pt XIII: Alternative to feeling like yourself

As far as my days go, this one was a winner.

John Clark cancelled his class this morning, the brutally useless 8:30 Digital Publishing, due to illness. If only he'd cancel it due to pointlessness, but no, it seems that he always has that extra hour or so of material after the full 2 hours on Wednesdays. As a result, we have a brief lecture on Fridays that nobody attends, nor needs to. And so, thankfully, it was scrapped this week.

So I woke up at about 9, warm and safe in my bed, relaxed and unpressured to get out of it. I won't lie, it was the most beautiful feeling in the world. And I lounge daround all morning before a) getting lunch and b) retreiving the errant garbage cans blown down the street by the wind. That was a doozy. I had to search far and wide for the last lid. And the garbagemen have gotten lazy: one can was discarded in the ditch next to my house with a full bag left in it. --the hell? Aren't you paid to work one day a week, driving around, picking up trash and putting it in a truck? You'd think you could at least complete the task.

After lunch, it was class, which featured the simplest task, which I took my sweet time in doing, for a very specific reason: that morning, my internet had gone out, and didn't come back until after I'd left. As soon as I saw Brandon online, I decided it was time to finish up and go. As it was, I spent much of the class catching up on stuff I'd neglected due to the mysterious lack of internet (which doesn't usually happen around here,) as well as shirking class to find a carnival with Mansoor. It had packed up, however, and I lamented the closeure of the kissing booth... not that I had money to spend there, but anyway.

This internet downage comes only a day after a sudden ten-minute blackout yesterday, and in the midst of numerous log off-log ons on MSN. Starting to think my place has a poltergeist. Except, if it does, why wait a year and a half to show yourself? Also I don't believe in poltergeists anymore.

Bored beyond comprehension, Eric and I sought a film from Blockbuster: Lord of War, a film I recommend (but wouldn't up-and-down praise,) starring Nicolas Cage, review currently on Interneta.

On the way back, the DJ on the radio was going on about "loneliness" and "solitude" and about how while loneliness is a bad feeling, solitude is a time to acheive balance and peace of mind. And while that sounds like some pretty heavy BS (this is from a guy who got an 8.5/10 on two consecutive Globalization papers, none of which amount to any research or forethought, so I am king of BS and thus identify it,) it has the ring of truth - not unlike most quality BS - and made me think. Yeah, I'm alone, but I don't feel lonely, and I have been able to reach a peace of mind I haven't had in a long... entire lifetime. I was always a troubled kid, but not in the conventional "acting out" sense. I was easily shaken, frustrated, disappointed, freaked out, and of course upset. And since I've begun this peculiar endeavour - the most popular site on the Internet, with fans nearing the two-dozen range - my mental state has really stablized.

It's that whole thing about bottling up your emotions or whatever. I used to think it was a meaningless, abstract expression that was not easily practicable, but here I am, definitely unbottled, free of any true angst for the time being *knock wood.* It's just all out there for the universe to deal with. I'm not letting it fester, I'm resolving things.

But even as I preach my own state of inner peace - which to be fair is far from perfect, as I can still go off at the drop of a hat, if the circumstances are right - I know that there are many out there, reading this, who are lost, tired, angry, lonely, and plain out worn down from the stress of moving for the third time in 6 months or so. You know who you are. And while I have no sagelike advice for any of these people, my best offering concerns taking it one day at a time, and being guided by a fundamental sense of where you are going. The universe may take care of the rest.

As for me, I mused today that the only thing Journalism has taught me was that I don't want to be a journalist. If I never said it before, it's out there now. I'm as jaded about the process of journalism as I am about every other profession - which is pretty hefty, if you've ever read my still-unfinished manuscript; which I know you haven't, which is good, since it's really, really rough. All the same, I know that for the moment, things are working, and I'm just going to continue until I can see it stopping. Or, it all very suddenly stops. Or someone tells me to, which, given what Roy Wilson probably probably thinks about my writing, might actually happen. But I'm so zen right now that it couldn't likely faze me. Give it a week, though, and I'll change my tune.

My mother has had a case of beer down in our fridge for about a week. I think it's weird, and that she couldn't complain if we took a few as a sort of payment. But then I decided, nah, the last people I want to drink with are my brothers. Well, my family in general, but my brothers are who I'd actually be drinking with.

It's a funny thing in my family. Mom can't hold her liquor. Nor can Brandon and to a lesser extent, Eric. Dad just doesn't drink usually, and when he does, it hardly seems to affect him. I think I take after my dad, but I wouldn't know since it's hard to judge myself. I've never had anyone cut me off or have to prop me up or roll me onto my side. I usually do my best to keep myself composed, despite deriving some amusement out of my own stupid, self-aware drunken behaviour. The worst part is, however, how I can never seem to shut up about whatever I've had. It doesn't make for wonderful conversation, and I always try to not go back there. Incidentally, my aunt Lori is the best in the family at holding her drink, and Gail's not bad either. I think it all stems from my Grampa Ross, mom's dad, who was a drunken lout. My aunts and mom all speak of him with a strange, nostolgic bitterness. Like they would say (if it were their style to do so,) "I miss that fucking jerk." Of course, they don't swear, at least, not around me, unless it's about some right wing kind of policy that's irking them.

This has been one of my more enjoyable posts to write. I feel I've been hitting a creative height this week, and really need to write down a summary of the script I conceived in my head earlier today, and get more work done on a few other projects I've been putting off for that foolish schoolwork. Someday.

Keep on rockin, fans
Scotto