I don't remember what the other responses were supposed to be about. I forget what the other documentary we were supposed to watch was, so I haven't laid my hands on it. I vaguely remember that we were supposed to write a response on a paper I had to borrow from the guy sitting next to me, but I do not have that paper nor do I remember the author or title. but I remember something he said.
He had this metaphor for writers which involved both a dog and rabbits. I thoroughly enjoyed it. The general point of the metaphor was that the dog represented the writer, while the rabbits the dog scared up (while he was nosing about the woods) represented random thoughts of the writer. He was of the opinion that while fiction writers couldn't afford to chase many of those rabbits, nonfiction writers could afford to chase quite a few of them (while poetry writers could afford to chase even more).
I liked this because I have always had trouble with fiction. I have too many bunny rabbits and they all look too tasty. I have trouble keeping my mind on a subject long enough to finish a sentence, so I could never quite get the hang of fiction. I did alright in my fiction class but I was never satisfied with what I had created (not that I've ever been satisfied with the nonfiction I've created, but that's not the point dammit!). Nonfiction was just all around more fun to write. I could go off on any tangent I damned well pleased just as long as I was honest, and I'm honest by nature (too stupid to lie).
I would try poetry, but I don't really understand poetry. I'm vaguely aware that if something rhymes it's probably a poem, but that's about as far as I get.
But that metaphor just about perfectly summed up why I turned to nonfiction.
I wish I remembered what else I was supposed to post about. I should really start writing these things down, but every time I try I end up losing the piece of paper I wrote it on.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Man On Wire Response.
Earlier today, before watching this movie, I caught a bit of the movie "Into the Wild" on the way out the door to see my ladyfriend. The combination of the two movies has managed to make me feel as if I had wasted my entire life. This is a common feeling for me.
The man had a Dream. The sort of Dream that deserves the capital letter. I am a man without a Dream, and I've always felt as though my life was lacking something because of it.
Last class the professor mentioned a man who claimed it was his responsibility as a writer to do interesting things so that he could write about them. This is a sentiment I sympathize with but do not share anymore, because it stopped me from doing anything really interesting.
I've been struggling with this because I used up all my good stories in my last nonfiction class, and since Anna just had to show up in this class too I can't recycle them. So I am lost. A writer with nothing to say, half tempted to punch a bouncer just so I can write about the beating I get for Monday. Pathetic.
I remember a time when I almost couldn't help but get into crazy situations. When I was convinced I would never make it to my 30th birthday. When I did things, not because I wanted to write about them, but simply for the beauty of the performance. I was like the man in the movie, content to do for no other reason than that I thought it should be done.
But then I started telling people about what I had done, and writing about what I had done. And eventually the things I did became less and less about the things themselves and more and more about the prospect of writing them. My art had lost it's flavor, and I had lost my muse.
Because I was never a writer, not really. I was a performer who happened to be good at writing. Though I was not a performer in the traditional sense. I did not juggle, or sing, or dance, or tell jokes I had prepared. My performance was my life. My actions, my art. I lived to remind the faceless multitudes that their rules were not absolute. I lived to do the unexpected, the unnatural, the unwise. I lived to live without plans, to walk the tightrope without a net. I once lived in the moment, whereas now I live only in the future and the past. I somehow managed to grow drunk on fame I never had, and I regret it.
So I guess I do have a dream. I dream of one day once again being able to live in the moment like I used to. Like that man did when he was up on that wire looking down.
The man had a Dream. The sort of Dream that deserves the capital letter. I am a man without a Dream, and I've always felt as though my life was lacking something because of it.
Last class the professor mentioned a man who claimed it was his responsibility as a writer to do interesting things so that he could write about them. This is a sentiment I sympathize with but do not share anymore, because it stopped me from doing anything really interesting.
I've been struggling with this because I used up all my good stories in my last nonfiction class, and since Anna just had to show up in this class too I can't recycle them. So I am lost. A writer with nothing to say, half tempted to punch a bouncer just so I can write about the beating I get for Monday. Pathetic.
I remember a time when I almost couldn't help but get into crazy situations. When I was convinced I would never make it to my 30th birthday. When I did things, not because I wanted to write about them, but simply for the beauty of the performance. I was like the man in the movie, content to do for no other reason than that I thought it should be done.
But then I started telling people about what I had done, and writing about what I had done. And eventually the things I did became less and less about the things themselves and more and more about the prospect of writing them. My art had lost it's flavor, and I had lost my muse.
Because I was never a writer, not really. I was a performer who happened to be good at writing. Though I was not a performer in the traditional sense. I did not juggle, or sing, or dance, or tell jokes I had prepared. My performance was my life. My actions, my art. I lived to remind the faceless multitudes that their rules were not absolute. I lived to do the unexpected, the unnatural, the unwise. I lived to live without plans, to walk the tightrope without a net. I once lived in the moment, whereas now I live only in the future and the past. I somehow managed to grow drunk on fame I never had, and I regret it.
So I guess I do have a dream. I dream of one day once again being able to live in the moment like I used to. Like that man did when he was up on that wire looking down.
Why I'm here At 6 AM
Around midnight I was lying with my head in my girlfriends lap watching the copy of "Man On Wire" she had generously downloaded onto her computer since I don't get along with computers.
Well, she's not really my girlfriend.
She's someone else's girlfriend.
Which I suppose makes me the other man.
Which is something I'm not used to. I never thought I would be the other man. I always figured I would be the first man. The man abandoned in favor of more masculine men with bigger feet and faster cars. But here I am, the other man, with a man's girl sticking her tongue in my ear instead of his. but I don't, and it amazes me.
I am amazed. Not only that I'm suddenly the type of man that girls leave men for, but that I don't feel guilty for being the other man. If I had ever suspected that I would be the other man, I would naturally have assumed I would feel guilty for stealing the first man's girl.
I tell myself that I don't feel guilty because I have no reason to feel guilty. Women are not property, not things to be stolen. She is here of her own free will, and this is obviously a sign that he isn't the right guy for her anyway.
But this is a bullshit reason. A fabricated justification I created so that I don't have to feel guilty about not feeling guilty.
The real reason I don't feel guilty is because I've always been the type of man who made friends with girls easily, and men who make friends with girls easily find it very difficult to make girlfriends (cliche, I know, but cliche because It's true). It has been over a year since I last had a girls tongue in my mouth and over two years since my last successful attempt at sex. Guilt can't really stand up against that much sexual frustration. So now when this man's girl sticks her tongue in my ear I'm so busy feeling triumphant that I don't have time to notice guilt. I also don't have time to notice the time. Hence my early morning post to this blog. Before I knew it it was 4 AM, and it took an hour and a half to work up the willpower to tear myself away from her and come to the library to use a computer.
Similar things have been occurring for the past couple weeks, and while I feel no real guilt over this either, I do apologize for letting rediscovered carnal pleasures distract me from my schoolwork. I realize that my teacher has a freshly captured wife which my late papers are likely keeping him away from, and I regret this, but I hope he can sympathize with me, even if he can't find it in his heart to give me grades for work turned in consistently late.
Well, she's not really my girlfriend.
She's someone else's girlfriend.
Which I suppose makes me the other man.
Which is something I'm not used to. I never thought I would be the other man. I always figured I would be the first man. The man abandoned in favor of more masculine men with bigger feet and faster cars. But here I am, the other man, with a man's girl sticking her tongue in my ear instead of his. but I don't, and it amazes me.
I am amazed. Not only that I'm suddenly the type of man that girls leave men for, but that I don't feel guilty for being the other man. If I had ever suspected that I would be the other man, I would naturally have assumed I would feel guilty for stealing the first man's girl.
I tell myself that I don't feel guilty because I have no reason to feel guilty. Women are not property, not things to be stolen. She is here of her own free will, and this is obviously a sign that he isn't the right guy for her anyway.
But this is a bullshit reason. A fabricated justification I created so that I don't have to feel guilty about not feeling guilty.
The real reason I don't feel guilty is because I've always been the type of man who made friends with girls easily, and men who make friends with girls easily find it very difficult to make girlfriends (cliche, I know, but cliche because It's true). It has been over a year since I last had a girls tongue in my mouth and over two years since my last successful attempt at sex. Guilt can't really stand up against that much sexual frustration. So now when this man's girl sticks her tongue in my ear I'm so busy feeling triumphant that I don't have time to notice guilt. I also don't have time to notice the time. Hence my early morning post to this blog. Before I knew it it was 4 AM, and it took an hour and a half to work up the willpower to tear myself away from her and come to the library to use a computer.
Similar things have been occurring for the past couple weeks, and while I feel no real guilt over this either, I do apologize for letting rediscovered carnal pleasures distract me from my schoolwork. I realize that my teacher has a freshly captured wife which my late papers are likely keeping him away from, and I regret this, but I hope he can sympathize with me, even if he can't find it in his heart to give me grades for work turned in consistently late.
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