Groundhog Day

Yes, I've slacked tremendously in keeping this blog updated. So, why not make a blogpost about how I feel about writing, with blogposts as significant element? Yeah, we'll take that and run with it. Once upon a time, in my more idyllic younger days, I told a girl I thought writing was the purest form of communication. Now, at first blush, this sounds grade-A retarded. The purest form of communication? How, you may ask, could I ever reach this conclusion, much less defend it to any semi-intelligent human being? Well, it went something like this: when one is writing, they aren't speaking straight from their stream of consciousness. Yes, obviously, that is true. But it is significant, mainly in that you can consider the implication of the words you are producing. Usually when we speak, whether in person or via telephone, we have seconds to respond (maybe less with a fast-talker). Those words, themes, and ideas floating nearest the top of the cesspool of creativity that is our minds come out first. But when we write, we have the opportunity (not always taken) to consider the implications of the words. One can see the fabric of the narrative that is being produced, and actively alter it before it ever reaches another. This might lead you to think that written communication presents many more opportunities for manipulation, and you'd be partially correct in that. But think of the context cues we use in daily conversation; facial expressions, tone of voice, mood, delivery, and many other factors all play on our vocal interactions that we never stop to consider. When we write down what we want to say, all these outside clues are eliminated. Yes, this opens the door to misunderstanding, but that is exactly why we have such an intricate and complex language, to allow any and all impressions we wish to create to be conveyed via the written medium. Another factor is the lack of confidence many have in their oratorical abilities, especially in the presence of peers or superiors. We sabotage ourselves with our nervousness, lack of confidence in our words and assertions, and general inability to articulate our ideas. And speeches are simply another example of how effective writing can be at articulating an idea; how often do you think these official oral presentations are done extemporaneously? Writing gives one an opportunity to preview their arguments and assertions. How often has a random conversation hit you in the gut with the power of one line of Shakespeare? Not fucking often. This isn't to say that that plenty of modern writing is absolute trash. But if you want someone to truly understand what you mean (or if you want to impress that English major in your class) I bet you'll write that shit down.

I'm getting soft in my old age.

It's sad, really. I didn't drink this past weekend, at all. For no reason other than I was in Texas over thanksgiving with no one else I knew around. Since when was that ever a problem? In response to the startling revelation that I'm losing my edge, I offer a little inventory of myself at the fresh age of 23 (yes, 23 fucking years old).
Where I am: Austin, TX, in Three Oaks, living next to a middle aged gay man that already has Christmas Lights up on his windows, and some artsy kid named Sam (or steve, some S name I didn't particularly listen to) who has head-shaped sculptures up in his windows, while a black cat lives on our balcony (Christmas Lights man feeds it on a regular basis, Goddammit).
Why I'm here: well that's the $130,000 question, isn't it? Law school seems to be the answer most satisfactory to the parents and other family members (at least it makes them stop asking questions, perhaps it just confuses them). But more believably, Texas had the coolest admissions envelope of any Law School not located in the top 10 most dangerous cities in America (fuck you WashU). Also, I really needed an excuse to go on that first plane flight. And an added side benefit is the acceptable wearing of another of the world's strangest collegiate colors.
What I'm doing: Well Law School, obviously. I mean, really, what else is there to do in a town with 50,000 college students and a university labeled the #1 party school by the Princeton Review? Ok, I admit sometimes I do have time to watch an occasional movie or group dinner, but Drinking? Me? Come on, you know how I focus.
How much am I in Debt: More than the average American spends on their first house. Seriously.
Who I hang out with: Some of the most insanely random people this side of Chapel Hill. Notable Characters: a South Carolinian, which forces me to constantly curtail my bashing of the Palmetto state; A kid from Notre Dame who actually has the logo Tattooed on his back; A kid from Atlanta who has reaffirmed my faith in the power-hour; some girl from Oklahoma who majored in Piano (Seriously, Piano at OU. Just let that one marinate); and a young man from San Antonio who makes me feel secure in my own mental illness (this means he's of a comparable caliber of crazy; yay alliteration!).
How I feel about Texans: If you counter their bullshit with even greater amounts of bullshit, it shocks them. All you have to do is point out that you live in a place where snow happens (this doesn't work on the ones that go Skiing in Colorado), BBQ is made out of pork, leaves change colors (besides just brown), and people can cross state lines in less than 5 hours of driving (I guess the whole going to Mexico point applies here, but really, I've never met anyone from anywhere close, or that ever wants to go). Other than that, they're a fine bunch.
Impressions: It still makes me laugh when they try to figure out what a real North Carolina license looks like (oh shit, did I just admit drinking?), and the massive amount of holograms reflecting across our ID doesn't help the process (First in Flight, bitches!). And I miss Hardee's (although What-a-Burger is a surprisingly decent substitute). But this Alamo Drafthouse movie theater is probably the greatest idea for entertainment in the history of the world. Seriously, a movie theater that serves tons of alcohol and has waiters that come around even during the movie? Pure Brilliance.

Friday Blues

For perhaps the entirety of my educational career, I have held one holy policy above all others. One day was sacred, untouched by the blasphemy of studious activity. So friends, it is with a heavy heart that I report the failure of my own principles. It is technically a Friday at this moment, and before me sits a Contracts book. Fucking Law School. But fear not, for there is a silver lining to this gloomy cloud of despair. Diet Coke now comes in 24-packs (it's about fucking time), I have an entire carton of cheddar goldfish, and it's been almost an entire week without a cigarette. Obviously, procrastination output has not been sacrificed; I think I'm ready for the Law School shit to go down.

Killing Time

There is a scene in Memento where Leonard wakes up, comes back, returns to consciousness while running in a trailer park. His first question, "Ok, what am I doing?" He sees another man running near him. "I'm chasing this guy" he says; then the guy fires a shot at him. "Nope. He's chasing me." Memento is a post-modernist film, questioning the foundations of our concepts of knowledge, how we form it, recall it, interpret it. Or at least that's what my film criticism professor told us in his pre-recorded lecture I listened to on my way to class one day in Engl 41. For me, this scene reminds me of my life right now. I feel like I woke up running one day in Austin, in Law School, with no clear friends and no clear enemies. You never really know until they start shooting. Not to belittle the people I know here; plenty have been nice, some seem like people I'll be friends with for quite some time. But the feeling that I just fell asleep in mill creek G9 keeps haunting me; I'm in a new state, a new school, a whole new time zone. How did this happen exactly? Like Leonard, I'm not sure. Where am I going? Are these people my friends? Better yet, why am I running? We don't act based on large philosophies, on world-views, personal beliefs; we RE-act, to a stimulus, and in that action, we define exactly just who it is we are. Maybe that's the point prof. taylor wanted to get across; even if Leonard knew the score, he would act the same with a gun in his face. Who cares about all the rest, it's the action that matters.