Celibacy and the City: Part II - Choices and Identity

I was out with a friend last week, and as I reflected with him on my days as a high school drama kid/punk rocker I realized something. Had I moved a social inch to the left, I would have ended up a *LARPER. In fact, the object of one of my major crushes (Mike Monson, a drama girl's dreamboat) was an avid LARPER and had he invited me to join, I'd have been at home crafting my own Medieval mace and warrior costume quicker than you could say "Ren Fair."

Of course, this led me to ponder the following: how much of who I date do I absorb? Much like Rogue from X-Men absorbs the powers of those she touches, I too take in a little something of the men I touch. I'm sure this is inevitable in all dating situations as humans typically (even if subtly) take on various nuances of people they spend a lot of time with whether or not there are any romantic inclinations. For example, I find my vocabulary "dumbed down" when I'm around certain co-workers, yet I step it up around others. Dating is no different, and while I almost ended up a LARPER for Mike Monson, I almost ended up a perfect trophy-wife with breast implants for another fellow. Clearly, I take in far too much. As with anything, awareness is the first step to overcoming affliction, and I will now strive to not be a "dating-sponge." I will be a dating-uh...what's the opposite of a sponge? Huh. There is this really smart guy I'm dating right now, maybe he knows. Which reminds me, I need to study if I'm going to be able to keep up with him. Oh wait. Grrr...this is going to be harder than I think. Maybe I should just start working on a new cloak of invisibility or something. After all, Ren Fair is only 4 months away!


*LARPER - A live action role-playing game (LARP) is a form of role-playing game where the participants physically act out their characters' actions. The players pursue goals within a fictional setting represented by the real world, while interacting with each other in character. The outcome of player actions may be mediated by game rules, or determined by consensus among players. Event arrangers called gamemasters decide the setting and rules to be used and facilitate play.
The first LARPs were run in the late 1970s, inspired by tabletop role-playing games and genre fiction. The activity spread internationally during the 1980s, and has diversified into a wide variety of styles. Play may be very game-like, or may be more concerned with dramatic or artistic expression. Events can also be designed to achieve educational or political goals. The fictional genres used vary greatly, from realistic modern or historical settings to fantastic or futuristic eras. Production values are sometimes minimal, but can involve elaborate venues and costumes. LARPs range in size from small private events lasting a few hours to huge public events with thousands of players lasting for days.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Live_action_role-playing_game

Why I Write: A Startling Revelation

After watching an episode of Hoarders, I found myself once again inspired to spend some time de-junking my home. The warm, stuffy musk of the garage beckoned me so I decided to begin there with boxes that have remained unopened since my last move.

Now, a smart person would not even peek in the boxes using the following logic: The boxes have been untouched for nearly two years, thus the materials within said boxes must not be important. Throw 'tall away and ask questions later.

Curiosity simply would not allow me to do this, and sort through the boxes I did. I'm ashamed to admit that one box was nothing but empty CD cases. However, one box was a treasure trove of stories I had written years and years ago. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, I began a series of tales called "Muffin Stories." They were about a lady named Sarcel who had a little bakery where she made the most disgusting muffins imaginable. As I browsed through some of my earliest attempts at writing, I was shaken by a revelation. My motives for writing have changed drastically since I was a kid, and not for the better.

When I wrote the "Muffin Stories," I wrote them purely for my own amusement. I enjoyed using the word "muffin" for some reason, and even more I enjoyed making up strange names like "Sarcel." If I said a word aloud and the sound made me snicker, it was going in a story. Coming up with onion-mustard-and-chocolate muffins and other awful combinations was also amusing to me.

I can't remember when I wrote something for myself alone. Lately, I have been writing not for me but for the validation I hope to receive from others. Now, part of me still does write "for me." I do have these stories and characters in my head I just have to let out, but now I constantly think "will grad schools like this? Will an intellectual like this? Will a potential suitor like this? Will writing this make others think I'm smart? Talented?" This is flawed thinking, and for one week I am conducting another experiment not unlike the TV fast. Which, by the way worked really well...for about two days. Oops.

This new experiment go as follows: For the next week, I will not strain myself with my writing stretching for literary greatness. I will not write for grad schools, professors, of that literary journal. I will write what amuses me, regardless if nothing wonderful comes of it. I just want to see what writing without inhibition feels like, if only for one week.

A Very Short Story, Compliments of 2AM

It Ends with Marinara

I saw the end of the world today. Funny. I always pictured the apocalypse would be abrupt; a screeching halt on existence. It wasn’t. In fact, everything was slow and gentle and felt really calm even though I was terrified. I was driving home from work, I usually finish my shift around 1am, but the slot floor was empty today. Not a lot of players, maybe they knew the end was coming. Anyway, I left early; around midnight. I remember looking at the moon, just a little nub of a moon and it was so yellow. I had my sun roof open on my new car and I was enjoying just watching the bright nub of moon get smaller and smaller and – woah. I have never seen a moon just shrink to nothing like that. See, when I got out of work it was a full half – you know what I mean, a good wedge of moon. But the closer I got to home the thing started shrinking! I have never seen anything like that before in my life. The moon can’t shrink! All around me cars kept driving like nothing was wrong and all the while that moon kept disintegrating. For a moment I was able to convince myself that the moon wasn’t disappearing. I told myself it was just dipping behind the mountains where I couldn’t see it. Soon enough though, I knew that wasn’t true. The moon wasn’t hiding, it was getting the Hell outta here. So that’s why I’m just hunkered down in my house right now. Just waiting for the end. I mean, it’s gotta come soon. With no moon there’s nothing regulating gravity and the ocean tides are going to get all messed up and there’s going to be tsunamis and hurricanes and tornados and all kinds of scary disasters. I don’t know much about astronomy or geology or any kind of science but I do know we are in serious trouble without the moon. I can’t believe its still so quiet outside. I thought surely by now, all of Las Vegas would notice the moon was gone. I’m looking out the window and the lights of the strip are still blazing. As if a billion watts of neon light are going to replace the moon! To quote Shakespeare, what fools these mortals be! I feel like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe novel, trying to figure out why the rest of the world has gone insane while I am all alone. Ah well, no sense worrying about everyone else. They can’t be helped now. I think I’ll help myself to whatever provisions I have stashed in my pantry. My last meal will be a good one. After all, the power company and the gas company haven’t seemed to notice the missing moon. I can cook up one last feast and dine in peace before the impending mayhem breaks loose. I’m stunned I have an appetite at all, but the human body is a remarkable thing. Instinct for survival always reigns supreme in a crisis. Crisis. I knew there would come a day. I knew it, I knew it, I have always felt I would witness something great and terrible. I think I even knew what I would witness would be the ultimate, the end of all things. I am afraid, but I am hungry too. I think I’ll make spaghetti.

Yes, spaghetti. Maybe, if there are survivors they'll find my body stained with tomato sauce because I know I was meant to die with the world. I've known that long before the moon disappeared. I'm scared but I'm ready to eat now. Ready for spaghetti and the end. And maybe some garlic bread too.

The End.

To Write or to Internet?

A friend of mine posted this on another forum: "Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet."

Of course, this writer friend of mine found the quote whilst surfing the internet. Which leads me to ponder the concept of distractions in general.

When I'm at home, the following distractions descend upon me like a swarm of zombie dwarves when I should be focused on writing: laundry, snack foods, tv, exercise, facebook, youtube, picking up the cereal that my nephew spilt this morning, birds chirping outside, email, ipod, itunes, pandora, scrutinizing my body in the mirror picking apart every flaw until I'm convinced I'm a monster that no man could possibly love, more snack foods, the sound of wind, my neighbor's dog, what's that on the floor - a spider or a ball of fuzz? ADD. Gotta love it. I must say though, the internet is a big one. Especially since I do all my writing via laptop. I'm beginning to see the wisdom of Mike the Tech who insists on doing all of his writing on a variety of vintage typewriters. What I once thought of as charmingly eccentric (and maybe a little foolish - after all, there is no "save" button on a typewriter!) I am now seeing as a brilliant way to filter out at least the internet portion of my list of distractions. Now what to do about the cellulite on my thighs?

Write or Watch TV? A Dilemma.

Stephen King wrote a book called On Writing. Or something like that. In that book, he spoke of the muse and they key to truly invoking this vehicle of inspiration. To loosely paraphrase (and boy, do I mean loosely!) he said something to the effect of - the muse does not simply appear, wave a wand and then harp music plays as an idea is born. Rather, he felt like the muse was constantly present, watching for one who is diligently struggling in creative pursuit. In other words, to a writer the muse would only bestow brilliance upon the poor sap who labours constantly at their notebook, keyboard, or typewriter. Only when the writer has proved such dedication as to continue writing even when displeased with his or her work, does the muse take pity, sweep down with gilded chariot and intervene.

Oh dear Muse, you are a clever one. By behaving this way, you ensure that those capitalizing on your stimulation are truly deserving. I must remember the way you operate when there is a Dr. Who marathon on TV, Sex and the City is now in syndication on E (which means a nice Mormon girl can watch and not be assaulted by BEWBS and effwords!), and the series premier of Walking Dead is rapidly approaching. So thus begins a new writing technique I will employ: The TV fast. Anytime I feel like flipping on the ol' flatscreen I will think - wait. If my senses are being occupied by the tellie, will the muse be able to reach me? Will I hear the gentle knocking of the characters in my unwritten stories? The answer will always be nay. Which leads me to another point. Time spent thinking about writing, is not time spent writing. (I stole this from a Nike ad about running)

So. One week. No TV. I'm serious. Muse? Are you there? It's me Suzy. It's safe to come out now. The TV is off...starting tomorrow. After all, tonight is The Wire night. *Sigh*