Hey there.
It's been quite a while since we spoke last. I'm going to go ahead and say things like "spoke" and "we" and refer to you as a close friend, because if you're reading this, and if you're going to continue reading this, you are, by default, very close to me.
Now, I've only posted one real written 'article,' if you will, on this blog, and I haven't written any reviews, and I've procrastinated very much, and we can all agree that this is a very contagious and atrocious habit that will probably never break. But I have a slight tear in the schedule now, and I want to talk to you. Reader to reader. Writer to writer. Human to human. UNLESS, of course, you are a giraffe. Then, HOOWWHFDLKOFDKLO. I'm assuming that's what giraffes say to one another.
I don't have much of an outline or a plan for this particular submission, and I am quite confident in my infidelity and hopelessness, but I hope by the end of my rant or complaint or gracious praise for whatever I'm about to discuss, you will too. I think that's a thing we should all feel sometimes. I think we need to feel confident in our hopelessness if we can't feel confident in anything else. I think it's a problem that our ideas are more courageous than the brains in which they reside, but I think that sort of imbalanced valor instills a sort of normality. I think ideas need to be shared infrequently for the sole
purpose of still seeming profound. When you write all the time, you generally develop a lot of barbarities, without actually creating any sort of well-founded accounts. Sharing those almost nonexistent accounts-- no matter how greatly or insignificantly they resemble a neanderthal-- is a paralyzing concept.
A lot of people, including myself, have the fear of sharing. I don't like to give people a bite of my cheeseburger or a sip of my Diet Coke (ENDORSEMENTS WIDELY DISPROVED). I don't like giving people my confident thoughts because the people will think my brain is made of those thoughts, and that sometimes makes me seem like a caveman. So, I feel like, fears aside, sharing things less of the time makes me seem better, more humane, and perhaps a little more special. I guess this just increases the vast opinion of my pretentious morals and immature maturity, but it's just how I function. I survive for the words to have a place to dwell, not for myself to dwell in the words.
I wrote something of a novel a few months ago with the intent of sharing it with people I love greatly. It hurt me to write. It was deeply personal and perhaps a little too confusing for someone other than the girl I was when I wrote it. The thing is, I'm having a lot of trouble returning to it, sitting down and reading it, honing in on the faults and frights of its grammar, or maybe actually praising myself for overcoming something that put me in a very emotional position. It scares me to share it with myself, for the inanimate ideas that pester me, tickle me, and sometimes love me, might not appreciate it now. I promised to share it and own it and prove it to other readers, but a part of me never wants to see it again. A part of me never wants to pick up a pen, in fear of reading my own handwriting.
I don't want to give off the aura of a distraught and perplexed young woman, even though that's who I essentially am, but I am not completely sanctioned off to a future in which I tell everyone my secrets like I'm doing now. I write constantly. I really do. I'm totally into this whole Evolving Penmanship Thing where I capitalize words to make them seem important. I think everything I say is important right now, as well as everything I read. I think every time a word goes out, it comes back in. There are all these different orifices of oozing theories coming and going, but they never actually stay. It's like when you have a conversation with someone walking through a room. They reply and they may say something significant and noteworthy, but you can only write it down really quick, bind it, and publish it, if you really want to remember, if you want other people to remember with you.
I keep wanting to remember all the things I'm saying, but I have no intention of actually speaking them. I keep wondering what will become of the thoughts I don't write down, or the inspirations I don't read. Will someone else take them? Will they make someone else better? Will I keep only wondering instead of doing? Will this cycling daydream make something beautiful to rise up with all the things I'm passing up?
Do you ever feel this way? You know, as a giraffe? As a long-necked creature with pretty spots? Do you think these spots make you feel more simply known as a giraffe, or do they complicate the whole system of the savanna?
I think the spots are very confusing. All the patterns and processes of simple things are a ravishing gift to possess, but I also think that if you have an idea of what the spots mean, they're only going to stand out more.
I'm not sure if I should think of that positively or negatively, but I definitely think about it.
DFTBA
~Kami~
P.S. I'm totally going to write a review soon. Silver Linings Playbook. Robert DiNero in a turtleneck sweater. It might just rock your socks off. Thanks for bearing with me. That rocks my socks off.
It's been quite a while since we spoke last. I'm going to go ahead and say things like "spoke" and "we" and refer to you as a close friend, because if you're reading this, and if you're going to continue reading this, you are, by default, very close to me.
Now, I've only posted one real written 'article,' if you will, on this blog, and I haven't written any reviews, and I've procrastinated very much, and we can all agree that this is a very contagious and atrocious habit that will probably never break. But I have a slight tear in the schedule now, and I want to talk to you. Reader to reader. Writer to writer. Human to human. UNLESS, of course, you are a giraffe. Then, HOOWWHFDLKOFDKLO. I'm assuming that's what giraffes say to one another.
I don't have much of an outline or a plan for this particular submission, and I am quite confident in my infidelity and hopelessness, but I hope by the end of my rant or complaint or gracious praise for whatever I'm about to discuss, you will too. I think that's a thing we should all feel sometimes. I think we need to feel confident in our hopelessness if we can't feel confident in anything else. I think it's a problem that our ideas are more courageous than the brains in which they reside, but I think that sort of imbalanced valor instills a sort of normality. I think ideas need to be shared infrequently for the sole
purpose of still seeming profound. When you write all the time, you generally develop a lot of barbarities, without actually creating any sort of well-founded accounts. Sharing those almost nonexistent accounts-- no matter how greatly or insignificantly they resemble a neanderthal-- is a paralyzing concept.
A lot of people, including myself, have the fear of sharing. I don't like to give people a bite of my cheeseburger or a sip of my Diet Coke (ENDORSEMENTS WIDELY DISPROVED). I don't like giving people my confident thoughts because the people will think my brain is made of those thoughts, and that sometimes makes me seem like a caveman. So, I feel like, fears aside, sharing things less of the time makes me seem better, more humane, and perhaps a little more special. I guess this just increases the vast opinion of my pretentious morals and immature maturity, but it's just how I function. I survive for the words to have a place to dwell, not for myself to dwell in the words.
I wrote something of a novel a few months ago with the intent of sharing it with people I love greatly. It hurt me to write. It was deeply personal and perhaps a little too confusing for someone other than the girl I was when I wrote it. The thing is, I'm having a lot of trouble returning to it, sitting down and reading it, honing in on the faults and frights of its grammar, or maybe actually praising myself for overcoming something that put me in a very emotional position. It scares me to share it with myself, for the inanimate ideas that pester me, tickle me, and sometimes love me, might not appreciate it now. I promised to share it and own it and prove it to other readers, but a part of me never wants to see it again. A part of me never wants to pick up a pen, in fear of reading my own handwriting.
I don't want to give off the aura of a distraught and perplexed young woman, even though that's who I essentially am, but I am not completely sanctioned off to a future in which I tell everyone my secrets like I'm doing now. I write constantly. I really do. I'm totally into this whole Evolving Penmanship Thing where I capitalize words to make them seem important. I think everything I say is important right now, as well as everything I read. I think every time a word goes out, it comes back in. There are all these different orifices of oozing theories coming and going, but they never actually stay. It's like when you have a conversation with someone walking through a room. They reply and they may say something significant and noteworthy, but you can only write it down really quick, bind it, and publish it, if you really want to remember, if you want other people to remember with you.
I keep wanting to remember all the things I'm saying, but I have no intention of actually speaking them. I keep wondering what will become of the thoughts I don't write down, or the inspirations I don't read. Will someone else take them? Will they make someone else better? Will I keep only wondering instead of doing? Will this cycling daydream make something beautiful to rise up with all the things I'm passing up?
Do you ever feel this way? You know, as a giraffe? As a long-necked creature with pretty spots? Do you think these spots make you feel more simply known as a giraffe, or do they complicate the whole system of the savanna?
I think the spots are very confusing. All the patterns and processes of simple things are a ravishing gift to possess, but I also think that if you have an idea of what the spots mean, they're only going to stand out more.
I'm not sure if I should think of that positively or negatively, but I definitely think about it.
DFTBA
~Kami~
P.S. I'm totally going to write a review soon. Silver Linings Playbook. Robert DiNero in a turtleneck sweater. It might just rock your socks off. Thanks for bearing with me. That rocks my socks off.
looking forward to your review of SLP!
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