I didn't really have the urge to write this post. I somewhat felt like I needed to. That's pretty fucked. I had the pressure to come up with something, and if I want to someday become somewhat successful in any aspect of writing, I figured maybe the pressure wasn't so bad. Oh, just to let you know, this might be kinda tangential, but if I haven't already told you (I find introductions boring by the way), my career, whatever it may be, HAS to be something to do with literature, most probably screenplays.
Remember my last post? You probably don't. My 'slightly' celf-centered, world-hating rant at everything that I dislike in this world. I felt like I couldn't write, and, on the last post, I needed a muse, something to spark my fire all over again. My prayers weren't exactly answered...
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"I really don't know yet", I replied. "I'd like to write a short story? I think that's my forte, but I just can't find the inspiration under this kind of pressure."
"Pressure? Dude, you're writing a blog, on the internet, which nobody reads. What kind of pressure is that?!", Loikey said, hastilty. "But if you want, I think I can help you."
A bit of help never hurt anyone, I thought to myself.
"Call this number and ask for Erato," he said as he scribbled. "Gotta run bro."
That night, I sat for a full hour staring at the blank page on the computer, wandering between the wonders of Facebook and prime time television, before I dug out the bubblegum wrapper and dialed the number etched on it in biro. After four rings there was a short silence and a perky voice chirped, "Erato and Company, maybe I help you?"
"Uh, yes," I stammered. "May I speak to Erato, please?"
"Erato is in board meeting right now," the voice bubbled. "May I connect you with another party?"
"Hmm, I don't really know," I replied, flustered. "I was told to ask for Erato, but if there's someone covering for her..."
"Well, let's see..." she muttered. I overheard the sound of pages flipping. "I believe Adonia and Terpischore are free, but I'm not all too sure. What is it you would like to write?"
"Um, a short story," I replied, slightly puzzled.
"Welllll," the voice said. "Euterpe deals with overall eloquence, but perhaps Adonia could help you. Is this a romantic short story?"
Is it? I wondered furtively to myself. "No, not really."
"Hmmmm...perhaps you want to try writing poetry then? Terpischore is free today."
"No, that's not quite right somehow...not really what I'm looking for. I don't suppose you have a resident expert on writing short stories for blogs do you?"
There was a tinkling laugh. "No, I'm afraid not. Would you like to try your hand at maybe, dance?" I could ring up Terpischore for you."
Where the hell do they get these names, I smiled to myself.
"No, I'm afraid it has to be something written. It has to be done on my blog-page or whatever you call it."
There was a puzzled silence. "Oh...I get it now. Can't you just upload a video of you dancing?"
"Um, I guess I could, but, why would I do that? Look, I just need a little inspiration on this short story, that's all. It's pretty important."
"I could try for Polyhymnia...shes the muse of sacred lyric poetry."
"I said important, not sacred...wait, did you just say muse?"
"Well, of course," the voice bubbled. "You are speaking to Erato and Company, Muses, an agency designed to help inspire all sorts of artists."
Where the hell did Loikey get this number, I wondered. Ready to chance at everything, I said dully, "Oh. Well, who can inspire me?"
"Well, I'm afraid I don't exactly know what to suggest. Let me check Erato again."
Exhausted from the conversation, I slumped back into my chair and sighed, listening with half an ear to Graveyard Girl, faintly playing through my computer. A hasty voice broke the tranquility, breaking my thoughts: "Erato speaking," the voice snapped. "Is there a problem?"
"No, miss," I stammered. "Well, kinda, yeah...I want to write, um, a short story, for um, a blog...and I need it by tonight."
"And what is it you want of us?"
"Inspiration?" I quavered.
"Of course," Erato sneered. "May I ask why you need this so soon?"
"No particular reason. I have expectations for myself, and the world is eagerly awaiting my post." I replied, feeling slightly out of place all of a sudden.
"And what exactly do you have to write?"
"Um..." I clicked once more at the web page. " '...a blog is usually maintained by an individual with regular entries of commentary, descriptions of events, or other material such as graphics or video. Entries are commonly displayed in reverse-chronological order...' "
I heard a dead silence at the other end of the line for a minute. Then, Erato, with the coldest voice I have ever heard, hissed, "You would do better to simply recopy a post from before that you have written. One that you created spontaneously, not under a pressured command. One does not call upon a muse and order her to inspire. Inspiration does not come when one tries to force it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Suddenly, my thoughts cleared. "Oh! So that's why I had that mental block! It was all about this self-expectations deal, this whole amount of pointless pressure I had put onto myself. I normally can just sit down and hash out some rant or some nice poem, but this 'I need to blog' crap just threw me!"
"Wonderful, said Erato, totally unenthused. "And now if you'll excuse me."
"Wait!" I yelled over the phone. "What about the blog and its followers?!"
Erato snarled. "Tell them that creativity can't be forced," she snapped.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
(inspired from an old short story book laying around, by the way)
Monday, 12 January 2009
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Rant #1
Before I begin this blog, I'd like to show you how much I'm against blogs, and there's nothing better than the expert beneath from Californication. Frankly, I almost feel disconcerted and ashamed that I have to use a video from a fucking TV series to express the way I feel. And again, as expressed in this clip, I loathe myself, the fact that I'm lost, and that I'm the biggest fucking hypocrite to grace this planet.
So, that's my attitude towards blogs sorted. Let's move on to me. Yes, me. And here's a slight warning to you: what you are about to read, is absolute banality. Prosaic? Check. Cliche? Check. But what you're about to read, is, unfortunately the way I feel, and is my best attempt to converge all the ideas into my head into one, and somehow splatter it onto this blog. Which, I've noticed, probably no one will read. Self-loathing reason #2. Let the blog begin, and the chips fall where they may.
Life is one big monotonous ball of shit. It rolls and it rolls, but it seems like the road is endless, and wherever you go, it fucking smells. We're confined to the everyday duties that society has imposed on us; it's just the way we've been nurtured. We wake up, we shower, we eat, we go to school. What the fuck changes? Anything slightly interesting that happens is basically just another tedious solo in some shocking 80's power ballad. The things we own? We don't own them. They own us. Even our dreams. Passion? Inspiration? My fucking mind is my inspiration.
We should be creating something, but instead, we're not. We're re-creating and re-learning what's been already done. When you've got an average lifespan of 80 years or whatever the fuck it is...isn't it slightly depressing to spend the rest of your life re-living and re-creating what's been done. Speaking of which, will probably be what all of us will do. I WANT TO GO DOWN IN HISTORY. But I won't. What I will do however, is go down on your mum. Maybe your sister too. (By the way my thoughts come as they are...fuck order.) Fuck being perfect. Why? Because we strive for perfect...something that doesn't exist, and something we don't even know. Well, at least I don't fucking know it. Self-loathing reason #3. Oh fuck the numbers.
One thing that I've come to learn over my mere 17 years (almost) of living in this world, is that when everything is falling...let them fall. Let them fall into place. Then let them converge again. Let them come together and adhere all over again. The tighter you try to hold it, the more energy you waste. Oh and by the way, why the fuck are you even reading this? Isn't this just some regurgitated bullshit coming from yet another troubled teen? The same, monotonous, prosaic, try-hard-non-conformist bullshit that comes out of every kid that thinks they're different...that they exit for a greater good, that school is shit and life is boring. Who the fuck cares? Let there be wannabes, let there be people who feel different about themselves, and don't fucking label them. Fuck conforming? Fuck being a rebel? Fuck you! What do I do? The world and its materials are so hell bent on destroying us that is has pushed my sanity so far that I want to create something different, something new.
We have these ideas...but they seem meaningless...this blog is meaningless...go to sleep! My parents? Conforming, yet seemingly responsible white-collar shits, who stop me from chasing what I want to chase. Let me chase! I don't know much...does it matter? Fuck what you know, fuck what I know...I want to know different. I carry a good sense of morale...that's all they've given me. When you step out of life and become a detached observer, you begin to see that life is like that ten-minute train ride you take every morning. We go, we come back. What do we achieve? Take away the money. I don't want to be a hypocrite. I don't want to want these things. Am I selfish? Yes, I'm complaining about my life when I'm blogging on a fucking widescreen hi-def desktop screen, when there are poor kids out there dying in Gaza. But I give to charity. To make me feel good? Can't a good deed just be a good deed?! Does charity have to be selfish? Fuck you.
I want to go to college, and I hope it can fucking teach me something...not to re-learn, but to make. I'm scared of losing and that means I can't win. So don't play at all? College shall be my armour, for I hath no balls. I want to wear it. I want to know how to splatter my brain onto paper. I want to make, and strive for balance. Do they contradict?
I will abjure and repudiate from abjuring and repudiating from anything that I fucking love. And I will accede to my heart's desire and make. I am going to fucking abrogate the laws of society, the laws of nature, in order to create.
My last cry? Give me a muse. Give me a fucking muse so I can write. Give me a fucking muse so I can create something different. I get a feeling something like that's been said before. Fuck.
So, that's my attitude towards blogs sorted. Let's move on to me. Yes, me. And here's a slight warning to you: what you are about to read, is absolute banality. Prosaic? Check. Cliche? Check. But what you're about to read, is, unfortunately the way I feel, and is my best attempt to converge all the ideas into my head into one, and somehow splatter it onto this blog. Which, I've noticed, probably no one will read. Self-loathing reason #2. Let the blog begin, and the chips fall where they may.
Life is one big monotonous ball of shit. It rolls and it rolls, but it seems like the road is endless, and wherever you go, it fucking smells. We're confined to the everyday duties that society has imposed on us; it's just the way we've been nurtured. We wake up, we shower, we eat, we go to school. What the fuck changes? Anything slightly interesting that happens is basically just another tedious solo in some shocking 80's power ballad. The things we own? We don't own them. They own us. Even our dreams. Passion? Inspiration? My fucking mind is my inspiration.
We should be creating something, but instead, we're not. We're re-creating and re-learning what's been already done. When you've got an average lifespan of 80 years or whatever the fuck it is...isn't it slightly depressing to spend the rest of your life re-living and re-creating what's been done. Speaking of which, will probably be what all of us will do. I WANT TO GO DOWN IN HISTORY. But I won't. What I will do however, is go down on your mum. Maybe your sister too. (By the way my thoughts come as they are...fuck order.) Fuck being perfect. Why? Because we strive for perfect...something that doesn't exist, and something we don't even know. Well, at least I don't fucking know it. Self-loathing reason #3. Oh fuck the numbers.
One thing that I've come to learn over my mere 17 years (almost) of living in this world, is that when everything is falling...let them fall. Let them fall into place. Then let them converge again. Let them come together and adhere all over again. The tighter you try to hold it, the more energy you waste. Oh and by the way, why the fuck are you even reading this? Isn't this just some regurgitated bullshit coming from yet another troubled teen? The same, monotonous, prosaic, try-hard-non-conformist bullshit that comes out of every kid that thinks they're different...that they exit for a greater good, that school is shit and life is boring. Who the fuck cares? Let there be wannabes, let there be people who feel different about themselves, and don't fucking label them. Fuck conforming? Fuck being a rebel? Fuck you! What do I do? The world and its materials are so hell bent on destroying us that is has pushed my sanity so far that I want to create something different, something new.
We have these ideas...but they seem meaningless...this blog is meaningless...go to sleep! My parents? Conforming, yet seemingly responsible white-collar shits, who stop me from chasing what I want to chase. Let me chase! I don't know much...does it matter? Fuck what you know, fuck what I know...I want to know different. I carry a good sense of morale...that's all they've given me. When you step out of life and become a detached observer, you begin to see that life is like that ten-minute train ride you take every morning. We go, we come back. What do we achieve? Take away the money. I don't want to be a hypocrite. I don't want to want these things. Am I selfish? Yes, I'm complaining about my life when I'm blogging on a fucking widescreen hi-def desktop screen, when there are poor kids out there dying in Gaza. But I give to charity. To make me feel good? Can't a good deed just be a good deed?! Does charity have to be selfish? Fuck you.
I want to go to college, and I hope it can fucking teach me something...not to re-learn, but to make. I'm scared of losing and that means I can't win. So don't play at all? College shall be my armour, for I hath no balls. I want to wear it. I want to know how to splatter my brain onto paper. I want to make, and strive for balance. Do they contradict?
I will abjure and repudiate from abjuring and repudiating from anything that I fucking love. And I will accede to my heart's desire and make. I am going to fucking abrogate the laws of society, the laws of nature, in order to create.
My last cry? Give me a muse. Give me a fucking muse so I can write. Give me a fucking muse so I can create something different. I get a feeling something like that's been said before. Fuck.
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