Talking About Talking

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Something I’m going to try very hard to commit to is to write a page a day. If I could keep that up for a year, I’d have enough for a book. Not a coherent book, probably. But I’d really like to see that much of my work in one place, even if an incoherent mess. I’d like to mine it forth from the rich veins of my old binders, scattered online webdentities, hard drives, thumb drives, and so forth, heap it in one fell obelisk ( pile (stack (paperclip’s-worth))) and bask in the glow of the “best of” collection of thoughts I’ve had in my life.

Unfortunately for me, it’s difficult for me to balance the worlds of the internet and socialization. I’d say “I haven’t been on the internet lately because I’ve been out living real life,” except that I don’t think the life I’ve been living has been much more worthwhile than getting lots of writing done. I’ve been working and attempting to find non-boring things to do. I think the introvert in me is drowning. I don’t know if this will eventually make me an extrovert, but there’s a need for aloneness and expression that I think I haven’t indulged very much lately.

I love my girlfriend very, very, very much. Hell, I even love the family that drove me out of their house with the sheer poison of the atmosphere in that setting.

Anyway. Something I’ll eventually do, perhaps, is scrape together everything I’ve ever written (that I can get my hands on, of course.) I actually really, really, really, really want to see my work that way, as a bound volume. There’s a part of me that actually, physically warms at the thought. I don’t know how much arterial blood is in that part of me, or whether it contains alveoli or perhaps produces insulin through some dark, unknown processes. But its temperature jumps half a degree or so.

A bound volume. The incomplete works of Robert Gryfft. I really should make it happen. Hell, I’d fucking Lulu that shit just so I could have it around my house. No one else would ever buy it– people want coherent stories, not short stories, not super-short stories. People read novels to escape, these days. Not to broaden their minds or appreciate the worldbuilding. I know that’s very cynical to say, but a badly-written Harlequin Romance will sell better than my best-written blog post or 55.

This post is now over four hundred words, which I’ll count as a page because– nah, fuck that.

I wanna do a TV show. Everything shitty reality TV could have been but never was. It’s the perfect opportunity to do the shit Milgram and Zombardo and Ludovico could only dream of doing. Sociological and psychological experiments, run scientifically and broadcast as entertainment. It’d fly. It’d really fly.

I want to make money from ideas. It would be the best feeling in the world to sustain myself, to obtain nourishment from the fruits of my mind rather than the cold, dead tissue in which it is encased.

I saw the first half of Synecdoche, New York today. It was so postmodern. So postmodern. I’ll probably finish it Thursday. It was too postmodern for Michele to watch.

I’m converting my meistervurk into a story in third person. It’s a lot of work and it’s not as rewarding as just writing it. I have to fix up the romance subplot a lot.  And then I’ll pass it among those of you who’d do me the favor of giving it a once-over. Once it’s buffed to something resembling a good story, I’ll try to sell it. It’s exciting, nauseating, exhausting.

Today didn’t feel real to me. I got a little high, briefly, and then felt really disconnected for the rest of the day. I’m trying very hard not to have an existential crisis by proxy. I got over that shit the moment I realized yeah nothing means anything but I have the power to assign meaning to anything I want, and boom I became the happy existentialist. Someone else I know is more, hrm, not at peace with the universe.

I just want to be happy and try new things and appreciate the little things and listen to good music and read good books and watch movies all the way to the end.

On the plus side, I’ve been having lots of sex.

If you’re someone who reads this blog and likes what we say, I’d be thrilled to hear your thoughts below in the comments section.

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One Response to “Talking About Talking”

  1. Sebatinsky Says:

    Friend of mine misses your Oculus stories. Or, I guess, both our Oculus stories. You should write some more.

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