Monthly Archives: November 2011


Tiptoe. Around other people and every elephant in every room. You can’t be blunt, ‘blunt’ is considered a rude tactic of lesser minded individuals, a very undesirable trait. Yet, with that bluntness comes something like no other, complete and true honesty. It should be the ability to address what’s at hand and on the mind because there should be little other. People hide behind the guise of protecting others, but what’s really at stake is the protection of one’s self. The cold, disheartening truth is that no one wants to get too close to the elephant in the room because no one knows the true nature of the beast. I sit with a friend and discuss troubles; I keep the troubles vague, and often hide behind the age old phrase “It’s complicated.” It’s refreshing to hear him call me out on it “I doubt it” he’ll say flatly, not for the reason he wants to know, but purely because he wants to trip my careful tiptoeing because it’s so fucking unnecessary.



Lately I’ve been wondering the simple question: Why can’t a story just be a story? I have realized that it can’t because it isn’t. It is a collection of the author, of unconscious ideas or prevalent opinions or topics within them. While I have been one of the biggest opponents of inherent authorial representation within writing, it seems quite  apparent now. Previously I hated the view that no author could create something outside them self, yet, now I look kindly on this. The reason for this change is that I have found that there is much individuality and interest to be represented within everyone. The space of ideas outside of one’s self seems more finite and unreachable than the introspective depths of the self which are near endless.


Writing. Interestingly enough, in my opinion, I have entered this medium of expression in order to explore myself as a writer and yet it very quickly causes me to confront what I normally avoid: the question of ‘why?’ and the background motivations. Simply, I like writing; why? What first attracted me was the idea of commentary, that I could submit a work of writing into the literate world for its/their general review and personal opinion on it. The second idea, a much more narcissistic one, was the idea of immortality. If I publish something, that is a part of me that is out there for decades. Even if it is only in the back of a second-rate library, it’s the kind of mark that I would look favorably on leaving behind. This would be a specific, impersonal sense of immortality, not of myself or my name- I couldn’t give a fuck whether a piece carries my name of the front or my face on the back- but of my ideas. Writing still symbolizes and embodies much more. It is, in a sense, unbridled creation fused with near infinite possibilities. Beyond that I wasn’t too sure of what I was looking for in the field of writing, and that thought scares me. As I reflect on it now, especially in relation to my indifference to personal recognition, I realize the one matter that I’m overlooking: validation. On one of the most primal levels I’m looking for validation. I’m looking to see if my words, my thoughts, my ideas, even make sense. It’s one matter to sit at a keyboard and ramble thousands of words, and quite a different one to hand them off to someone else for their review. While the former serves as a beautifully relieving form of catharsis, the latter serves its own purpose. Personal journalistic writing serves the purpose of venting emotion while opening one’s thoughts to the world is useful for what I’m trying to accomplish, the final matter of writing that had eluded me: honest reflection.


I know that it seems like I muse quite a bit through this current pattern, but I intend on branching out at some point.

A man walks past me while I sit quietly reading my book a t a picnic table. He calls out to his friend behind me, “Oh shit, I feel like I forgot something.” My first thought is ‘You did. You forgot your lighter.’ I give a short bemused exhale at this and continue with my reading. I had nearly forgotten this jesting prediction when I hear this man say to his friend “Hey, did you remember my lighter?” I stop, unsure what to make of this. This man simply walked past me, nothing more. I was reading without my glasses, I could barely even see where he was. I become frightened by this for one reason: are people that predictable? I’d like to think ‘no’ and rationalize this meager guess at another’s habits by saying ‘I was simply sitting by where people usually smoke, I guessed he was heading here.” While this assumption at his destination was honestly what I thought at first, it does nothing to clear the foul odor left in the back of my mind by the question ‘are we, as people, that predictable?’ I would REALLY love to say that it was just a lucky guess.


Let this first musing serve as a guideline for what will probably be the general style of this blog.  I’ll be struck with a word or idea and then expand on it, sometimes it will be interesting, other times entirely incoherent. I’ll try my best to filter out the latter category. Speaking of categories, I will try to keep some recurrent themes in the titles. These will include descriptions like ‘Musing’, ‘Rant’, ‘Venting’, that sort of thing. Here goes.

Content. I am often content. I often look to be content. Content, in my definition, is best described as a feeling of ‘all is well’. Is it wrong? Some people always look to go beyond simply content. They are always looking for some awe-striking euphoria, and always pushing the envelope to find it. Is it sad that I am more than happy to sit where I am, even if it be nothing more than mildly pleased? That would depend on whether I squat because I am afraid of losing what I have or if I sit because I have seen what the other side looks like and have decided my grass is green enough. Often the latter. I have seen what it looks like to go too far. It is ugly, it is disgusting, but above all it is sorrowful. The other side is an existence that is nearly beaten to death by odds. Odds are that one will end up in a crippled mass rather than any lasting euphoria. No, I like where I am. I would like to count that as a matured appreciation of where I stand rather than what others would call cowardice to go beyond.

So, this is me.

Well, as you have probably deduced from the title, I am just another college kid who thinks that there may be some value or appreciation within others to what I write. So here goes. If you like what I write, or even if you fucking hate it, please do not hesitate to tell me so. As a hopefully expanding writer, any feedback would help. Many thanks, peace.