Is it hot in here?

Well, I figured it's been awhile so I'll make an actual rant/journal entry.

Today's been an eventful day. Not in the sense of monumentous activity, because I generally don't bother writing about that. I mean it's been eventful in my mind. As you may have guessed, this means I actually thought today. I was doing research for my parody of The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, and I really started thinking about her ideas (you don't have to have read the book to get something of a grasp on them). The main character, Roark, is her ideal man. He lives to create for his own sake, unconcerned with the feelings or whims of others. "Invidualism" I think it's called.

It's an interesting idea. I see a lot of myself in Roark, and I also see a lot of myself in the arch-villain Toohey (the deceptive, "compassionate", power hungry man who relies completely on others to accomplish his goals). Obviously, like my existentialism and romanticism these traits are in conflict. I want to not need people, and I want to be able to be content on my own without the approval or favor of others. Yet, if I live solely for myself, what's the point to living at all? I suppose one could try and be completely satisfied with one's self. I just don't see how you can do that and not get trapped in existentialism, eventually deciding there's no point and expediating the inevitable.

So you take the opposite route and try to please people. It's an arduous task that you must constantly work at maintaining. Their approval shifts from day to day, and so too would your emotional state. I can feel the tide myself: The high produced by enducing laughter, the low that creeps in as you continually fail and are looked at with a kind of sad disappointment. The only way I can avoid it is by escaping from everyone so I don't feel pressured to do something positive.

And then you come back to the first part of the argument about living for yourself. The reasons I persist in this ludicrous endeavor of life are 1. I can't find a suitable method of death and 2. It would cause too much pain and suffering to others to be considered acceptable. It's kind of sad, isn't it? My life isn't bad or anything, for the most part. I'm just not capable of the stablility to make it be good.

Unlike Roark, I genuinely care about people. Although I sometimes wonder how much of the care is of a parasitic nature. Certainly I empathize with others, but it often seems destructive in a way. I sort of push my mental dialogues upon them, and they're taken quite unawares. Of course, I'm looking for another perspective and would like them to do the same in return, but it's really not the way things are done. I also have almost a perverse interest in the dramas of others. I don't pry, which is odd, but when emotions are in play I'm generally rather interested. It's almost as if I feed off the passion I feel I lack. I dunno. Just thoughts.

Speaking of passion, though, there does seem to be one thing I am genuinely intrigued and interested in: writing. I may think about my online game a proposterous amount, but I never feel as charged and excited as when I'm thinking about my next novel. I've practically fallen in love with the idea. There's the rub, though, it's just an idea. I lack the commitment and sustained drive to write it the way it deserves to be written. I'm doomed to mediocrity of my own making. I'm afraid of failure, as we all are. When you work so hard on something only have it rejected... It's like a rejection of your self. You don't want polite" good job" 's. You want sincere "beautiful" 's. I never want someone to tell me they liked something in order to be polite. When they tell me something, I want it to be the truth.

Once again, this relies on the whims of others which will most often lead to ruin. I could write this novel (meaning the next) solely for myself, I suppose. If I did this, though, it would be even more difficult to ever find the will and impetus to actually carry it out.

I saw the Crucible today, and surprisingly enough I wasn't envious of the actors or the play itself. It was mostly emotionalism, the message fairly easy to understand. I did sort of want to be up there acting, but I reminded myself that I'm incapable of acting. It's not the "I failed the test but ended up getting a high B" mentality. It's just the truth. I can't effectively act. No loss. I've got writing, right?

I think I can learn from Ayn Rand. All things in moderation.

RAWR! *sigh*

That ought to sum it up.

Romantics

Ralph, where have the feelings gone? You fantasia about Thomas Tallis, I fantasia about no Calculus. You feel the good feel, I fight it all the way. You cry through sound, I sound no cry. You wax and wane, I let out a sigh and think, "Changes, long ranges, blindness be, to the future I cannot see but look and guess and hypothesize the lies I tell and do believe that I won't be like you."

Why can't I emulate the symphonate you resonate and EBB and flo with latent woe and I just think "I want this too, this purple blue, this forceful wave to behave by my own rules and tools, but I can't care enough to dare enough to grasp the beast by horns of word and master lines of so absurd love's and lie's and who's and why's and fall flat on my foolish face."

Pachebel me straight to Hell and I'll quell the depression blues in 1's and 2', 3/4's and more's with scores of notes on page and page devoid of rage with soothing, joyous happy sounds.

FYI

Family Guy is returning to Fox next Sunday at 9PM. How I found this out, I can't remember. The point is, it's ON!

Do you ever write a post on someone's blog or on a forum or something like that in which you try and say something insightful/of value and halfway through you realize you have no idea what you're trying to say, stop, and delete it? I do.

Just curious.

No, really.

STOP JUDGING ME!

I was walking in the developing subdivision 2minutes from my home (it's nice and secluded) when I stumbled upon a used purple condom. The funny thing was, my first thought wasn't "what is a condom doing here" but "why on earth would you want a purple condom?" Then I thought the pavement would be a pretty uncomfortable place to "do the deed." So I can only presume it was squirrels.

Curse those squirrels. They become more like us with each passing day...

Morals?

I just wanted to complain a moment about the incredibly twisted view our society has on what constitutes "immorality." It's most apparent in the ludicrous notion that sex/nudity is considered worse than violence. I was reading a review of a video game that contains nudity (unlike the vast majority). The reviewer was all praise for the game that had plenty of "extremely gory action." Then, he says one of the few downpoints of the game was the "badtaste" left by nudity.

If you've ever seen a video game, you know how bad they are. Blood flies everywhere, body parts are removed, screams of pain and torment following you around every turn. It's bad. The same occurs in TV and the movies. Violence is bad, but not shocking. Nudity and cursing(to a lesser degree) are. I was appalled when I was watching an episode of Firefly to stop a character from cursing, the writers had him inflicted with an intense amount of pain (he was being interrogated in the scene). That was definetly a low point.

Does this make sense to any of you? That words and flesh are more depraved than human pain and suffering? What on earth is the problem that a society that has this value system? I try to follow a "if it doesn't hurt me or anyone else, I don't care" approach. Do I support wanton nudity? For shock/pornagraphic value, no. If you've got an artistic reason, or if you want to set up an "atmosphere", go right ahead. Half of the country has boobs and the other half wants to see them (and most probably have).

As for cursing, words are just words. It's almost hypocritical that I don't curse myself, but I've got some sort of mental block. I don't mind them though. And, rationally, no one else should either.

As for violence... Meh. Any piercing of skin, medical or homicidal, I have a hard time watching. I don't have a phobia of shots, I just can't watch it happen. I just don't enjoy it. So guess what? I don't. I close my eyes if it's an otherwise fine show or I don't watch it in the first place.

So... RAWR! (Font changes instead of cursing. Hooray!)

Edit: By the way, sorry about the downer posts. But you're used to them.

It seems too much. If I was dedicated, I'd be fine. If I was dedicated, I would be able to finish ahead of the deadline, sleep better, have better mental health, actually make something of myself. I'm content with my chosen path. Isolated, peaceful, simple. All the drama I need I can create using words and imagination. All the love I want I can bestow upon my characters, who I will subsequently destroy to ensure they too know the way the world works. If I tried, I could do incredible things. I I cared, I could actually create. If only.

My lack of motivation really bothers me. I mean, if I even expended 3x the very little effort I do now, I'd be completely in control. I just don't want to. I don't have a reason to, when I can get by on less. Meh. I'm not depressed anymore. I haven't been depressed in quite awhile. I've just been... this. I've had relatively minor lows and highs, but nothing like I used to have. I guess I've stabilized to a gray line. Go me.

(You'll all be happy to know my novel is quite a bit more humorous than my blog. So... yay.)

Inspiration

Inspiration is a wonderful thing. One moment you're sitting, watching a movie, listening to music, drifting off in class, and then it hits you: an idea that really could work. A concept that demands exploration, a plotline that has potential for something great. You have to write it down, on anything, anywhere, as long as it's permanent because such an idea can not be forgotten. It is true enthusiasm. You're tempted to start writing then and there, but of course you're not in a position to. It's a feeling of promise, of hope for the future because you know you can take it somewhere. You won't run into a grand "roadblock."

Of course, after the initial flurry, things calm down. You start writing, and you realize how hard a sentence is to craft. You look at the words and think "This. Is. Wrong." If you think writing is a subjective enterprise, trying beginning a chapter. Trying putting that first paragraph down, knowing it's the first impression someone is going to get, knowing it's the basis for hundreds of sentences to follow, knowing it has to be the best you can make it. It's incredibly frustrating. Even worse, you write a chapter, you really immerse yourself, you're on a roll, lines come pouring out, sometimes sentences worthy of quotation, it's wonderful to finally get something accomplished! Then you read it again. This isn't great. It's... wrong. Or maybe it's just alright. Nothing to write home about. So to speak.

Now, what do you think happens when you lack the initial enthusiasm towards an idea? That's right: writersblock. It's ok when there's no deadline. You're ok. But when there are bills to pay, readers to appease, expectations to be met... It ain't easy.

I blame inspiration. A wonderful thing, to be sure. Just be careful where it leads you.