Take off. Nuke the site from orbit. Kind of.
To my thirty-odd followers: Just where the hell I’ve been. I’ve been writing. I’m always writing. I write a little bit everyday. Often because I have to write it. Evaluation purposes and all that. Sometimes I come up with what I think is a witty aphorism or a short blurb. Sometimes I post it somewhere on the net. Most often, there’s something I come up with that I forget to write down somewhere. Lost in the synapses. Shorted out by the brain’s faulty wiring. Neurons’ output is infinite. But my capacity for writing most of it down approaches zero. Nil. Nada. Nihil. Not that anything I have ever had the fortune to think up has ever been truly profound. The point is that I write. Even a little bit of infinite is something. In way, it in itself is infinite. So I’m always writing.
I keep most thoughts to myself. I inject myself every so often into a conversation with something I hope is intelligent. People think I am. Intelligent, that is. Perceptions differ from person to person, naturally. To some, I am verbacious, loquacious, gregarious, descriptive. Not exactly gifted with gab. Just the unfortunate vocal chords. I’m an endless fountain of bona fide bullshit. An ugly humanoid garden marble statue, pissing the continuously-recycled essence of life. Taking the piss is a close way of putting it. But at other times I pick and choose my battles. Tactical. Strategic. Grand. Shutting up and being thought the fool. George Costanza out on the high note. Not that this is any excuse as to why I have posted zilch. Most thoughts I keep to myself. The ones I wish to share I say or write. And there’s a lot in there (the brain, that is) that is salvageable enough as to be shared. So I write a lot. Always writing.
So it makes me uncomfortable to think I have written so much and shared so little. Misappropriate my hard drives and you’ll find a bounty of pirated movies (a lot of which is shit that most people daren’t watch, let alone prosecute me for) and half-finished articles on different current affairs; odd, unstructured, fragmented paragraphs of film reviews; the intro to a porn novel (not really); horribly-rendered science fiction passages; mindless rants on religion; unfinished columns on a variety of topics, like how to get women (from a guy whose most recent sexual encounter was bedding the last Cro-Magnon female). The last one was supposed to be a humorous take. Okay, so maybe it’s just politics and culture. But I’ve never stopped writing.
There was one extremely long piece I wrote, a nigh-20,000 word nonfiction historical narrative beast of a bitch. For some reason I have not published it anywhere. That “some reason” being that I felt a lot of the passages were too similarly written to what I sourced them from. Seems now like a colossal, gigantic waste of time. But, then, what isn’t? I’ve tried a little bit of everything. Serious political talk. Direct fist-to-the-face humor (or an attempt, anyway). Depth-laden film analysis. Personal shit. Satire. Each and every time I write, I attempt a different approach. Biting humor? Beautiful narrative? Blunt instrumentation? I’ve even straight-up attempted to e-feud. There was a post where I criticized Reddit a while back. But since no one reads this obscure blog, it went virtually nowhere. Literally. I have been engrossed in discussions on Blade Runner and have even received some hate mail. Or the time I spewed nonsense about Ridley Scott and the Alien franchise. People trashed that one. That shit brightened my day, let me tell you. It’s one of the reasons I write.
Problem one: I know a little about everything. And a lot about nothing. But I think I know everything. One of the reasons that I began posting what I wrote was to try to exercise influence over people, or add something meaningful to a present discourse. If you feel a ping of emotion, if you feel like you see or think something differently, then I feel like I have done something useful. But in order to do that, you either need to write consistently, or write well about something you know a lot about. People will listen to a physicist talk about physics. They might listen to some net-nobody talk about it, but only if they knew what the hell it was they were talking about. I don’t. I pretend. Just like I pretend to write.
Another interrelated problem: I get bored easily. I hate most of the shit I spewed for my first blog. I thought it was all horribly written. And I got bored easily. There’s only so much bad movie reviewing with fist-to-the-face humor that I can handle. It wasn’t watching the films that were boring to me, it was mindlessly droning on about them. I haven’t watched a lot of movies this year. For a few years now I’ve been averaging more than one a day. This year I’ve seen maybe 230 movies. I’ve already seen many of those, too. I change the way I write. I also change what I write about. But it still means that I write.
I’m also reading a lot more. They say to be a good writer you should be a reader. I’m reading now to see if that piece of wisdom holds true. Last year I read maybe one book total. Since March-April of this year I’ve read maybe thirty books, and a bunch of others which I’m laboriously attempting to get through. Only two were fiction. The rest range from straightforward historical narratives to complex philosophy. If my writing hasn’t improved, the way I think certainly has. I’ll read stuff I’ve previously written and think: what the fuck was I even thinking writing this? No substance. No critical thought. Bona fide bullshit. Not that complex philosophy isn’t necessarily profound. A lot of that is bullshit, too. Which actually makes me feel kind of comfortable with myself. If prominent thinkers can get away with talking out of their asses, then I can do my share of evading. Nevertheless, it would still mean that what I’ve written is bullshit.
It doesn’t mean I’ve lost all interest in film. I watched Stripes again the other night. Honest-to-goodness 1980s-goodness. Did you know Bill Paxton was in that film? Suffice to say that only a film lover would know that. If you knew Bill Paxton was a credited extra in Stripes, consider yourself a film lover. Not that my words have any binding authority. Or even legitimacy. They are just words. How we empower those words is what really counts. So maybe I don’t write. Maybe I empower. Or embowel. The latter’s fine. Powerful writing should have that disemboweling, gut-wrenching effect. I just make people shit their pants over how insane I am. Or so I would hope.
I have become far more interested in far more things now than I have ever been. Sure, it’s mostly still history, politics, what have you. I’m still antipolitical. I’m still pro-historical. Still wary of the future. But my life has become more than just film. I believe that’s what they call “a good thing”. I’m less of a geek now. I’m climbing out of a point where something singular had pretty much taken hold of my life. Even though I still learn seemingly pointless film trivia. But it gives me more things to write about. And, as a would-be, wannabe writer, I consider that “a good thing”.
Further, my life has been heading in different directions. Still friendless, for the most part. Alone, as usual. But headed somewhere. Recently applied to law school… somewhere. But if someone offered me a job to disembowel, I’d gladly take it. Inane writing, by an insane writer. Investigative journalism, or muckracking, that would be great. Consider me the disingenuous disemboweller of modus obscurantist. I’ve got enough things to say about enough things. Enough is enough, so the non-witticism goes. Enough really is enough, because I’ve been writing this drawn-out reader’s digestive tract for way too long. Always writing, see?