It’s a cool Sunday evening and I was laying in bed. Even with all the lights off, it seems brighter in my room than it does outside. I can’t ever make it dark enough. I’d like to be asleep, but the thoughts swirling in my head were a bit too boisterous to allow for rest. I remembered I hadn’t blogged in over a month, and a new chant was added to the throng of echoes, each fighting for attention or action.
I feel sick on Sundays. I theorize it’s a psychological, perhaps Pavlovian, reaction to Mondays. You know, the day when you relinquish your humanity, your freedom, your essence. I’m not talking about the popular working class “case of the Mondays” here. Somehow I know it’s something much bigger than that. It’s a feeling telling me that people were meant to exercise their individuality, their creativity—and they were meant to make that exercise their very livelihood.
I’ve been hearing alot of talk about blogging as a marketing tool lately. Marketing tools have had a bad track record with me: they usually ruin my favorite traits of their conquered medium. I have hope that marketing will not always have this effect.
Our show on Saturday was interesting. Joe had a make shift stage out of an upside down card table, Adam blew a tube in his amplifier, and Pete, Barry, and I tried our best to perform with jagged gravel underfoot. When Adam’s amp head blew, we waited for about half an hour to get one of his replacement heads to continue the show. Our crowd halved in size.
On a positive note, I saw a few faces in the crowd I hadn’t seen for a while, including Katie, Stacy, Dylan, and Maria. A few of our regular attendees were there—and I’m so grateful to them for coming: Jeff, Daryl, Bill, and of course the countless better-halves and relatives. In addition, our banner was ready and looked real smooth (thanks Jeff).
When you don’t post for a while, these things have a tendancy to come out like giant puddles of mostly unrelated information. I apologize for that.
I don’t want to live for the weekends, so I need to figure out a way to integrate fulfillment into my work week. It seems the more desperately I grab at that solution, the more squeamishly elusive it becomes. Meanwhile folks around me are as content as ever. The most passion I’ve seen lately is a passion for playing “the game”. And it scares me, because I don’t get it. Life is not binary. Although there are commonly understood classifications (dead and alive), some lives are livelier than others. A passion for playing “the game” sits somewhere slightly above a 35 year old living in his mother’s basement. I’m either a fundamentally different beast, less adjusted and less suited than others, or my particular circumstances are highly improbable. In a related note, George Romero has a new zombie flick coming out soon.
When I was young, I believed that I might have supernatural powers. When my weekend was full of room cleaning and treacherous homework, I could always fall back on the hope that those powers were still emerging. Now, my room is perpetually dirty and fantasy only means something to me when it’s allegorical.
Do you ever lie to yourself to stay happy? Would answering that question make you upset? How do you integrate your passions with your circumstances? Who do you rely on when they seem irreconcilable? How do you take action when sloth is all around? If you had to fake it until you make it, then you made it, how will you treat those who are faking it? How often do the people you rely on most, rely on you?
And now, I return myself to my regularly scheduled brain wave shouting match. Thanks for tuning in.