It really is the tragic love stories I'm drawn to. Perhaps because they are more representative of my experience.
The play I wrote last year for the Fringe Festival was 4 scenes of people who all just had to do just one thing different. Just one thing.
That feels like my life in review. Just one thing different. What if I had this instead of that. What if I had said...instead of not.
I feel like I still live this way.
Or...
Or perhaps I'm simply living in fantasy.
I'm known for that as well.
Plays well with others.
Obviously intelligent.
Daydreamer.
Lacks focus.
Too much imagination.
Those were the things on my elementary reports.
Too much imagination was and still is my favorite...mostly because...
Maybe it is. Maybe there is. Maybe the worlds inside my head and heart are far too big...but...
but
but it still feels like not quite enough.
There is more to explore.
There is more to think about.
There is more to wish for.
And always...
my christ Always...
There are more stories to tell.
I'm starting now the work for the play for this years FF.
I anticipate more tragic love stories.
More broken hearts of people I've not gotten to know yet.
I think I give my characters the tears that I don't cry.
I also lack too much empathy.
Or...emotional connection...
Or...clairavoyance.
Or...ability to human.
You see I do know how I feel about all the things.
I very often don't give a fuck about how I feel.
That seems unnatural...but there it is. I don't form opinions about how I feel.
I just feel.
Then I think about how I feel.
Then I put it in my "Huh...so that's what that is." brain folder, and just...well
there is sits.
But I have no idea how other people feel.
I am other people's emotions illiterate. I know how I'd like them to feel, in relation to how I feel...but...
I can't make that a thing.
I can't force upon another human...responsibility for my own emotional responses. And quite simply, unless they tell me what they are also feeling...well...
I'll never know.
And since I don't play guessing games with such things...or make assumptions...I just...
well...
I simply live in the reality that they feel nothing in relation to me...or to what I'm feeling...or
fuck I don't even know what I'm trying to say.
Here's the baseline. I make no claim to be a "smart" guy...but I do okay. I've read a few books, learned a few words, and have formed a few thoughts, and that's gotten me by.
I've made a lifetime endeavor of studying the art, science, philosophy, and craft of storytelling. This is what I do, and I do it with great passion.
Funny thing is, my passion face, looks a lot like my I'm bored face...so...it doesn't really physically read...but it is there.
I am constantly on fire with it. I burn for, and with it. I love stories. All of them. And the creation of them. And the telling of them. The fucking life inside of fiction.
And my life outside of fiction is sometimes stranger than. Sometimes less than. Sometimes easier than. Sometimes harder than. Sometimes completely indistinguishable from...but...
Love, man.
Love.
That's the kick in the ass i'nnit.
And on that, I am the greatest contradiction anyway.
So fuck me in the nuts with love.
Okay I'm wandering. This is apparently a fuck all stream of consciouness, and in all likelihood profoundly uninteresting. It's helping me to word vomit, but will no doubt prove no use to you dear reader. Feel free to disengage at any time. I won't be offended. Hell, to be blunt...I won't even know or notice.
Okay, back to it...
I am an intellectual. This is no claim to actual quantity or quality of intellect. I use this more as distinction. There are so many people among us who are more emotioinally or viscerally driven. I am not. This is not to say that I do not experience the emotional or visceral. Of course I do. I feel things. All the time. If you prick me, do I not "goddammit"? I do.
I actually feel a full spectrum of all sorts of things. It's all in there. At least to my knowledge. I am capable of the rainbow of feels. Thing is. I Don't Care. I do...but...okay...
I don't let that matter too much. It matters. It matters a considerable deal. To me. BUT...
Once I have the feel...I almost immediately take it to my brain box.
I don't just feel it. I feel it, and then I think about it. I categorize it. I mark it. I file it. I color code all of the aspects of it. I investigate it. I question it. I place value on it. I give it a quality of relevance to my life. I chop it up in to pieces and look at the guts of it. I ask if there is fun to be had in it. I wonder why it's there. I wonder why this other person, or other opinion, or other action, or outside event, caused it. I question if it can be replicated. I want to know it's origin, and destination.
In other words...I move it from one place, and put it in another.
I have often referred to this as my emotional disconnect.
It's not that I don't feel. I very much do. It's that WHEN I do, I disconnect it. I take it out, take it apart, and put it back together again.
And when I'm done with the science of it, and put it away...
motherfuck if it isn't still there.
And sometimes that is REALLY goddamn annoying. Distracting. and
useful.
Because now I know how to make it happen when I'm acting.
Now I know how to give it to a character I'm writing.
Now I know what it is when other people talk about it.
But then there's the real life. The life where none of it matters. Except it all matters. Except it doesn't.
And again I become contradiction.
And a contradiction can't exist in nature.
Yet here I am.
And there you are.
And we all of us prove the rule a lie.
General Unified Theory my ass.
Because I am quantum, and you are cosmic.
And love is the gravity that works in polarity.
One way bound by all the rules that govern what we know...
and another way, in complete opposition, defying every one of those rules.
And by fuck...somehow, we're supposed to coexist in that universe.
And the string between us seems so fragile.
And so much theory.
Except that's wrong. String theory isn't really a theory.
Speculation at best.
And that is all I have.
Speculation. And without evidence, speculation doesn't hold up. We can make guesses based on what is observable, but without the verification process, it's just so much fantasy.
So do what you need to do. Say the words. Do the things. Be brave.
And again my hypocrisy shows like a slip. Bravery.
Bravery.
My favorite of all the noble attributes.
So what if, it's not that I'm lacking bravery? What if it's more
Pragmatism.
What is.
Everything must always be built on a foundation of what is.
And sometimes no matter how much we wish what isn't to be is...
Wishing doesn't make it so.
And experience has taught me far too well
That the heartbreak of unrealized and unrealistic fantasy, is far easier to digest,
than the heartbreak of acutalized reality.
Inside of fantasy is still...well...
a recognition of my own humanity.
Outside of fantasy that's much more difficult.
And in that fantasy...
In that hallway of doors...
In that maze of dreams...
She has always been there.
She has courted me forever.
In every memory.
In every story.
Since I was in kindergarten, staring out the window, while the other kinders were learning about colors....
She was there. Singing to me. Dancing with me. Guiding my gaze and placing herself in every story I've ever seen, read, or written.
She has always had that smile, and those eyes. She has reached inside me. She used to dry my tears...when I used to cry.
She has been my mother.
She has been my grandmother.
She has been my wife.
She has been my child.
She has been my constant companion.
She has been my eternal mystery.
And she is she is she inside of me
And she kills me with the idea that maybe...
maybe...
could it be?
could I?
Is it?
Is there?
Nah.
Thank you she...but the he in me reminds me of all the other things.
And he and she can argue now for a while...
but I've got to sleep
and
and it's all just nighttime braingames anyway.
Tomorrow will be real again...
and in the real...
well...
No comments:
Post a Comment