Oh, that sounded rather bad yesterday. I in no way meant that I’m just SUCH a fascinating person as to simply DEMAND an appearance in a story. I just meant there were now enough unique people in my life for me to be able to write about them, without needing to make people up (including myself, or whatever cobbled-together version of myself I used to cram in there).

I suppose the archivist comment sounded a little cruel, too. It’s true, it’s material, but I’m hardly sniffing at the wreckage of this relationship. Others are doing that. I am still too furious about what they did to engage in any fact-finding missions. Hell, I don’t even want to know the facts anymore. It’s only going one way, now, and if it gets to the end sooner rather than later, it won’t change the outcome for anyone.

I thought of all this yesterday but a more timely addendum fell by the wayside when I was witness to a woman having seizure, which resulted in a tremendous sidewalk wound and me calling an ambulance for the first time in my life. I was so rattled I picked up the dogs, walked home and crawled into bed at 5PM.

She couldn’t even form words.


why not?

I will do Script Frenzy this year. I care less for the genre than prose but with description, that which I value most, taken out, I know I can plow through a good bit of material without a second thought (and have done so many times in the past).

I don’t even have to try and come up with a plot. It’s all right here. Thankfully there are now enough characters in my life that I know longer have to be one of them. The novels I wrote always ended up troubling me as I wrote them; I tried too hard to become the character I modeled after who I, well, wished I were. I don’t think that will be a problem this time. I have no part in this drama and want none, except that of its archivist.

Unrelated, mostly: Script Frenzy’s site design is very classy. NaNo should take note for this fall.

film festival

Watched so many scenes from my city in Tomonari Nishikawa’s “Tokyo-Ebisu.” Felt like dirt. Remembered cousin’s accusatory message: “So are you enjoying yourself at all over there?” Wrote whole blog then to convince myself and others I was, because if you’re not having fun something’s wrong with you.

Cried bitterly through Don Hertzfeldt’s “It’s Such a Beautiful Day.” Hated everyone who laughed. Hoped they remembered this film when their loved ones forgot them. Hoped they cried.


It doesn’t just happen to girls starving themselves to get movie star thin.

I am watching people construct pinterest boards around a person they aren’t. A life they don’t have but are forcing on others. You can’t make your significant other into Beaver Cleaver’s dad by deluging him with pictures of drooling two year olds giggling. You can’t make Revolutionary Road into a hospitable place by changing the damn drapes.

I wonder if it would have been easier for these people if there weren’t so many channels through which they could wage this this-is-what-our-life-should-be-like war. I know you’d have to go way, way back, and even then you’d still have religious people and family and community members telling you who to be. But maybe if you just didn’t have the images. Maybe it would help. At the very least, maybe you wouldn’t have all this media telling you you could change people. Maybe you’d have the sense not to bind yourself to someone who would set about making you into someone you never were or wanted to be.

Because from what I can see, that appears to be a horrible process.

old emails

I kept this folded in the back of a photo frame behind a picture of my dog for ten years, so I’d know where to find it, but hidden so no one could figure me out. It’s part of an old email exchange about a book.


Your life is, without a doubt, out of your control, but that’s not to say that it has a purpose, that you have a destiny. Accident. Chance. Concidence.

So why are we here? The question has no answer. Not only will you never know, but there’s nothing to know.

X: ‘What the hell are people for?’

There is nothing to understand, nothing to know. You can invent reasons, sure. But so what?

Can pursue pure, rational truth (science). Might get facts, but facts don’t tell you anything about life.

Can pursue religion. Relates to life, but religion = lies.

The rational vs the irrational. Absurd actions. X and Y have reasons for doing what they do, but they’re rationalizations more than reasons. Not based on moral beliefs. Even Z’s desired last act is meaningless—because God’s not going to care.

Heck, living is irrational. So what do you have? These options:

Science: No connection to life. No responsibility. No morality. Death.

Cynicism: Main is vile and man makes nothing worth making, nothing worth knowing.

Religion: Lies. Happy lies, perhaps, but lies nonetheless. And it leaves you unable to question why you believe what you do, which puts you in the absurd position of having to ignore A LOT.

Laughter: Recognize the absurdity. Recognize the ridiculousness of humanity. Laugh not at humans (cynicism), but with humans (you are one, after all, and just as prone to irrational insanity as the next). Laugh with humans and keep your own humanity. Remain a part of humanity, not at the distance cynicism imposes. Laugh. And love. And laugh at love. And love to laugh.

A: ‘We are healthy only to the extent that our lives are humane.’”

I reproduce it here because I’ve lost it a couple times, since co-opting the photo frame for something else, and worry it’ll be gone forever. I didn’t carry it around with me for all that time; I kept it elsewhere. I like to flatter myself with the idea that I did so out of a healthy uneasiness with the idea of taking some written worldview so deeply to heart and making it my own. I like to imagine that having read it, and put it aside, finding things out for myself, unguided, was my chief concern. But probably I just didn’t want it to be found by anyone in my travels, since it would make it to easy for people to pigeonhole me, too quickly. Oh, well. There it is. I gave it ten years but I’m still pretty much in agreement with it. And it’s more eloquent—and, blessedly, brief, which any reader here has good reason to be grateful for—than I tend to be, so I didn’t want to lose it.

ETA: Oh, I should add that while I recognized the imperative in the last option at the time, I honestly wasn’t sure I could do that. I was a very lonely kid. I have, happily, been proven wrong.

I do hope those few people acquainted with this blog are aware that my cryptic moments are not the spawn of some bizarro literary delusion. I’m being cryptic so no one is mentioned outright, and thus placed in a difficult position. Myself included.

I did not spend four years surrounded by self-proclaimed poets and vainglorious auteurs for nothing. Spewing literary pretension like that undermines your claims. I am never trying to be literary here. I am trying to be earnest, and am by and large succeeding at it.