Amiwrite?!

Sitting  in the office before work pushing myself to write something, because I’ve been so horrible with being consistent. And it’s not like this reality is anything new, on the contrary, it’s been something I’ve been battling for years. It’s this thing I like to call “the inability to consistently write about pretty much anything for my Tumblr blog or… ya know insert public writing avenue.” Musing here, I wonder what it is that keeps me from into exercising the one thing that has continuously brought me peace of mind at times and enraged me the next. It’s something that constantly stirs up emotions in me be it good or bad, but it’s something I turn to no matter how I’m feeling. Unless it’s lazy, then all bets are off. However, I find myself barely mustering enough energy to write anything to share on the internet, but then I remember, WTF cares?! 

My terror behind sharing my thoughts on the internet stems from the numerous trolls that live in the bowls of user comments and reddit. It dwells in the fingertips of a-holes and cowards. Though, it also lurks in my own mind, tucked away in the bed of insecurity that has burrowed so deep within in me I sometimes forget its existence and blame my lethargy on the weather. 

Well, I’m tired of making these empty grandiose claims of being more consistent and writing more, because my words mean nothing. Action. Action is everything. I’m slowly figuring out that is the case across all aspects of my life and it’s the simplest yet the hardest concept to grasp. I do a lot of talk. I’m even good at convincing myself that my words are true, which makes it very difficult to improve since I keep telling myself I already have. So, no more being annoyingly untruthful and saying things that ultimately mean nothing because I need to be more impeccable with my words and more actionable with my life. Ha. We’ll see, right?

Right.

Sigh.

The Romantic Gesture: Why I'm Not So Down

All these over-the-top proposals that have pooped popped up in the last few months/year have really made me think. After getting over the initial disbelief shock of someone being so thoughtful and caring (to the point of nausea), I began to think about how irritating it is that these grand gestures are supposed to be a measurement of love and/or devotion. Hey, maybe it is for them, but then I thought about the innumerable years I have been subjected to this notion that a single gesture can nullify any outstanding problem a couple may have had or that was the only way to show somebody you love them.

Looking at movies and TV when a dude or cheats on his girlfriend or wife or whatever, doing something super shitty to them but then using his/her masterful creativity and cunning wins them back with a giant sing along in Times Square or by crafting huge signs that say, “i love you,” out of pigs’ blood rose petals. My qualm with these unrealistic gestures is just that. They are unrealistic and set these dramatic standards for relationships that are neither important or useful. Being in a relationship is so much more than what we as outsiders comprehend as a loving relationship based on that Youtube video that got “mad likes.” A relationship is something special. Something that doesn’t need a massive romantic gesture or the approval of strangers. It doesn’t need to be publicized or recorded for anyone but the participants. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Who is this angry, resentful, jealous bitch?” I assure you I am none of those things. Maybe slightly resentful (the most romantic gesture I can think of involves friends bringing over a bottle of whiskey to share before we stumble out of my apartment to a bar just to get further disappointed by the opposite sex) but I’m mostly happy for these people who are getting married because they love each other and all that jazz. What upsets me is the feeling these gestures inspire in others. There are people out there who simply cannot afford to impress their significant other by renting out the Hubbell Space Telescope  and writing their proposal in the stars using lasers and alien technology (future husband take note, I will not accept a proposal any other way). This does not mean they are any less capable of love and affection. It just means their priorities are elsewhere. Maybe instead of that grand gesture a wife-to-be has started helping her future wife/husband pay off those infernal student loans or a future husband is putting money aside for an adventurous holiday in Brazil with his future husband/wife. 

All I’m saying is these gestures seem to be a reflection of our societal predisposed inclinations to think bigger is better. The more expensive, elaborate the gift the more that recipient means to the giver. You know, that whole capitalist industrial complex or whatever. I may be interpreting these reactions harshly (or inaccurately), but I can’t help how I feel, so I won’t. After getting older and painstakingly tearing myself away learning that Disney movies and romantic comedies were not indicative of what real love is, I started to get angry at this perpetual notion of vapid love. Oh, but that is a whole ‘nother can o’ worms. 

I’m out.

TGIF...

Means absolutely nothing when you work in the service industry. So, all of you celebrating today like it’s the best day of the week (and most likely humming that awful Rebecca Black song because lord knows no one will EVER forget it’s creepy, inescapable evil melody), let it be known: things go on weekday nights you will never understand. Dun dun dunnnn. I do enjoy a good friday though. No, not Good Friday. I’m not religious.

I Wish.

Being a “writer” was an abstract dream I knew I wanted to pursue when I was pretty young. I remember in the third grade my class of doughy-eyed nine-year-olds was given an assignment to write a campfire story on this weird computer program where you could add text to pictures. Now that I think of it I’m wondering if it can be characterized as a glorified caption contest. I loved that assignment. I was honestly enamored with the idea of writing for a living. It was a moment of clarity in my otherwise carefree childhood where I felt something so incomprehensible at the time but would grow into what can be considered a “passion.” However, my love for the written word has slowly been dwindling due to the constant metaphorical haranguing screaming candidly out of every failed job search, every rejected article, every poorly worded tweet, every hastily written cover letter, every inconsequential addition to my resume, telling me to quit being so idealistic and get a “real” career with job security and a 401 K.

“Everybody needs writers,” I used to hear endlessly after complaining for several minutes that the internet has killed the profession I so yearned to discover and explore. Now I think of the writers I admire with disdain and jealousy. Jealous that they got to live in the world before bloggers, before tweeters, before instagrammers, before tumblr, before four-square, before the tons of social media that have hindered not just the writing process but the creative process. Granted social media has also enriched the collaborative process and made certain tools more accessible.

In many ways I just think I’m old fashioned. The most influential writer for me is James Baldwin and there has been no other writer who has stirred within me feelings I never even knew I had and expressed ideas in such distinctly beautiful prose. His words like sweet music echoing soothingly in your mind as your eyes move across the page, but with biting meaning so you’re not lulled to sleep but excited and engaged. That entire era of writers had a significant impact on why I wanted to be a writer and what I imagined it meant to be a writer. Being a writer then was really being a voice, not of a generation, but an idea, a well of ideas. Writers were speaking to each other, holding large scale events, getting involved with more than TV, but with people. I’m not saying none of that is going on now, it was just different then. The kind of different I would have really liked to experience. Now it seems like the country just sits here under a cloud of apathy, too content to ask questions or too self-involved to care.

I wish there were scores of people taking road trips on huge buses painted with rainbows and smiley faces, I wish people sat together in a circle in front of the white house singing about peace and making daisy headbands, I wish people weren’t so removed from social/political conversations, bound by the constraints of 140 characters and/or plain ol’ apathy. I wish more people just screamed at the craziness of it all. I wish I screamed at the craziness of it all.

I’m trapped in the 1960s and it’s hard to get out when it’s so nice and warm there… minus the rampant, unforgiving racism. I’ve been complaining about the lack of togetherness a lot recently, not just writing about it but IRL. I should start a salon.