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Having elected to give up my furious scribbling for manic typing, I've turned all the lights off and closed the door to create an blog-writingy atmosphere in my room. Even though the sun-on-snow glow from outside penetrates the 30-year-old blanket desperately nailed over my window like it's Ed Norton in American History X. I painted my room brown in the summer and got pissed off at my navy blue curtains, so rape-victim blanket it is.
I flip-flop back and forth between preferring hand writing or typing. With a pencil, you can feel each letter create itself on the paper and there's a sort of intimacy that develops between you and the words. But typing can be equally as satisfying when you get into that tik-tikka-taka-taka-chuh-kah-tik-tik-tik-chika-takka flow and the writing almost feels like playing a piece of music or a video game. It's a coordinated effort that you can feel proud of rather than the effortless curves and angles of hand writing.
Something broken in the walls of this 40-year-old piece of crap townhouse makes a knocking noise every five or so minutes. It's like a constant painful reminder that I'm in here and not doing anything particularly useful. It's also a reminder that I have no money to pay someone with a name tag to make the noise go away. I didn't really need to be reminded.
The cat meows because she's stupid and thinks that if she can meow enough to confuse my memories of having fed her, I will actually get up and feed her again. I yell at her because I'm stupid and think that if I yell enough, she'll understand that I'm on to her game and we can finally agree on a truce. She meows again to underscore my stupidity.
Florence + The Machine wails from my speakers just loud enough so that my mind doesn't get lonely. I think about how hypocritical I am to hate people who claim possession of bands and artists who finally garner some kind of mainstream awareness. Back in "the day" when those obscure artists were unknown and hidden away, as a small community of followers we professed our love for them on forums and wondered "why more people don't listen to these guys!?!!?!?". But then they get a bit of recognition and people say "you should watch this video on YouTube" and we say "lol I own all their albums even that one they released under a different name and also I've heard of them for three years and am a better fan and you didn't even pronounce the name right". We wish it would go back to that intimate mine-all-mine relationship we had before. I wish luck and success to all you up-and-comers, I guess.
I read the other day that the last surviving veteran of WWI died at the age of 110. I think if anyone I knew ever made it past 100, I'd kind of stop caring and probably wouldn't wish them a happy birthday beyond the hundred marker. At that point you've survived a century and aren't really putting an effort into it anymore. I assume it takes a bit of work and dedication to hold on from 80-years-old upward, but surely there must be a peak. If you held on through that 80-100 stretch, any time you log onward is likely just cruise control.
I may end up deciding to change the title of this post later. I'd meant to continue in the direction my first brainstorming session was heading but I got derailed pretty early on. I'll leave it as it is for now as I might be able to extract some of this stuff for viable novel fodder when my mind is clearer.
Particularly sad this week,
- Sad Blogger
