Over ten years.
Over 1300 blogs.
This morning, I wanted to write a movie review about Richard Harris' role as Frank Manchin in This Sporting Life. I then thought about posting my ten favorite films of this year, January to June. I then reread a blog where I predicted the end of Andy Roddick's career, after his heartbreaking, soul-crushing loss in the 2009 Wimbledon final. Finally, I took some time to think about my procrastination, not in the blog format, but in life in general. I realized I don't have writer's block, because who the hell cares if I write another blog ever again? I make up these obstacles. Walls, as my mother described them, always putting something in front of the task at hand. I've long wanted to write a screenplay, a novel, a short story, but nothing ever materializes, even though I once sat down on a Sunday morning and cranked out 27 handwritten pages, nothing ever grew from it. I do this with searches, conversations, relationships, and even in my fantasy world. I have an inability to look at one thing without thinking of a million ways it will or will not happen. Often, to my own surprise, I look at incredible successes. Much more than is realistic, but I convince myself that it's better than just OK. I always speak, and write, of the dangers of feeling content, but the true irony is I crave simply content. Sitting in one place, with those I want to be with, at times alone, and just being. I used to want to golf every day. That was my goal. I still miss it, but I'm content just being. The problem of course, my being, in recent years, is a solitary affair, which has changed me. I spend so much of my personal time alone, I want to work alone. Achieving that is another wall. How does one pay for their own company? My personal life used to be hours of debate, thoughtful conversations about important world events, some small, some large. Often, heated exchanges boiled into a frenzy of puffed chests and silly machismo, almost always ending with a laugh, a handshake, and a promise to continue again soon. I miss that in my personal life, which has turned into conversations about the weather, work, and general worry. I miss being detached and quite honestly, isn't that what writing, either for others or for one's self, is? But, I want more. I want to be detached on my terms while being surrounded by all that I miss, when I want it. I, unlike most, have that freedom, just not the means to achieve. I've lowered my expectations of wealth to meet the demands of my detachment, but I still can't get there. As I write this, I realize it has taken on a free writing form, with a title that hardly expresses the content. I find that amusing, as the half dozen people who may peruse this, will wonder where I started and how I got here. ADD = Abstract Dialogue Disorder? I want a drink at 10 AM, not because I am an alcoholic, but because 10 is my 1 and isn't drinking what writers do? I chuckle as I write this, knowing full well I am not a writer, but simply bored. This misdirection that I do is my woe or wall, depending on how one may view it. I have serious issues to face in front of me, and as only true procrastinators will understand, behind me. So while I complain about writer's block, while vomiting out gibberish, I'm putting off real work; well finding it. Two days to find the money for rent, a lost check should do the trick, and four weeks to accumulate enough for the new place, which I have yet to find, and a few more to buy enough time to detach myself from this life, if only for a bit. I'm on my own on that one, which is hard to explain. They say things will work out, but they always do. Then stare at you blankly when they don't., either for you or for them. I often think about those who have the ability to write with a constant theme of consciousness for a long period of time. One subject, branching off into characters, each representing a different aspect or angle of the one story we're trying to tell. Sounds a lot like life, family, and relationships that come along the way. I backspace and wonder if maybe ee cummings or Marcel Proust, James Joyce or Samuel Becket, so many other greats, who just wrote without worry and did so successfully. I wish I could do that, whether it be writing or living. Just go until I want to stop. Then do it some more. How does that translate to a job, a home, a life? I really wish I could think of something.
Over 1300 blogs.
This morning, I wanted to write a movie review about Richard Harris' role as Frank Manchin in This Sporting Life. I then thought about posting my ten favorite films of this year, January to June. I then reread a blog where I predicted the end of Andy Roddick's career, after his heartbreaking, soul-crushing loss in the 2009 Wimbledon final. Finally, I took some time to think about my procrastination, not in the blog format, but in life in general. I realized I don't have writer's block, because who the hell cares if I write another blog ever again? I make up these obstacles. Walls, as my mother described them, always putting something in front of the task at hand. I've long wanted to write a screenplay, a novel, a short story, but nothing ever materializes, even though I once sat down on a Sunday morning and cranked out 27 handwritten pages, nothing ever grew from it. I do this with searches, conversations, relationships, and even in my fantasy world. I have an inability to look at one thing without thinking of a million ways it will or will not happen. Often, to my own surprise, I look at incredible successes. Much more than is realistic, but I convince myself that it's better than just OK. I always speak, and write, of the dangers of feeling content, but the true irony is I crave simply content. Sitting in one place, with those I want to be with, at times alone, and just being. I used to want to golf every day. That was my goal. I still miss it, but I'm content just being. The problem of course, my being, in recent years, is a solitary affair, which has changed me. I spend so much of my personal time alone, I want to work alone. Achieving that is another wall. How does one pay for their own company? My personal life used to be hours of debate, thoughtful conversations about important world events, some small, some large. Often, heated exchanges boiled into a frenzy of puffed chests and silly machismo, almost always ending with a laugh, a handshake, and a promise to continue again soon. I miss that in my personal life, which has turned into conversations about the weather, work, and general worry. I miss being detached and quite honestly, isn't that what writing, either for others or for one's self, is? But, I want more. I want to be detached on my terms while being surrounded by all that I miss, when I want it. I, unlike most, have that freedom, just not the means to achieve. I've lowered my expectations of wealth to meet the demands of my detachment, but I still can't get there. As I write this, I realize it has taken on a free writing form, with a title that hardly expresses the content. I find that amusing, as the half dozen people who may peruse this, will wonder where I started and how I got here. ADD = Abstract Dialogue Disorder? I want a drink at 10 AM, not because I am an alcoholic, but because 10 is my 1 and isn't drinking what writers do? I chuckle as I write this, knowing full well I am not a writer, but simply bored. This misdirection that I do is my woe or wall, depending on how one may view it. I have serious issues to face in front of me, and as only true procrastinators will understand, behind me. So while I complain about writer's block, while vomiting out gibberish, I'm putting off real work; well finding it. Two days to find the money for rent, a lost check should do the trick, and four weeks to accumulate enough for the new place, which I have yet to find, and a few more to buy enough time to detach myself from this life, if only for a bit. I'm on my own on that one, which is hard to explain. They say things will work out, but they always do. Then stare at you blankly when they don't., either for you or for them. I often think about those who have the ability to write with a constant theme of consciousness for a long period of time. One subject, branching off into characters, each representing a different aspect or angle of the one story we're trying to tell. Sounds a lot like life, family, and relationships that come along the way. I backspace and wonder if maybe ee cummings or Marcel Proust, James Joyce or Samuel Becket, so many other greats, who just wrote without worry and did so successfully. I wish I could do that, whether it be writing or living. Just go until I want to stop. Then do it some more. How does that translate to a job, a home, a life? I really wish I could think of something.
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