An interesting day that was a non-day.
Today was mostly spent lounging about, catching up on email, reading essays (Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing), and chatting with folks that I hadn’t heard from in a while. Around 6 Mickey and I went out to coffee in Hanover, where we caught up with Eli and Megan, with whom we hung out for most of the night.
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Well, we have finally hit summer. This week, we have had a series of days ranging from 90 to 103 degrees, with signs of a break down to a measely 85 degrees this weekend.
The heat has proven to be an interesting shift in mode for me. As much as the heat can be overbearing during the day, the combination of sunlight and a climate controlled car make it reasonable to still do my normal daytime activities. However, the warmth carrying into the evening keeps me active and awake until much later at night than I had been, giving me more time for creative pursuits.
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I made a realization a few moments ago, and felt it merited sharing. I’d finally gotten around to watching the last two DVDs of the Escaflowne series, a boxed set I’ve had for MONTHS. After watching the credits roll and putting the set away, I was left feeling ill at ease. Pausing for introspection, it finally came to me.
I procrastinate because I don’t like finishing things. Well, really I procrastinate for lots of reasons, but that is a new one to me. Perhaps a bit more explanation is in order.
The reason I don’t start projects is because I don’t want to finish them. I don’t return to projects that I was enjoying, because I might finish them. Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t realize it sooner. You know how people talk about how it feels so great to finish a good book, or have closure on something? I never felt that. I always felt vaguely dissatisfied, ill at ease, wishing there was more though knowing full well that it wasn’t an option, nor even desireable on a more abstract level.
I’m sure there is more to this. I’m likewise sure that I have no IDEA what to do to remedy this. Ah well, just thought I’d share.
Play: The Final 45 Minutes of the World at a Coffee Shop
Strange throwback at the moment. I decided to go visit Haehnel, drop off the book I picked up for him while I was in Chicago.
It’s so STRANGE being back here. I got here a few minutes before school ended, and I caught the tail end of theatre arts. In observation: actors are actors, through and through, no matter what age, or how good they actually are. Or maybe it’s just that I’m out of this circle of people (actors… high schoolers). Either way, a lot of what they say I can’t even make out. It is gibberish, spoken quickly and mumbled, slurred. And then they get up on the stage and are suddenly in “stage mode”, everything enunciated carefully.
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More please. I’m not done writing.
I’m not sure exactly what I want to say, but I want to say something.
Let’s create some characters, shall we?
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I just spent a week in DC, with Mickey, which was a great deal of fun, even if I did get into a funk towards the end. I don’t like it when I get that way, especially when it causes people who care about me to become concerned (like Mickey). But that is over and done now: I’m back up in Vermont (well, Dirt Cowboy at the moment), and she’s down in DC, working. I’ll be heading back down there in November, though exactly when is yet to be determined.
When last I wrote (on the 15th), I ended because my friend Richard suddenly showed up after not seeing him for a year and a half. Or at least I thought it was him. (I was right). Hopefully, he’ll be around more now that he knows the Dirt is open in the evenings.
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I don’t really understand the mode I’m in at the moment. My head is all jumbled, a mixture of enjoyment and frustration. I had a doctor’s appointment today, which immediately throws you off (it doesn’t necessarily turn it into a bad day, it simply makes it an off day), as a matter of spite.
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We are all prisoners here. You can’t put a finger on why, you can’t define the cage, but regardless, we are confined, restricted by rules of society, rules of physics. We cannot fly, we cannot run naked among the throngs of a crowded street. We restrict ourselves.
Past times I’ve done a freewrite, a ramble, or really anything like this, I end up talking about Truth, in one fashion or another. Beyond this brief mention here, I’m going to try and not this time. There are other things to talk about. Other things indeed.
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The Madhouse:
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Story idea: 30 years before the open of the story, a well respected and intelligent man dies young, leaving no direct descendent. He is buried in a small town in the northeast. 10 years later, what would have been his nephew is born, bearing a striking resemblence in appearance and mannerisms.
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