pg4: The movement you need is on your shoulder

When Paul McCartney first played "Hey Jude" for John Lennon, he admitted that line above was just "a place-holder," and that'd he'd "figure out something better later." Lennon then told him no. Apparently, he said it was one of the most beautiful lines he'd ever heard.

I cut myself, just under my lip, shaving this morning, and started bleeding more profusely than I ever have before. That wasn't any way to start the day.

I've been blogging more lately. My mind is racing. Not taht my life has become more eventful - hell, given the extra amount of time I have to spend on my computer writing these things, the opposite is probably true. It's mostly that sometimes I just feel like sitting down at the end of a long day and trying to put it all into place.

But hey, I dunno... I'm not in the habit of going back and re-reading all my old entries, but I do check them out once in a while, and going all the way back to the beginning is kind of scary. It paints such an overwhelming portrait of me. But not only that...

It feels sort've like I've been a part of a board game... like, I dunno, Sorry, or Trouble, or even Monopoly if you want to stretch the analogy... where I was once doing very well, but then I got "sent back to start" and every time I try to move, I keep getting that damn card that sends me back. Okay, that's probably the worst metaphor I've ever heard - or written, at any rate - but that's how I feel.

Might as well get this out of the way: I saw Angela and Jess today by their lockers, and they asked why I never wrote about them anymore. The answer was simple, that I never see them anymore. How am I supposed to tell anecdotes when there isn't a ready supply? Well, then they started asking if I was going to write that in the blog. "Well, no," and then they kinda coaxed me into working them in there. "Write about how much you miss us," they said. To which I ask... huh? Okay, they did bring a sense of flavour to lunch... but I can't say I miss contstantly being put on the spot. There, a classic paragraph about Jess & Angela. They pledged to me that they'd read it tonight... and sometimes I'd rather nobody read this blog at all. Yeah, it's unavoidable, being out there on the net and all, but some of the things I say on here... what gives me the gall?

But hey, apparently there are people out there who like to read this junk, and since I like writing it, it looks like we've got ourselves a mutually benificial agreement. So long as nobody gets hurt, what's the harm?

So today was the big Reach tournement. Well, it wasn't big. It was no more significant than the previous two, but it did tell us where we'd stand come finals. 3rd place, apparently - which is perfect, as far as I'm concerned, since it means we don't have to deal with the teams that are professional ass-kickers (OT comes to mind,) but also that we have a good chance of cleaning up, if we play our cards right (which, if history tells us anything, we won't.)

I figure I'm through with being lovesick. While we were playing Bateman, she decided to leave the room rather than stay and watch, with the very guy she was mackin' on 3 weeks ago, proving me theory - or at least providing further evidence - that I should totally not "go there." We're still cool, and I never did say anything to her (coward!) but it's over with. Time to pack up and move on, something with which I've got enough experience to know when to do.

Enough self-deprecation. I've got a whole evening and weekend to just relax. I can finish off "American Gods" (still excellent, and only increasing by the page,) or even do my Writer's Craft Homework (fuck - two journal entries and that poetry shit. Just WHO am I supposed to write about?!) I could even make another dent in my latest Net fascination; "Transplanted Life"... or I could even write about that here in the blog...

Transplanted Life is a story told right here on BlogSpot, in the form of a Blog, which adds a certain level of realism to the charactization, which is part of what I love. Plus, the story is indefinite, which I also adore (and have already shown some appreciate for... see Metaworld why don't you?) The "author" is Martin Hartle, who at the beginning of the story, is about to leave his home in Boston and move out west to start a new job; a new life. Well, before he can leave, he does start a new life, but not the one he was anticipating. Only a few entries in, we find that his mind has been transplanted into another person, and that he's stuck in a low-paying job, still in Boston, and prisoner in a body that does not belong to him. It was started in July of 2003, and continues to the present day... so I've got a lot of catching up to do (I've read as far as February 2004, and am thus far enthralled.) The story itself is genius - not only in concept but also execution, which is rare. I've read dozens of such literature - hell, I've even written a few, and pitched one to Ana as what would have been her follow up to "Summer at Sixteen" (which she accepted, but I never got around to,) - but so few are as authentic and as engaging as this. I think Guthrie would be proud. It's often difficult to think of it as somebody crafting fiction on their computer. It just sounds like a real person, really going through this problems.

Fuck, from how well it's written, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was all real, and the world is more fucked up than I'd even contemplated. You can read it here, but be forewarned - this is heavy stuff. It also offered me an awesome quote "Don't ask questions if you're afraid to know the answers" which goes in my "weirdly profound" notebook alongside "the only obligation any man has is to himself."

And on that note, I think I'll dive back into it.

Keep on Rockin'
Scott
(Every day I wake up now, I thank God my body hasn't been stolen.)