Explaining Myself
Though I am sure some of you found them interesting or amusing, I apologize for the torrent of pictures and links I've posted over the last 10 days in lieu of original material. As you know, this site was meant as a collection of my personal reflections on the world around me (or as Page once commented, "What I See is Pat's perpetual rant"), and being such it serves as a mirror for what's on my mind at any particular moment in time. In short, I feel I have a responsibility to give you something--anything--as a reward for your dutifully stopping by, even if it is not of my own creation.
By way of explaining myself and these unoriginal posts, a series of very awful experiences I endured last week have found a way to rear their ugly heads into most of my thought processes, thereby polluting anything creative I've attempted this week, with the exception of a couple of lines in the Pruitt story. So even though I've had several comedic and ironic tales in mind when I sat down at the computer, pleasing tales proved no match for the previously mentioned terrible events and the rancorous thoughts that follow, and certainly I will not write of them. I can say, and those of you who know the story will know where I'm coming from on this, that municipal police are little more than barely literate journalists with the power to detain.
Abruptly moving on, I have an extraordinarily difficult time not telling it like I see it. This is not to say that I always tell the truth, but I find it nearly impossible to hold my tongue in practically every situation. Admittedly, this is one of the strengths of my character as well as a major personality flaw. This tack has come to dominate all things in my life, regardless of the exact circumstances. For example, I recently had no problem telling a cute girl that she has all the power when it comes to hooking up or going home alone, nor by the same token did I hesitate to tell the same girl that she's a piece of shit for cheating on her boyfriend. This is not to say that either statement is completely true; that is just the way I saw it.
In reviewing my notes and completed passages of the Pruitt story, I often find myself taken back by some of the things I've written. Sometimes I think that they are too good to be of my own invention, that somebody else must have written it and I am simply ripping them off. One memory that comes to mind whenever this happens involves a paper I wrote in high school about the spread of communism. "Like the smoldering embers of a pile of dry leaves," I wrote, "communism grew into an uncontrollable conflagration igniting the entire forest that is eastern Europe into a blaze of socialism and, ultimately, cultural decay." I can still remember that because my teacher accused me of plagiarism. "There's no way a freshman in high school could come up with that line on his own," she said. I thought about what she said for a second and, frankly, I didn't really remember writing it, but I must have because it was right there on the paper, so I read it over again. I replied at long last, "Whether you realize it or not, I am a talented guy." She didn't respond, so I took the ballsy step of leaving the room without invitation or further comment, and she never mentioned it again.
But that example is indicative of the way I've always been. I don't know why this is, or how exactly I come up with the words I use. I know, of course, that I am a steadfast consumer of a wide range of writings, primarily when it comes to books that most people were happy to leave behind once they left school. But anybody can go out and read a bunch of dense material; that doesn't mean they can turn around and create equally engaging material of their own. As I see it, writing is really just a clever trick. You take a character or a story idea, you establish a beginning, you figure out the ending, and then you fill in the spaces in between. This process has never been a difficult one for me to accomplish. I know people who freeze when posed with open-ended questions. I tend to answer these inquiries with the question and follow-up, "Are you really, really sure you want me to answer that? Because I'll go on forever if you want me to."
I myself as well as my writing style have often been accused of being long-winded and rambling, and I admit that this is completely true. However, before the phrase was recorded, I pledged myself wholeheartedly to Widespread's recent intonation that, "In a world with no meaning there's detail." Anyone can give a dry, blow-by-blow account of what they did, what they saw, what happened. But what did they think? Were they moved? Do they look at things differently now? Never tell me you went to a restaurant and that it was good. I want to hear what the menu was like, what the decorations looked like, whether or not the waitress was hot, if your eyes popped out when you got the bill, and if the valet guy stole your change. There's such great beauty in detail, and in a very real way details are all we can actually, truly share with one another. Life is detail.
I have dedicated myself to striking down pedestrian, rote commentary such as, "It's cloudy tonight," with, "These are werewolf skies." If you don't like that, if that's not your style, then don't come around here anymore, because it's highly unlike that I'm going to change. Cliched though it may be, it is true that we only have one life so we better make something of it. And, though I admit to spending an inordinate amount of time staring out the window blowing spit bubbles while muttering to myself about this Pruitt story, please be assured I never consider any activity a waste of my time, that the things I am doing right now are leading up to something bigger and better, though I cannot at this moment prove that to be the case. And, at any rate, maybe, just maybe, if I am successful in conjuring up the right combination of odd phrases and little-used descriptions to illustrate a point or an experience, I might be able to convince you to think about things a little more deeply than you might be accustomed to doing, then you will be turned on to the possibilities of your own reactions in even the most commonplace situations, possibly even in spite of your favored inclinations.
By way of explaining myself and these unoriginal posts, a series of very awful experiences I endured last week have found a way to rear their ugly heads into most of my thought processes, thereby polluting anything creative I've attempted this week, with the exception of a couple of lines in the Pruitt story. So even though I've had several comedic and ironic tales in mind when I sat down at the computer, pleasing tales proved no match for the previously mentioned terrible events and the rancorous thoughts that follow, and certainly I will not write of them. I can say, and those of you who know the story will know where I'm coming from on this, that municipal police are little more than barely literate journalists with the power to detain.
Abruptly moving on, I have an extraordinarily difficult time not telling it like I see it. This is not to say that I always tell the truth, but I find it nearly impossible to hold my tongue in practically every situation. Admittedly, this is one of the strengths of my character as well as a major personality flaw. This tack has come to dominate all things in my life, regardless of the exact circumstances. For example, I recently had no problem telling a cute girl that she has all the power when it comes to hooking up or going home alone, nor by the same token did I hesitate to tell the same girl that she's a piece of shit for cheating on her boyfriend. This is not to say that either statement is completely true; that is just the way I saw it.
In reviewing my notes and completed passages of the Pruitt story, I often find myself taken back by some of the things I've written. Sometimes I think that they are too good to be of my own invention, that somebody else must have written it and I am simply ripping them off. One memory that comes to mind whenever this happens involves a paper I wrote in high school about the spread of communism. "Like the smoldering embers of a pile of dry leaves," I wrote, "communism grew into an uncontrollable conflagration igniting the entire forest that is eastern Europe into a blaze of socialism and, ultimately, cultural decay." I can still remember that because my teacher accused me of plagiarism. "There's no way a freshman in high school could come up with that line on his own," she said. I thought about what she said for a second and, frankly, I didn't really remember writing it, but I must have because it was right there on the paper, so I read it over again. I replied at long last, "Whether you realize it or not, I am a talented guy." She didn't respond, so I took the ballsy step of leaving the room without invitation or further comment, and she never mentioned it again.
But that example is indicative of the way I've always been. I don't know why this is, or how exactly I come up with the words I use. I know, of course, that I am a steadfast consumer of a wide range of writings, primarily when it comes to books that most people were happy to leave behind once they left school. But anybody can go out and read a bunch of dense material; that doesn't mean they can turn around and create equally engaging material of their own. As I see it, writing is really just a clever trick. You take a character or a story idea, you establish a beginning, you figure out the ending, and then you fill in the spaces in between. This process has never been a difficult one for me to accomplish. I know people who freeze when posed with open-ended questions. I tend to answer these inquiries with the question and follow-up, "Are you really, really sure you want me to answer that? Because I'll go on forever if you want me to."
I myself as well as my writing style have often been accused of being long-winded and rambling, and I admit that this is completely true. However, before the phrase was recorded, I pledged myself wholeheartedly to Widespread's recent intonation that, "In a world with no meaning there's detail." Anyone can give a dry, blow-by-blow account of what they did, what they saw, what happened. But what did they think? Were they moved? Do they look at things differently now? Never tell me you went to a restaurant and that it was good. I want to hear what the menu was like, what the decorations looked like, whether or not the waitress was hot, if your eyes popped out when you got the bill, and if the valet guy stole your change. There's such great beauty in detail, and in a very real way details are all we can actually, truly share with one another. Life is detail.
I have dedicated myself to striking down pedestrian, rote commentary such as, "It's cloudy tonight," with, "These are werewolf skies." If you don't like that, if that's not your style, then don't come around here anymore, because it's highly unlike that I'm going to change. Cliched though it may be, it is true that we only have one life so we better make something of it. And, though I admit to spending an inordinate amount of time staring out the window blowing spit bubbles while muttering to myself about this Pruitt story, please be assured I never consider any activity a waste of my time, that the things I am doing right now are leading up to something bigger and better, though I cannot at this moment prove that to be the case. And, at any rate, maybe, just maybe, if I am successful in conjuring up the right combination of odd phrases and little-used descriptions to illustrate a point or an experience, I might be able to convince you to think about things a little more deeply than you might be accustomed to doing, then you will be turned on to the possibilities of your own reactions in even the most commonplace situations, possibly even in spite of your favored inclinations.
posted by Pat at 10:44 PM
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