There was a lot going on.
Some of these quick writings are strangely prescient now. It's also odd to look back and see that even though I have completely changed, at the core my self, my views, and my experience remains the same.
|I was so organized back in the day.|
Now I use smaller, soft-backed books.
When I take notes at all. Heh.
CLIP ONE: ANGST. SUSPECTED DATE - JANUARY/FEBRUARY.
I am in a dark hole with dirt walls. There is a hint of sunshine above, but I can't be sure. All I know is that I want to get out of the hole. I start climbing the walls, grabbing fistfuls of earth and digging platforms, but instead of elevating me further it's burying me. My throat is closing, filling up with mud and gravel, and yet I'm still scrabbling away at the walls, desperate for some breath of air.
CLIP TWO: FRUSTRATION IN POETIC FORM. SUSPECTED DATE - MARCH.
He loves to play the martyr,
He loves to play the fool,
He loves to play the one that was abandoned, it's his rule.
He loves to play the slighted,
The one destined to lose,
CLIP THREE: PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS. SUSPECTED DATE - LATE JANUARY, PROBABLY THE 26th.
In one of my education classes this morning, we had a topical writing essay. The front of the class is littered with a heady array of composition books—gray, red, blue, marbled covers—each with a topic printed in Sharpie on the corner. I grabbed "TV" and scribbled away, waxing poetic about Bryan Fuller, Aaron Sorkin, and J.J. Abrams.
The trouble came when we exchanged books and responded to others. I was cornered by the girl I secretly refer to as "my nemesis." That girl who has to raise her hand and comment on everything, whether she is qualified to voice an opinion or not. The girl who spent the first five minutes of class quoting racist anti-Obama bumper stickers and dismissing the State of the Union as drivel. The girl who, after we responded to each other's writing, turned to me and smugly commented on how interesting it was that she chose reading and I chose TV, clearly implying that her choice made her intellectually superior. The girl who, after reading my ode to worthwhile TV, dismissed my arguments and points for quality TV shows and stated that she didn't like TV, that it "rots your brain," and as such should be condemned.
I just love people who live in a box and refuse to learn from others, don't you?
See, it just frustrated me that she so carelessly tossed aside television, because I think that certain shows can be incredibly stimulating, that some can raise intellectual debate and foster learning. And I don't like that some snot-faced brown-noser can waltz in and claim that her voracious reading of Jane Austen and fantasy makes her more intelligent than my watching "Dead Like Me" and "The West Wing." Because that is wrong. It's false.
CLIP FOUR: I SHOULD LISTEN TO MYSELF. DATED 4-24-11, MY 22nd BIRTHDAY.
Here's why I never would have made a good journalist—I want people to like me. That's what attracted me to the field. Meeting interesting people, talking, it all sounds great. Except for the part about asking questions. I'm too cautious to be curious. Shame, really.
Also—I suspect I am like Chuck Klosterman. My fiction is meticulous, labored, and overly self-conscious. Observation is my medium, and I should embrace it.