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Sometimes the best way to drive out the demons is to invite them in.
Trying to explain it all, this is the approximation we attribute to living. Even if our own pains mean nothing, what we make of them (our art) can be the difference for someone else. Indirect and unintentional schadenfreude. Our quiet reward. -
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Always down to talk with a fellow Clint Mansell fan.
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A pulse.
But that's not necessarily a dealbreaker. -
Inside of me.
Although, in all honesty, whiskey is usually taken straight or with coffee/tea. I don't drink pop, which usually limits what kinds of drinks I can make (regardless of the liquor). -
It won't, Ryan. It WON'T.
Although, for this hypothetical, there are options:
1.) Bale out. Just Bale the fuck out, leave none alive.
2.) Suicide.
3.) Live like a hermit until July 20th, 2012. Hope that 'Batman 3' can redeem. If it too sucks, then suicide.
4.) Get out of literature and film and devote my life to understanding and manipulating quantum physics and theoretical mechanics so that I might return to my own dimension, because I've clearly fallen into a universe where Nolan has lost his goddamned mind. -
...I can do a dozen pull-ups at once?
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I can think of a lot of such moments, most of them personal to only myself and ridiculous sounding to everyone else. Some deal with physical pain (or the threat of it), and others are psychological and only relevant to myself. I won't bore you with those.
The freshest moment in my mind happened back in March, at the reading for my Creative Nonfiction class. Earlier in the term, in an odd burst of emotionality and selfless self-hatred (a paradox that only adds up to therapy, for some reason) that was fueled by vodka and 'Hospice' by The Antlers, I wrote a piece that tackled with a problem that has beleaguered me for more than half my life. It's something that I won't put it no uncertain terms, though you can probably hunt around in my archives and piece some of it together. At any rate, it was at its worst a few years ago and a demon in my chest had to get it out. I'd never written it out so plainly before, and I never wrote a substitute before the turn-in for class. Without another option, and too much of a perfectionist to just take a zero on the assignment, I had no choice but to turn it in for workshop.
And because my workshop group responded somewhat favorably to the piece (something I never imagined), I kept with the theme for most of the term. It was a far cry from my best writing (in form, it was absolutely terrible) but it may have been some of the most important stuff I'd ever written.
For the class reading, I knew I had a choice: read from a piece about running that I thought was written well enough, or read from one of the therapeutic pieces in a moment of public catharsis. The former could be mildly entertaining but there was no challenge in reading it, and I wouldn't be a different person because of it. The latter would require me to 'out' myself, in a way (to be clear, this wasn't a piece about sexuality). I edited and brought in copies of both to the reading, and wanted nothing more than to vomit while the other students read their own work. I tried to listen; honest, I did. But I didn't hear a single word any of them said.
When it came to me, I took to the podium with the therapeutic piece. Just writing about it has my heart hammering, so you can imagine how close I was to bursting a ventricle. All those eyes, all that silence. There was churning below my gut. I stole myself up and started to read, but my voice was cracking before the first sentence was up. I could barely read the damn thing, and almost sat down twice, but eventually the fucker was read and it was all done and good with.
It's actually been a good thing, I think, this outing. Recovery's a process, of course, but amazing people had wonderful things to say afterwards that have (I think) helped me along in ways I didn't know I'd needed, as I thought I'd 'recovered' some time ago.
This blog has suffered a little since then, I think. There's a little misery to go around, just not as much as there once was. -
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If you can make it big through passion alone, you'll be living the dream. Only the best for you.
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I can't say that I have a favorite, and I honestly don't believe in a single favorite ANYTHING (except for a few instances). Taste isn't everlasting, though to get a rough idea of what a handful of absolute favorite items are is to preserve an idea of who you were at a specific moment.
Having said that, I'll always have praise for Mark Z. Danielewski's 'House of Leaves,' Joseph Heller's 'Catch-22,' as well as anything by Paul Auster, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Joe Meno. -
Sorry, but that's not me. This happens a lots, so I think I know what the problem is. There's a faulty link from my actual video at this great site called Me @ Spin. If you weren't a terribly string of ones and zeros, I'd recommend you check it out. Actually, here's the URL, just in case:
http://www.meatspin.com -
End of summer/start of fall, baby. If you guys don't make it next winter I am going to raze the Windy City to the ground.
(Not really. Love that place too much to raise a finger to it.) -
Actually, if I remember my original statement correctly, it was made while completely sober. I'm not always a cold stone when I'm between hazy nights.
I wish you the best of luck with the identify formation. Make better choices than myself, although I will advise (and I admit that I'm biased) for soul over success. What's going to feel better on your deathbed? -
I wish I listened to enough of the Beatles to muster up an opinion better than 'Well, I like the sound of it, and they sure as hell were important to music, so I'll keep listening.' I'm only really passionate about a handful of their songs ('Eleanor Rigby' chief among them).
I should give them a closer listening this summer. I'll finally have the time to do it. -
What, like in photos? I could answer more easily if I had a little more context.
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Deep water? I'm not sure what you're hinting at.
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I get a lot of incredibly drunken Formsprings from different people, but unless there is user info attached, I have no idea who sends them. So, nothing scandalous, if that's what you're worried about. Just vaguely-worded concerns.
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Jared’s Bio
I'll be dying soon, but that's okay.
