I love blank pages.
They're so smooth and crisp. Smudge-free, ink-less, and--not to be taken offensively--white, a blank page is almost completely and totally inviting.
Almost.
The only thing I hate about a blank page is exactly the thing I love a bout a blank page: It's so perfect. The first and last thing I want to do when I chance upon an un-tainted piece of industrialized tree is ruin it with smudges and scribbles and ideas which usually won't make it past a few comments and, "likes" on facebook and other various websites I make the mistake of posting my mind ramblings on.
Still, I quite often find that I can't help myself, and the page that was once a beautiful metaphor for so many pretty things becomes an adjective one would use to describe laundry that's seen a little too much of the inside of a furnace(Yes, there are oddish people who accidentally place their clothes in furnaces instead of dryers because they're too preoccupied with being worried about the next family party occuring at five minutes past noon but everyone arrived at four minutes past noon and so they now have to rush to get wood in the fire AND get the laundry done all before the dog starts puking on the floor from being fed too much human food).
Many people often try to convince me that the page is in fact not ruined, but is instead made more beautiful with the ideas of a creative mind. I then promptly inform these disillusioned people that I wish my ramblings were the result of a creative mind, but more often than not, whatever creative idea may have started the writing is quickly overpowered by an inner dialogue-argument between my mind and my brain about something totally unrelated to which I am currently writing. These inward arguments also cover the topic of inward arguments versus creativity every time I lay eyes on a blank page, and so such comments from friends and passers-by are quite often totally unnecessary but quite easily forgiven with the donation of an extra-strength pain-killer for the headache. Unless of course the inner-conflict has not yet been resolved in which case such comments are more than welcome so as to sway the argument in creativity's favor and get rid of the headache without the aid of chemically enhanced drugs.
In short-and as you have no doubt been praying for-conclusion, a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and a blank page is a terrible thing to waste. Even if it means enduring endless hours of torturous mind-banter.
Because in the end of things, words that are written on paper and then typed onto the everlasting internet will outlive me even when I've outlived them. And someday I'll come back to my thoughts and be reminded that thinking is only for those with far too much time on their hands, and writing is for those who wish there was a pest control for the stuff.
Oh, and happy birthday dad :)
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Daily Mind Grind
Emotions. All over the page. Feelings splayed everywhere. Like the legs of a lazy chair. Creativity running dry. Need an idea; something to spark the tip of my pen and set my mind to racing. Once racing I'll need some fuel. No NASCAR champion ever became that way on one tank of gas. They also never stopped, because then cars start passing, and ideas stop flowing. The brain loses interest, and falls prey to facebook, youtube, or some other form of deadly time predator.
It's a weird feeling when the brain and mind conflict. I don't know many who suffer this sort of torture, but I endure it almost daily. I find my mind trying to hit the daily grind again and again with ideas through the roof-the roof being my skull-and my brain will repeatedly refuse to provide material with which to support said ideas, and they then begin to argue about how feasible the idea is in the first place. When this happens I begin to write the ideas in spite of everything, and end up having ridiculous ramblings like the one you are currently forcing yourself to read.
I don't mean forcing in a bad way, but you wouldn't be reading if you weren't telling your brain to read now would you? I wish I had that sort of control over my brain. It would make writing SO much easier.
But here I sit: pen still moving furiously and my mind and brain still having a go at eachother-it's giving me something close to a headache-and all I wanted to do was tell Melissa Smith what a wonderful person I think she is.
It's a weird feeling when the brain and mind conflict. I don't know many who suffer this sort of torture, but I endure it almost daily. I find my mind trying to hit the daily grind again and again with ideas through the roof-the roof being my skull-and my brain will repeatedly refuse to provide material with which to support said ideas, and they then begin to argue about how feasible the idea is in the first place. When this happens I begin to write the ideas in spite of everything, and end up having ridiculous ramblings like the one you are currently forcing yourself to read.
I don't mean forcing in a bad way, but you wouldn't be reading if you weren't telling your brain to read now would you? I wish I had that sort of control over my brain. It would make writing SO much easier.
But here I sit: pen still moving furiously and my mind and brain still having a go at eachother-it's giving me something close to a headache-and all I wanted to do was tell Melissa Smith what a wonderful person I think she is.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
That's all.
Grammar has always fascinated me-or should I say fascinated I?
The reason people tell you not to say, "me and so and so" is because it would be weird to say, "me went to the bar last night." or something like that, but the latter sentence shouldn't even come into question. I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." I'm saying, "me and so and so went to the bar last night". I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." so why are you asking me if I would say, "me went to the bar last night"? I obviously wouldn't say that because it sounds ridiculous, but it does not come into play in the other sentence! So you're being completely illogical!
That's all.
The reason people tell you not to say, "me and so and so" is because it would be weird to say, "me went to the bar last night." or something like that, but the latter sentence shouldn't even come into question. I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." I'm saying, "me and so and so went to the bar last night". I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." so why are you asking me if I would say, "me went to the bar last night"? I obviously wouldn't say that because it sounds ridiculous, but it does not come into play in the other sentence! So you're being completely illogical!
That's all.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Much Needed and Well Overdue Nap
The Universe is constantly expanding, but the world isn't. And the human population is. What will happen if there's too many of us? the other day I sat and wondered what would happen if there were so many people covering the surface of the earth that one couldn't even sit down without crushing a baby or a foot of some strange person you don't even know. Would gravity even put up with that sort of nonsense?
Everything has a limit, so either gravity would grow exhausted from the effort of holding onto several zillion people, or the crust of the earth would simply say something along the lines of, "Fuck it" and collapse under the pressure of a seemingly endlessly powerful force of gravity. If gravity continued to stand faithfully oblivious by its post even after the collapse of the earth's crust, then the end result would look something like a mass of melted crust, humans, buildings, animals, and steam. The reason it would look like such is because it would quite literally be such.
The other option for gravity at this point would be to agree with the earth's, "Fuck it" decision and let go as well, at which point space would suddenly be filled with tiny imploding, exploding, and screaming humans and animals. I can't imagine the buildings would complain much; they're already used to being walked all over.
So it appears that even if we don't rape the earth of its resources or kill each other with wars over those resources, or if our star(sometimes called, "the" sun...don't know why we act like it's so important though...it's actually one of the smallest stars in the universe) doesn't die of old age or kill us with the same energy that keeps us alive, then we are bound to kill ourselves anyway by simply living. There's some iron for your diet.
Now imagine for a moment that gravity is on steroids and has chosen to split the steroids fifty-fifty with the earth's crust-as if the surface hasn't gone through enough abuse already-and both manage to sustain the ridiculous pressure that is literally a mass of humans covering the earth's surface. The only plausible thing to happen is that many would die of mass disease and starvation due to the inability to move around much. The starvation would lead to cannibalism, and the disease would most likely lead to a zombie epidemic of some sort. Humans would eventually die out, and the earth would breathe a sigh of relief as the last most intelligent earthly organism passed into oblivion.
With a slight smile, earth would probably simply let loose all the stress of supporting self-centered, reckless organisms, and enjoy the peace and quiet, perhaps even uttering a little, "Good riddance." before taking a much needed and well overdue nap.
Everything has a limit, so either gravity would grow exhausted from the effort of holding onto several zillion people, or the crust of the earth would simply say something along the lines of, "Fuck it" and collapse under the pressure of a seemingly endlessly powerful force of gravity. If gravity continued to stand faithfully oblivious by its post even after the collapse of the earth's crust, then the end result would look something like a mass of melted crust, humans, buildings, animals, and steam. The reason it would look like such is because it would quite literally be such.
The other option for gravity at this point would be to agree with the earth's, "Fuck it" decision and let go as well, at which point space would suddenly be filled with tiny imploding, exploding, and screaming humans and animals. I can't imagine the buildings would complain much; they're already used to being walked all over.
So it appears that even if we don't rape the earth of its resources or kill each other with wars over those resources, or if our star(sometimes called, "the" sun...don't know why we act like it's so important though...it's actually one of the smallest stars in the universe) doesn't die of old age or kill us with the same energy that keeps us alive, then we are bound to kill ourselves anyway by simply living. There's some iron for your diet.
Now imagine for a moment that gravity is on steroids and has chosen to split the steroids fifty-fifty with the earth's crust-as if the surface hasn't gone through enough abuse already-and both manage to sustain the ridiculous pressure that is literally a mass of humans covering the earth's surface. The only plausible thing to happen is that many would die of mass disease and starvation due to the inability to move around much. The starvation would lead to cannibalism, and the disease would most likely lead to a zombie epidemic of some sort. Humans would eventually die out, and the earth would breathe a sigh of relief as the last most intelligent earthly organism passed into oblivion.
With a slight smile, earth would probably simply let loose all the stress of supporting self-centered, reckless organisms, and enjoy the peace and quiet, perhaps even uttering a little, "Good riddance." before taking a much needed and well overdue nap.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Paradoxical Renditionings of Nothing
A Paradox is a fascinating thing. Of course, so are a lot of other things involved with literature and the universe and everything, but I'm not going to write about any of them at the moment.
Well, maybe one.
There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.
It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.
I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.
This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.
Well, maybe one.
There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.
It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.
I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.
This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.
Monday, July 19, 2010
A Thought
I was sitting eating a bag of chocolate chips today when a thought struck me. Then I almost lost the thought due to it hitting me rather hard and almost rendering me unconscious. This was, of course, combined with the fact that I had only just recently returned home from a rather long and tiring shift at work. Under normal circumstances a strike from any thought--large or small--is barely enough to leave a mark.
Nonetheless, I managed to keep my consciousness somewhat intact, and I grasped the thought before it slipped away into the abyss of thin air and graced some other poor fellow with its presence.
I say some other poor fellow not because the thought is anything of dastardly or disgusting proportions, but because the thought is so extraordinarily subtle that if it weren't for the blow it delivers one would hardly notice or begin to interpret the thought. I do not mean to talk myself up by saying the following, but the thought is so subtly clever that it seems to think of itself as being something worth a substantial sort of note--more so than any other important thought, that is--and tends to strike harder than any other thought I have ever encountered before in the entirety of my life. It is on this that I base my logic which states that any other bloke to be struck by the thought would be a poor bloke indeed due to a probable inexperience of being struck by any thought at all, never mind an important one.
I apologize if my digression bores you, but I found(and find) all these things to be important when I was struck by the original thought, and so I can only assume they must be as equally important to any other person who intends to hear the thought as well--I also truly wish that the digression will lessen the pain and possible force of the blow that the thought will no doubt deliver once it has made its appearance in the mind of any unfortunate reader.
I believe we are at the point of which I stopped to read the nutritional information concerning the chocolate chips which I was currently stuffing down my esophagus at an alarming rate. This alarming rate was, of course, simply to distract myself from the throbbing headache which the blow of the thought had given me. At any rate, alarming or not, I was reading the nutritional information on the back of the chocolate chip package. I'm not quite sure why I was reading it, because I have no intention of ever going on a diet or setting a curfew on the population of calories and fats in my body, but I read it nonetheless. It was during the reading of the nutritional information that I had the latter thought, and this time around the blow was substantial enough to erase the previous thought about which I am supposed to be writing but seem to be failing horribly.
As it turns out, I have no miraculous thought to share with you, dear reader, and I must apologize that the reason for this is something as mundane as petty nutritional information on the back of a plastic package containing chocolate chips. It appears that you, faithful reader, are left with the disappointment of an unsatisfied curiosity. If it is any condolence, I not only experience the same dilemma, but I also have a rather bad headache and an upset stomach.
Nonetheless, I managed to keep my consciousness somewhat intact, and I grasped the thought before it slipped away into the abyss of thin air and graced some other poor fellow with its presence.
I say some other poor fellow not because the thought is anything of dastardly or disgusting proportions, but because the thought is so extraordinarily subtle that if it weren't for the blow it delivers one would hardly notice or begin to interpret the thought. I do not mean to talk myself up by saying the following, but the thought is so subtly clever that it seems to think of itself as being something worth a substantial sort of note--more so than any other important thought, that is--and tends to strike harder than any other thought I have ever encountered before in the entirety of my life. It is on this that I base my logic which states that any other bloke to be struck by the thought would be a poor bloke indeed due to a probable inexperience of being struck by any thought at all, never mind an important one.
I apologize if my digression bores you, but I found(and find) all these things to be important when I was struck by the original thought, and so I can only assume they must be as equally important to any other person who intends to hear the thought as well--I also truly wish that the digression will lessen the pain and possible force of the blow that the thought will no doubt deliver once it has made its appearance in the mind of any unfortunate reader.
I believe we are at the point of which I stopped to read the nutritional information concerning the chocolate chips which I was currently stuffing down my esophagus at an alarming rate. This alarming rate was, of course, simply to distract myself from the throbbing headache which the blow of the thought had given me. At any rate, alarming or not, I was reading the nutritional information on the back of the chocolate chip package. I'm not quite sure why I was reading it, because I have no intention of ever going on a diet or setting a curfew on the population of calories and fats in my body, but I read it nonetheless. It was during the reading of the nutritional information that I had the latter thought, and this time around the blow was substantial enough to erase the previous thought about which I am supposed to be writing but seem to be failing horribly.
As it turns out, I have no miraculous thought to share with you, dear reader, and I must apologize that the reason for this is something as mundane as petty nutritional information on the back of a plastic package containing chocolate chips. It appears that you, faithful reader, are left with the disappointment of an unsatisfied curiosity. If it is any condolence, I not only experience the same dilemma, but I also have a rather bad headache and an upset stomach.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Creativity Paradime
There comes a moment in every person's life when an epiphany is in order. Some have small epiphany's concerning things such as how to solve a meal plan dilemma, and some have epiphany's which could almost definitely classify as a serious problem to keep an eye on on the richter scale.
Some are even lucky enough to have multiple epiphany's, and these folk are often classified under the, 'artsy' category of earth's inhabitants. Perhaps the most frequent, 'epiphanizers'--if you will--are author's and writers and the like. A good author will tend to have an epiphany every day, or possibly even more depending on the amount of time spent observing life versus the amount of time actually spent composing works of fiction.
These particular writers will often interpret their own epiphany's and beliefs into the numerous characters of their stories, and the genius behind the epiphany will be discredited by the readers to a fictional character which wouldn't possess the ability to breathe had it not been for the author.
This sort of situation occurs all too frequently, and many famous authors spend so much time trying to be recognized as the source of their many character's epiphany's and mindsets, that they eventually give up and decide to become alcoholics for the rest of their epiphany-filled lives. Though, it should be noted that the epiphany's become less and less frequent as the authors spend more and more time being inebriated than being anything at all.
Young, unpublished and unnoticed authors as myself, however, have not yet run into any such problems, and have the chance to be recognized for their epiphinatic--again, if you will--deeds before being betrayed by their loveable characters. It is in the composing of this piece that I wish to convey a recent epiphany of mine without having the glory snatched from me by the very characters I nurtured to life.
I was going over and revising one of my as-of-yet-unpublished novels for the trillionth time(this is something authors enjoy doing to pass away the moments of not yet being published. It's very silly but it works, and sometimes can even improve the original story), when I was struck with a sudden idea--no, this is not the epiphany--for a sub-plot in the sub-plot of my story's sub-plot. I furiously began to tap away at my keyboard, letting the idea pour out onto the screen before me.
After several moments I stopped, stared blankly at the screen before me, blinked twice, selected the paragraph I had just completed and hit the wonderful, 'delete' button on my keyboard with no remorse whatsoever, sending the sub-sub-sub-plot idea screaming away to the depths of idea's hell(sometimes referred to as writer's block, depending on the situation).
I slowly placed my hands behind my head and leant back in my chair. I had not blinked since the last two times, and my eyes were beginning to sting, so I decided to blink because it seemed like a good idea. It was, and I've continued blinking regularly since.
But I digress. The epiphany was that my own creativity had contradicted my own creativity, and that this was indeed possible. I'm sure if you go back and read you'll be able to make sense of this. I'm feeling far too lazy to explain in detail, and I could quite definitely go for a glass of whiskey at the moment.
Some are even lucky enough to have multiple epiphany's, and these folk are often classified under the, 'artsy' category of earth's inhabitants. Perhaps the most frequent, 'epiphanizers'--if you will--are author's and writers and the like. A good author will tend to have an epiphany every day, or possibly even more depending on the amount of time spent observing life versus the amount of time actually spent composing works of fiction.
These particular writers will often interpret their own epiphany's and beliefs into the numerous characters of their stories, and the genius behind the epiphany will be discredited by the readers to a fictional character which wouldn't possess the ability to breathe had it not been for the author.
This sort of situation occurs all too frequently, and many famous authors spend so much time trying to be recognized as the source of their many character's epiphany's and mindsets, that they eventually give up and decide to become alcoholics for the rest of their epiphany-filled lives. Though, it should be noted that the epiphany's become less and less frequent as the authors spend more and more time being inebriated than being anything at all.
Young, unpublished and unnoticed authors as myself, however, have not yet run into any such problems, and have the chance to be recognized for their epiphinatic--again, if you will--deeds before being betrayed by their loveable characters. It is in the composing of this piece that I wish to convey a recent epiphany of mine without having the glory snatched from me by the very characters I nurtured to life.
I was going over and revising one of my as-of-yet-unpublished novels for the trillionth time(this is something authors enjoy doing to pass away the moments of not yet being published. It's very silly but it works, and sometimes can even improve the original story), when I was struck with a sudden idea--no, this is not the epiphany--for a sub-plot in the sub-plot of my story's sub-plot. I furiously began to tap away at my keyboard, letting the idea pour out onto the screen before me.
After several moments I stopped, stared blankly at the screen before me, blinked twice, selected the paragraph I had just completed and hit the wonderful, 'delete' button on my keyboard with no remorse whatsoever, sending the sub-sub-sub-plot idea screaming away to the depths of idea's hell(sometimes referred to as writer's block, depending on the situation).
I slowly placed my hands behind my head and leant back in my chair. I had not blinked since the last two times, and my eyes were beginning to sting, so I decided to blink because it seemed like a good idea. It was, and I've continued blinking regularly since.
But I digress. The epiphany was that my own creativity had contradicted my own creativity, and that this was indeed possible. I'm sure if you go back and read you'll be able to make sense of this. I'm feeling far too lazy to explain in detail, and I could quite definitely go for a glass of whiskey at the moment.
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