it my fault? no, of course not, but how can i walk around preaching equality without first recognizing the inequality in myself? to not recognize that, to not realize the fact that i have it so much better than so many others, well, that's just wrong. but what can i do about it? apparently nothing but sit around and whine about it on the internet. this is one of those things that i try to think about but it doesn't ever go anywhere. if anyone would like to talk about racial or socio-economic guilt, please feel free to engage me. for now, i'll just continue my first train of thought and leave this for another day.
*end interlude*
so let's take this situation. then let's smash it with a huge fucking natural disaster and fill it with six hundred billion gallons of poisonous water. then let's all sit around and look at it for a couple days, then start arguing about why we haven't done anything about it yet. then let's all pat ourselves on the back with every single organization in the united states starting a charity fund and let's all fucking pretend that we're not going to forget all about it in another three fucking months.
all right, yes, i thought the same thing about 9-11. i said that we'd get all patriotic for a year or so and then we'd move on, because well, that's america. i was wrong, yes, but then again we weren't exactly allowed to forget, were we? what are we going to do to keep katrina in our hearts and minds, huh? we certainly can't declare a war on hurricanes. we can't very well blame this one on anyone, can we? i get a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that we're going to accept this just like human beings accept anything that can't be avoided: we forget about it.
we can't afford to forget about this. everyone needs to sit down and understand that we knew the fucking thing was coming and we knew what it was going to do once it came. i've spent a good ten minutes trying to write this next sentence, but it's just not coming out. i could make all sorts of comments here, saying something about the principle role of government or about how we need to put more faith in technology and advancement, but really, i just can't. i wrote a lot more than i thought i was going to, but now i'm definitely out. i hope i push the right button and this gets posted. adam out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)