(8) Every time it rains, I feel the hold in me (8)

Greetings and salutations, all you faithful readers. I have returned again, same bat time same bat channel, to blog it up. I am currently at ST John in the library computer lab freezin' my na&ds off because of the super-air-conditioner, but otherwise am enjoying the last bit of my stay here trying to soak up university atmosphere. I hope to get into my old regiment sometime soon, return to super-work-ethic-Shannon rather than the semi-slacker that I have been. There are certain moments of non-work that I do appreciate and deem necessary, though, and for those of you who I share these moments with, you know what I'm talkin' about ;) No man is an island, and I cannot pretend like my strength is not a direct function of the compassion and love that others show me.

The world is not shit, it just plays it on tv.

But yeah, I am beginning to get a more positive outlook on life, which is a definite necessity for me. I am not a pillar of strength, but I do want to do very great things with my life, so focusing on positive energy is very important to me. Negative energy, although a part of life which is unavoidable, is something I do not like to spend much time in, unless I am channelling it into positive energy (although I have had little negative energy this weekend, thanks to my wonderful hostess :) )

At any rate, this is just to say thanks for the affection that I have been shown. It will not be forgotten, I keep a tab on the positive things people do :) (I throw out my negative notepad on such things whenever I can, and I have been doing very good at it lately).

Anyway, shine on, everybody.

Now I gotta go get a sammidge.

Why is the rain beautiful?

I often contemplate my perceptions... that is, I often wonder why it is that I find the things I do beautiful. Like, how is it that I find the most beautiful visual is a dark city, with black cobblestone, darkened by a rainstorm? Why is it that this setting sticks in my head whenever I want to paint the picture of a hero, is it some sort of archetypical image which speaks to me of an import I do not understand? Is it mere aesthetics, simply something that I find "pretty" and thus merely a function of my tastes?

Yet the rain is a predominate image for me. There is something beautiful, something refreshing and powerful in the rain. Whenever we see a hero, either ripped shirt or shirtless, standing up to the rain, it is an image of power, of survival and pathos... why is rain such a powerful image? I personally find it refreshing to feel the rain dripping down my skin (as long as it isn't a cold drop down my back).

The moisture I think is good on our skin, which can sometimes become dry and parched. So maybe it is just simply a biological desire because I drink too much pop and have a dehydrated body. Perhaps it is the image of the hero, in tears, standing in the rain; you cannot tell which is tears and which is raindrops, and so it is almost like the rain is an eater of sorrow, taking it away, washing it away.

I dunno, will have to think about it some more.

(8) I'm a loner, I'm a loser, I'm a winner in my mind (8)

The lights dim as the rain drops fall on the dark streets. The camera pans slowly through one of the alleyways, as thunder rips across the sky, shedding blinding light across the lens. A growl is heard in the background, monstrous and gurgling.

The camera cuts to a stray cat rummaging through the garbage. Its tiny meow is heard, barely audible amongst the sounds of the storm. It takes a piece of chicken bigger than its own head and scampers off. The camera tries to follow, but the cat moves too quickly.

As the camera tries to follow, we see the hero, standing with ripped shirt, soaked to the bone. He remains motionless, as if a statue. Except for the faintly visible movement of his chest at each breath, one would indeed think him a statue.

The camera closes up slowly, as if sneaking up behind him. We hear, tired and low, his voice. "The perceptions have changed, and nothing is the same."

Cue lightning and thunder.

"I have chased my demons, killed many. Yet here I stand, in the rain, with no greater knowledge."

Flashback: A little child (our hero in his childhood) playing with toys. A figure, behind in the shadows, watches. Camera pans around the child, lifting up slightly to get a better view of the toys he is playing with. He begins to laugh, but a sharp camera cut (flashcut) leads up to the father, who is the figure in the background. He has a frown plastered on his face, and he, almost in disgust, tells the boy, "you are nothing. Incompetent. How you ever hope to become a man, I'll never know. The real world will eat you up, like a victim."

Flashcut opens up on thunder. We have returned to our hero in the alleyway, and it is hard to tell whether the moisture around his eyes is tears or raindrops. "My sorrow was always your pleasure. I am not the failure that you thought of me. I am not--"

Before he can finish, in the background we hear the cat hissing, and then the sound of crunching bone, followed by a painful sound of the cat being hurt.

Always the hero, he sighs before lunging out into the unknown battle, forever fighting.

This Is How It Goes

Well, considering the last post that I made that I thought was completely eaten actually showed up on my humble abode (see below) I guess I have my faith restored in this wonderful thing called "the Blog". The therapy has proven rather wonderful, and I realize now more than ever that people think they understand me, have me pegged, but really are only using me as a scratching post. Thankfully, none of them read this, so I can be as harsh as I want.

People get jealous of you when you actually can be a fine, upstanding citizen... they curse you for it, even. They tell me that I don't know them, and indeed I don't, but that shouldn't stop anyone from trying to understand one another... but those people only judge me for the way I am, telling me I'll never understand them, pushing me away because I see things differently, without even trying to see my point of view... so I sever these people for my own sanity. I will not be an unsung hero for someone who throws their life away anyway... its like being a doctor for a suicidal patient... there becomes a point where enough is enough.

So, dear friends (who incidentally will never read this) you have made me suffer enough and I say, with the deepest regret, screw you all... no more. I will be happy, and you are a hindrance, and there are many people who would rather support my happiness than tear me down, so I turn to them and will give THEM the energy they deserve.

So I move on from that topic to those who deserve my energy. To these people, who I will name by name even though some of them don't read this (I think I will give them the address after writing this, for those who don't have it) but I thank the following people for being supportive of my happiness, the people who always thought of me and never forgot me, the people who only wanted to see me smile:

Kim (this is an edit after she took me back: don't do that again! I have my limits, and it isn't hard to meet them, so just don't do anything strange, and we'll be fine)
Krystal (random coffee-chats rule, I'll miss those)
Jen (you are always there when I need you, and you never make me feel down)
Mark (yeah you big lug, you always are their for me)
Steve (we don't talk much, but you're a good friend)
Jessica (you always looked out for me, even though you never said yes to all my proposed dates :p )

Hmm... okay so the list might not be huge, but these are the people who have never hurt me, who have never belittled me or made me feel down to make themselves feel more free or just generally better. There are people who borderline on this list who I did not mention... because I'm still really debating with myself whether they deserve my attention or not. Their friends spoke hurtful things to me on behalf of them, and I'm still awaiting their own words.

But the list above are people who, whenever they need me, I will be there, people who if I hear bad things about, I will simply disbelieve unless they personally tell me its true. These people enjoy a special privilege: they get to see the real me. Flaws and all.

I think seeing all that I have to offer is a special privilege :) I think I am capable of great things, given the chance.

Where Did They Take My Sammidge?

Ah, the wonders of the double-post: an act so vile, it takes three days for the internet highway (or whatever) to recover from the shakiness.

Sort of like drinking too much caffeine.

At any rate, this place is proving very therapeutic to me. It is like having someone to talk to when there is no one around. This way, when everyone is off doin' their own thing (being the popular crowd, entertaining guests, avoiding lonely houses) I can talk to myself (and I do offer good conversation, if I do say so myself). So here goes, a conversation with myself:

Hey.

Hello.

How are you this fine day?

Well, I'm not doing too badly. I read a chapter in biology... okay okay, I see you looking at me in disbelief, I read three quarters of a chapter and then took a break to come on here.. but I do plan on finishing the chapter up and possibly reading one or two more before I go to sleep. I wish that I understood more of what I was reading, which retention was higher, but I can work on it, must work harder at such things if one wants to attain any significant levels, right?

I suppose.

Hmm.. okay, this part of the blog is beginning to creep even me out, so I think I will switch into "one shannon" mode.

Needless to say, I'm in search of that transcendental signified which I seem to have misplaced. My centre has been rearranged a bit, and I guess I'm sort of doing housework trying to make the place look tidy again. This probably only makes sense to me, but for any of you readers (all two of you) get confused, just let me know and I will explain the terms. Would rather do it in person than here, here is where I ramble :p . But yeah, my transcendental signified has become misplaced, and I hope it isn't because I've "matured" out of one... that would just reak havoc on my ambition, and I am very close with my ambition (one who has as many wishes as I do needs work very hard and have a lot of ambition in order to attain at least a glimpse of what I desire).

I have been thinking of transcription and translation a lot lately... thinking about the subtle differences which make language as reaching as it can be. Connotation and denotation can sometimes blur the power of language, making it sort of... transient and instable. I guess one needs wrap one's mind around the problem that George Orwell brought up in 1984... do we splice and dice language, make it more uniform and complete, but inevitably limiting its vocabulary and thus its freedom? Such a system would inevitably work to universalize language... a noun that would always be its only noun, a signifier that would always link directly (and without sidetrack) to its signified...

The artist would beg to differ... the loss of freedom, of expression with flamboyant and elaborate language... the canvas would be dry and lifeless, or so they might say. Yet I was never one to overuse language... there are those who use words simply in order to hear their sounds, those postmodernist morons who attend poetry readings in languages they don't understand because the words sound "pretty." I spit on those who think art and "prettiness" are the same thing... okay so I don't spit on them, but they are ignoring the pain and torture that is required for art; prettiness is something transient and indefinable, something which cannot really be touched except with flippancy and an overly-annoying lack of seriousness. Beauty and "prettiness" are not the same thing. A rose is pretty, its frailty, its link to nature and to growth and decay, its delicate inconsistency, are the things which make it beautiful.

Beauty is that which can give purpose... those details that can make a person fully want to live, if only to overcome the terrible beauty of this world (for terrible beauty, think of the beauty of anguish and pain.. necessary evils, beautiful only in that they can be survived). Yet, where comes this beauty? Is it in the air, particles, which we breathe in? Is it in our genes, a sort of... outline for our own particular path, our own particular fate?

Yet again, the artists scream their outrage. "How can we have something as limiting as fate?" they cry. "Surely we are driving blind, each path we chose is but our own." Always, the artist strives to be his own destiny...

One must ponder such things carefully.

Now, where is my sammidge?

The World Around You

The lights scan across the land, the soil that blankets all across, as far as the eye can see. His eye narrows, quick in contemplation and exhasperated reflection. Closing his eyes for a moment, the hero takes a deep breath. The air is clean, the wind massages the back of his neck, and he is alone with his thoughts.

(why? No one ever told him why.)

The life that courses through his veins (exiting his body in various points, the wounds that leak his substance) runs the machinery, set to autopilot. He has seen countless lands, experienced endless sights with wicked, wondrous amazement. His sands have dripped long and far too quickly, and he is aged beyond his years.

He takes another step forward. This is the road he had followed, though what he was searching for he knew not. Yet, without question, he took another step forward, then another... he looked behind at his footprints, an endless snake following closely at his heels, and knew he must go further, must work harder, the purpose did not even matter anymore. It was the journey, the taking of steps that mattered to him.

He began to feel enlightened, somehow. Movement, the ecstasy of it all, escaping from stasis, brought youth again to his veins.

The dust had collected at his heels.

Another day another step.

Mon cher ---, c'est te ton tour, de te laissez parlez d'amour!

In case none of you have ever went to a french birthday party, the title of this blog is actually a french birthday song. Literally translated, it goes "my dear ---, it is your turn, to let us talk to you about love." Doesn't make a whole lotta sense to me, but between you and me, the french do a lot of weird things. I say that with the deepest respect, of course.

I have relatives that are french. Which probably only serves to further the stereotype that they are weird.

I have been contemplating my literary theory a lot, and have been coming on a bit of a writer's slump. I need more of a purpose, something more elaborate than my previous works.

Or maybe it is that I just need a break from it all... but that is a scary thought which I will not heed until I must. The thought of going any extended period without my precious writing is... well, its tantamount to breaking up a relationship. Sad, but true. In fact, its like breaking up in a married relationship, because I have devoted my life to writing. Okay, so we don't really have honeymoons together and the sex is boring, and a little bit painful what with the papercuts. Okay, hopefully everyone who reads this knows that the previous line was a joke... a very bad one at that.

At any rate, my purpose as of late has been either in description of love (to which I think any poet/writer uses his talents) but I have been searching for a bigger reason to write. My basic literary theory as of late has been that I want to become a sort of psychiatric writer (and no that doesn't mean I am going to be crazy) who writes therapeutic work for others. Not "chicken soup" crap, but stuff that people can relate to, stories that give them direction, and allow them to feel connected to someone (that is, the author, that is, me) in a way that can make them feel less alone. I think writing can very much be a therapy in that regards, and its why I think so many people fall in love with a great story. Heroes tell us how to be strong, villains teach us the dangers of our actions, and the ones that blur the line between the two teach us of humanity by portraying someone less than perfect but less than evil as well.

Hm... I think my explanation of literary theory is beginning to give me some direction...

Damn I'm good, I even work as therapy for myself :p

Now, where did I leave that sammidge???

I am the great big mouth

Well now, this is my first real "blog". I've never done this sort of thing before, should be interesting. I might put up some poetry here, that would be cool. We'll see. This is sort of like talking to one's self, I kinda like that.

Well, today was an interestingly non-interesting day. The highlight of the day was when I purchased Soul Caliber II for my baby, the playstation2. Oh yeah, and we mustn't forget when I got called in earlier than expected for work. We mustn't forget that.

I have been thinking about the postmodernists. I understand their dilemma, but in explaining to someone close to me how I feel some people over-emphasize the importance of such things as definitions. For instance, how two people can't scientifically touch (the two particles never truly meet) but for all constructive purposes, movement occurs which illicits a response which is "touch" even though two points never really meet.

Ditto with the postmodernists. We can never see through another's eyes, but there are universals, like, oh, I dunno, the sun, the moon, the stars, and all such things that we all agree actually exist.

But ah well, that's my rant for the day, many people have heard it.

Now where did I leave that sammidge???