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1-31-09 // 11:50 pm midnight rambler NP: M83 - "Saturdays=Youth" Have I mentioned my inexplicable fondness for the film "St. Elmo's Fire"? I must have at some point. You always hear in songs about the perils and midnight restlessness of sleeping alone. Which I never was able to figure out if were hot-blooded yet euphemistic references to the pure horniness that leads to the thoughts of booty calls, or to the calls themselves, or tips of the hat to the actual overarching loneliness that's borne of a late night and a big, cold bed. I'm currently digging, a dozen pages at a time, into Michael Chabon's "Wonder Boys", which is turning out to be a magnificent read. It's the kind of book that's simultaneously incisive and thoughtful, goofy, a little bit over-the-top, a bit pretentious, massively affecting, and laugh-out-loud funny in strange spots that catch you completely off guard. Sure, I've always loved the movie, but I never realized there was a book it was based on. Duh. Chabon is my clause-heavy kindred spirit, except, you know, talented. I had a mini-realization tonight. Well, not quite a realization, but a minor thought I've been having in the back of my head for weeks now come to the forefront. I feel like I'm somehow meant to be a writer. I derive so much satisfaction from putting pen to paper, or fingers to qwerty. MS Notepad is my Underwood typewriter. But really, what would I write? Not novels. I have no gift for believable dialogue, let alone ideas that make for interesting stories. Fiction, simply, is not in my blood. I'm type non-fiction positive. And even if I could write fiction, would I want to? I keep coming back to the concept, which is touched on in "Wonder Boys", and tangentially expounded on via the idea of the "midnight disease", the compulsion to create plotlines in your own life, to sabotage your own normalcy for the sake of your art, of cannibalizing your life for stories. Steve Hogarth has also talked about this in his lyrics and in interviews, and I've taken it to heart. Not that I have to worry about this, but I ponder it often, and wonder how it affects the happiness of artists, and whether maybe there's more than a modicum of truth to the idea that happiness isn't necessarily condusive to nerve-touching art. I don't deny anyone happiness, and in fact, I'd rather be happy, content, and boring than restless and a "genius". But really, all I can ever think of is Richard Ashcroft's first solo record, and how godawful it was. He was happy, he was truly peaceful and happy with his life, with his wife and family and his spirituality. And I wish everyone could find that! But it made for complacent music, and bad art, and something I couldn't and still can't crack for the life of me. But I digress... I find myself saying that a lot lately, incidentally. I talk in tangents anymore. Maybe I always did. Perhaps I've always had too many words. The good news is, I've finally hit my stride after several weeks' worth of existential crisis and minor depression. Work is still busy as fuck, but whereas two weeks ago was volume + the anxiety of having to master a new language/environment on the fly, this week has been pure "big to-do list". I came in Monday and started kicking ass, and stayed focused, productive, and in command all week. I rose to the challenge and met it. Friday evening rolled around, and while I was mentally drained, I also felt utterly accomplished and proud of myself. Not that I'm gonna get complacent, but I don't feel scared or incompetent. I know that when I go in each day, I'll figure it out and get it done. And I do. That's massively comforting. I gave up and joined a gym about a week ago. I'm loathe to pay for the privilege of walking in place, but this time of year, I need a sure thing. The weather (lots of snow last week) is just too ridiculous to be able to count on even being able to go outside, let alone get my proper workout in. So the gym has been a godsend -- I get off work, I stop in on the way home, I spend an hour, and I emerge clear, stress-scrubbed, and full of endorphins. It's the shit! I'm gonna keep doing it until spring has fully sprung. Speaking of which, I'm counting the days until pitchers and catchers report. Not only am I dying for that springtime sensation of having your blood stirred after three or four long months of winter hibernation and perpetual twilight, I'm also itching for the snap of leather on leather, the crack of the bat and the return of the undeniable daily rhythm of the game. And I finally came to terms, at least as much as is possible when dealing with emotionally charged issues, with the whole Sarah thing. While it's all, for the most part, finally abating, now, anytime nostalgia and green grass starts to rear its hydra heads, I remind myself of all of the bad stuff. Which works, and which leads me to think of something good instead. I've also been out with Kelly again, which was fun! We saw a movie and had dinner at this small-plates Greek place in U City. We're seeing another movie tomorrow late afternoon. I don't know how I feel about her, precisely. I know I'm not nuts about her, but I know that every time I we get together, I have a blast and that we have great, effortless conversation, and that I end up wanting to see her again. Even though I have no desire for anything short of casual dating right now. I don't even know if it's dating...I mean, it clearly is. At least in technical regards, but it also feels benign. I'm not really looking to "get with" her, you know? I feel like there's a massive difference between being on the prowl and casually getting together. Honestly, right now I'm simply thrilled to have a weekly movie buddy. But hey, that in and of itself is a good thing, so I'm gonna keep heading down the road. Time to get back to Andrew McCarthy, his beautiful and ridiculously stylized angst, and a museum's worth of 1980s interior design before my clock actually strikes midnight.
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