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I hate living in the city. It's loud, it's crowded, it's filled with crime. But I am soooo, glad I lived here, at least for awhile. When I got held up at gunpoint in St. Paul, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) pantherasbox said, apologetically, "I'm glad it was you and not me." Well, I'm glad too. Why am I glad? Because when Ivy Tower pinheads start pontificating about this that or the other thing I can ask things like "So, what went through your head the last time YOU had a gun shoved in your ribs?" and "What did YOU do last time a woman got the crap beat out of her on your front lawn?" Can you believe one of these dumbfucks said,
"P.S. seems to me that the problem in the situation you have described is that you stopped to think. Too much thinking destroys an immediate, intuitive response. Zen action is without thought. Didn't Shakespeare say that:
"There is naught between Heaven and Earth but that Thinking makes it so."?
THINKING kept me alive you asswipe. You and Shakespeare can go blow each other in a dark alley. Tags: major story arc
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It has come to my attention that I don't communicate well. Hell, I barely communicate at all. I'm going to try and change that. In part this is because I expect to be moving away and, when people do get in contact with me and ask "what have you been up to?" I might be inclined to do more than grunt "work". Yes, work. I have become "intense and humorless" (See Midwinter's Tale). I swore at a young age that I would not forget what the world looks like through young eyes. But, I have done. I used to be able to claim that I didn't need alchohol to do the things drunk people did. Now, I still don't need it, but there is a noticeable lack of that personality when I am sober. Thus, I suspect that people have come to know me as either 'intense and humorless' or as a drunken frat boy, depending on the venue. I'm afraid my passions have become my obsessions and obsessions tend to leave little room for humor - for living. The obsession becomes more important than living. It places you in a position where you stop living (or neglect to start) until such time as the obsession is taken care of. And, of course, when you are obsessed, "no one can possibly understand." Your vision goes farther, your insight is keener and they all need to shut up and listen to you. But everything you say becomes non-sense. So, you step back and try again ( A beginning). and again and again - trying perhaps to convince others of your authority. But to have authority, you think, you must be free of vulnerability. And thus, I had forgotten the second most important rule of my life - The best way to combat personal vulnerability is to expose it. Thus, you are forced to deal with it and, in so doing, you remove it from your enemies' hands. Once dealt with, it no longer burdens you and you are free to go on. I have reduced this important rule to mere clownishness. In case you are wondering, I do know the meaning of life, even though I'd forgotten it. It's not as easy as any of us would hope though. The purpose of life is to live. Tags: major story arc
Current Mood:  pensive
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This is an experiment. Although I have tried to keep journals in the past I have always failed because it feels like a futile exercise. It feels, alternately, like an exercise in narcissism or exhibitionism and, if the latter, a lame hope for some form of immortality. I have little interest in immortality, or at least, that this shell should find some shadow of immortality in memory. Real immortality would be cool, but, short of that, I am content to return from whence I came. As the Zen Master Hoshin wrote in his final 4 line poem; I come from nothing, I return to nothing, what is this? I have tried to keep journals in the past, but when I go back and read some of the self-indulgent BS that I have written in the past, I want to drown myself at birth. This does not entice me to write more. If I am writing only for myself it is an exercise in narcissism, in self-indulgence and I see little point in that. But if I am supposedly writing for posterity, then it is a sort of hubris to assume that anyone might want to read my rantings. I have learned that no one should take anything I say too seriously. If there is one horror I would not like to face it would be the curse of G'Kar (Babylon 5). To find out that my writing resulted in a pack of mewling sycophants trying to squeeze ultimate truths from my ravings would be awful. If they are going to do that I demand 2 things - 1) That I am there to abuse them for their stupidity and 2) that 2/3 of them be good looking women because, if I were to be press ganged into being a spiritual leader, I want something out of it for me. So, all that is left is exhibitionism and, I suppose, I am a bit of an exhibitionist. Having embraced that truth instead of trying to disavow it, I find myself able to write somewhat more freely. But my writing would still be in vain, if there weren't some chance that someone will stumble across it, read it, and even comment on it. So here I am. If I am lucky, this journal will act like Dumbledore's Pensieve. Capturing thoughts and patterns both of myself and the world around me that I can put to some positive end. It will also get me writing again, trusting my ability to put thought to the page. If that happens, I will probably turn to a more private form of journal, one that is more permanent to me and more tangible than bytes on an unknown server somewhere. Tags: major story arc
Current Mood: curious
Current Music: Prologue to Labyrinth
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