Post-Its from the Brink
What I want, really want, is a graduation party. I mean, a party.
It's kind of tragic that I don't know a lot of people who would want
to go to it. That sounds a lot worse than I mean. It's that most of
my friends are now out of state, it may be a semester early, and it's
kind of random to up and ask people for money or a gift. It would
cost money and be pointless, but I really want one. I've never had a
party since like I was 6 and we went to pre-Chucky Cheese Showbiz
Pizza Place. It's all back to that one day of focus, which is
probably assy to bring up since I just had a whole weekend of that. I
don't want paeans and odes. I just want someone to really contemplate
me with 1/100th of the intensity I contemplate myself.
So, while I am a chicken with its head cut off too, if I can just take
it one Monday at a time, I think I can live. It's only 16 Mondays.
I'm with you, at least I don't have time to think about how fucked up
I am when I'm running at full steam. I don't have time to talk myself
into a depressed day. It's kind of a thin line, though, because I
have to work alone so much, it's easy to get those lonely crazy
thoughts of Never Will Be, Never Could, Stupid...and such. That whole
thing about idle hands being the devil's playground has some truth to
it. It's true, also, I don't thrive on it. I need a lot of downtime,
a lot of watching TV, watching people, daydreaming to even be able to
face the crunch of life.
And now I can drink alcohol whenever I want and no one will run
through the dorms and arrest me. It's gright.
This is the theme of the story
that I finally, and with surprising ease, am beginning to get out of
me for class. The potential of talent and what it does to you to not
do anything with it. I decided to use a theme I strongly identified
with if not a situation. I'll send you the draft if I don't feel it's
all ripped apart and needs editing from the E412 crew. It's not even
about living with regrets, it's about living. When you prioritize
other things than this, this thing...be it the will to write, to make music, to care for someone, whatever that grand emotional destiny for you is, I just feel like...it fucks you up. Me, I'm lucky that I just get lost, I get crabby, or sick, or so mentally constipated that I am
physically forced to write...but some people just run harder because
talent is scary. It, by its nature, requires sacrifice and constant
proof. I think running and trying other methods to get it out that
are less tenuous, more socially accepted, more instantly gratifying is
a lot worse. Because when you do that you corrode those anodes, that
link to the creative source, and when you want back in, when you HAVE
to get back in...it is so hard. It's like trying to re-conquer a
learning disorder every time. You have to read, re-center, answer to
yourself, and break bones to fit and stretch to that high level that's
being asked of you. Yeah, that's basically my story. I'm kind of
getting passionate about it.
Today in class, I swore I heard someone call my name...but there was
no one around. It was so unbidden and strange that I wonder...just
what it was.
