Discovery

I’ve wasted a lot of time. I’ve spent so many months trying to find something, something that was there all along, and now, after a bit of eye-opening situations and the reality of my plight, I have realized what needs to be accomplished. I just need to keep writing and reading. This is a discussion—and argument—as to why I should keep the struggle going, and not disappoint what I cherish so fervently.

What I’ve Lost

The base template to write on.

While I was studying at New Mexico State University, I noticed a large desire to write towards the end of my senior year. I attribute this desire on the fact that I was reading large amounts of literature, so this is where I guess that old idea (and one that I toted on a constant basis) that if you want to write, then you need to read even more than you write.

I haven’t read all that much since I graduated, but I still have the desire to write. My trouble is finding a black template, a clear idea of how I would like to write and what about. The literature I enjoy reading are novels that are usually over 50 plus years old, and have been discussed for just as long in academia. Take for example 1984 by George Orwell, easily one of my favorite books due Orwell’s ability to paint a dystopian world that many people were afraid to visualize for themselves. Even though what happened in the novel did not in fact happen in the real world, the novel is still regarded as one of the best depictions of what could happen under a totalitarian form of governance; so, when I read these books, I get the desire to write in the way these authors have written. This leads to two issues:

  1. Writing Style. These authors were masters at their trade. They put paper to pen day in and day out trying to get all their ideas into a tight, nit fictional story that represents the angst they were feeling. They also read at an alarming level in comparison to today’s standards. (A question that I really need to delve into is what kinds of literature they enjoyed reading, and what they felt they needed to read. George Orwell mentions in his short auto-biography Why I Write that all art is political. If this is true, then we most likely gravitate to the political situation that most affects us.) Not only did they read at alarming levels, they also found part time jobs that usually had positive impacts on their writing. If I remember right, a vast majority of classic author—those who are studied in the classroom, usually—had worked in fields where their writing were accentuated. My question is: how can this be possible today? If I wanted to go about writing in a method that reflects the writing I enjoy, then must I find a job like ones they had? Because those kinds of jobs are few and far between these days. A side note: there is something I still haven’t done, something that, I guess, Picasso had done, which was to copy or trace your favor painter (in my case, that would be an author). So one of the practices I think I will begin to partake in would be this “tracing” of my favorite authors. But, what bothers me is the readership. These authors—that we study—have had such high levels of stylistic and artistic writing that they have changed the ways of writing, and these days, as I see it, writing withered over the years (this could be a whole-nother topic). Where do I find my voice?
  2. Time, Expectations, and Media. Like most authors I idolize, they had been writing and enjoying, so-to-speak, the process of writing, and most started at young ages, giving them a fair amount of practice, experimentation, and discovery, and doing this takes time, lots of time. Even though we live much longer than most did during earlier times, we still have only a finite amount of time left on this mortal coil. The idea that I am trying to follow in the footsteps of these authors is terrifying. I usually ask myself, “can I even come close to writing like they did,” “is our time period worth writing about,” “do I really have enough struggle and angst like they did?” There are countless amounts of questions like these that I ask myself, and the answer I usually come up with is NO! The expectations on writers (fiction writers mostly) are usually to follow what is popular, and just take that route, seeing it’s the easiest way to make a living. Nothing important today can come from a dying medium. Picture someone trying to make an important, political statement, or outcry, through telegraph and Morse code; it just wouldn’t be possible, that medium could not support such important messages; and today is no different. Upcoming generations, mine included, will be finding their answers on YouTube, Facebook, Tumbler, and Twitter. The older generations are looking more towards television than books, and the books they do look to are straight forward and are academia based. If you want to write, and write something important, and you would like to get it out there, what would be the point if no reads it wholly because it doesn’t follow the current media?

What Needs to be Done

I need to write every day. I may not be able to change the minds of many people, but seeing that I’m trading the sword for the pen, I need to take the responsibility and do what I feel needs to be done, but what is that? I get the feeling I might be some kind of reincarnation of Fredrich Engels. I come from the middle class, but I see and sense great injustice in our times, but there is not enough people willing to stand up and say fight, just yet. I had a discussion with my Aunt and Grandma over Thanksgiving about the death of the Philosopher and process of creating new modes of living (I sound like a great guy to have for dinner, huh?).

The Everyday: Every day—people think. They think of the bills they have to pay, whether or not their family will be there when they get home, if the bread-maker will bring bread to dinner, if a friend is doing okay with their break-up, when their next shift at work is, and, the mother of all, how much money is in their checking account. These are worries that infiltrate the thought process, and halt the catalyst for original and creative thought.

The Not-So Every Day: Political and social issues affect us every day. Even though these issues affect us on an on-going basis, they are usually the things that we try not to fix, because of the sense that they might not be fixable. We do at times try, usually in college, but, from my understanding, the processes ends once you leave college and start working for a paycheck. In a way, we begin to start the formulation of expectations, how our family thinks we should live, how our society thinks we should live, and how we believe we should live. This seems to be another method of blocking the creativity that is needed to try and discover new and improved modes of living.

So, what does the “death of the Philosopher” have to do with these two ideas? What has happened over the years seems to be a systemic deconstruction of our will to rebel and think of new kinds of societies. Think how often we hear how America “is the greatest country in the world”. Currently, this is not true, yet this is the kind of mentality many people want you to think; because, if we have hit the pinnacle of greatness, then we should we reforming anything—if it ain’t broke, then don’t fix it. My question is: if the populace believes were the best, but the facts show otherwise, then why would they want try something else?

I guess my writing is going to philosophical, political, and a desire to see change happen not just to other, but to myself as well, just like Engels. We’ll see, all I know is that I need some help.

A Possible New Wind

If I really want a career, my life’s work–my life’s dreams, to be based around writing, then I need to make a stand for myself, to myself, to my own mind and my own sufferings that, I can do this. This blog may not be read by anyone, but, hopefully someday, some of my writings will be.

Evalin

Sitting in the back seat of her car, Evalin couldn’t help but notice the stain Carter left. To her, this was just another night down town; and she was unsure what this night meant to him, if it meant anything at all. The expectations of something interesting happening in her town, besides the unexpected sensation of vomit from her lovers, has struck her more than once since she moved out to Vegas. This short-running, new boyfriend of her’s seemed like a catch at first, but the back seat of her Toyota looked to disagree with her. It has only been three months since they’ve started dating, and the frustration Carter creates in her is, at moments, immense. The constant thought that she has always dated guys like this runs through her thoughts like wind running through leaves. Carter is not a bad guy, he tries his best, he would never let anything bad happen to me–she thinks during the quick moments of anxiety; but Evalin’s anxiety is not directly related with Carter, but instead with her father.

Balcony-Night Blues

Balcony-Night Blues

Why do you leave me now?
At a moment when I needed you the most.
You were always so sickly amiable!
I guess you were right; we were just
A cliché, star-crossed lovers.

Upon this balcony, staring at you;
Tears swelling at my eyes,
Kissing my cheeks;
True blue skies have vanished;
Now shineless,
Leaving the droplets famished.

Lewdness shrieks once again for two:
Did you witness,
The vulgarity that infected you?
Did you witness,
Everything I did to/for you?
I don’t deserve this, this treatment.
Or, do I deserve this?
I might not have tried my hardest; but
Instead, I wish for you much less.

Upon this balcony, I see you walk away;
Tears swelling at my eyes,
Kissing my cheeks;
True blue skies have vanished;
Now shineless,
Leaving the droplets famished.

Must I play the part of some King;
One disowning his daughter
Because her love was too great?
Oh, how I hate these roles we play!
Does it have to be
The same thing day n’ day?

I look at this void—this balcony;
Tears swelling at my eyes,
Kissing my cheeks;
True blue skies have vanished;
Now shineless,
Leaving the droplets famished.

Do you truly believe
I owe you anything of me?
You—young mind of the Lithuanian
Who had the world turned against him!
You—blue blood of the innocent lamb
Who is being sent to the slaughter.
You—who will be the one,
Who will be the one that falters?
—You!
Falter! My friend, falter,
And fade away into oblivion.

Now—

The darkness shall consume you;
Leaving no one on this balcony but—;
Tears forever gone from my eyes,
Maybelline on my cheeks,
And a makeshift smile for the weak.
The Blue skies shine once again,
But not for you my friend.

Adding some missed Achievements!

Hey Everyone!

Since school got so crazy, and since I was taking a little break from posting, I was unable to post some of the achievements I collected over the past 3-4 weeks. So, without further introduction:

Read 2 novels in a week-20 points
Read 3 novels in a month-30 points
Read 4 novels in a month-45 points
Run 4 miles in a day-10 points
Run 5 miles in a day-10 points

Run 10 miles in a week-5 points
Run 15 miles in a week-5 points
Run 20 miles in a week-10 points
Run 30 miles in a month-5 points
Practice guitar each day of the week-20 points
Practice guitar for 15 days straight-15 points

————————————–

I am done posting for the night. These I will get to tomorrow.
Go 1 day without caffeine-5 points
Go 2 days without caffeine-5 points
Go 3 days without caffeine-5 points
Go 5 days without caffeine-10 points
Go 7 days without caffeine-15 points
Go 2 weeks without caffeine-10 points
Go 1 day without drinking alcohol-5 points
Go 2 days without drinking alcohol-5 points
Go 3 days without drinking alcohol-5 points
(Finished)Go 1 year without smoking-90 points

A Night of Debated Minds

Hi Everyone!
So, halfway through my last semester at NMSU I began to have this driving desire to write some prose. This is just a quick snip of something I think I might pursue in the future, but it is not set in stone. What I am trying to do with this piece is 2 things: (1) I am trying to write a piece of prose, obviously, and (2) if I have any writer’s ink in my blood I would try and find some philosophic forms of discourse and descriptions within my prose writing; or something like that. Hope you read every little bit of it, and I really hope you enjoy it, if not then please let me know what bothered you 😀

A Night of Debated Minds

It was a chilly, November evening, and Sandra was sitting on the floor of her apartment like a child playing with her toys, but,instead of toys, tonight, she was sorting through her banking statements. The way Sandra handled her bills was that of an old-school method: pen, checkbook, and addition and subtraction in a small notebook. She couldn’t help the feeling that Jonathan wanted nothing to do with her debt, as if her debt would somehow contaminate his all too perfect method of handling money. “I was a bank teller at one point Sandra, and I have strong sense of saving money. If you need my help, let me know,” was his reply when he thought she might be struggling with her bills. She looked up at him and gave him her makeshift smile and began to think, “What does he know about money! He’s just some spoiled, little child who has had everything given to him on some silver platter; he should be helping me without me having to ask for it, he owes me at least that!”

Yes, at some point Jonathan was a bank teller, he was a teller for a small third rate bank in Nevada, but he had experience saving his own money, not in saving someone else’s money. Although that was a reality and a possibility, he really just did not wish to help her save up some money to pay off her debts. Deep down he had a feeling that she might not want the money to be saved, or maybe he wanted her to save the money herself. But, to her, that would have been some form of pseudo-logical mode of thinking because, being the love of his life, he should do anything possible to help her. Jonathan was under the assumption that she wanted him to help her in any way he could, but he abstained from doing so. This all steamed from a small discussion at Sandra’s aunt’s house.

Four to five months before the discussion of debt, Jonathan and Sandra were visiting her aunt to celebrate part of her Thanksgiving weekend. Aunt Ophelia was an eccentric individual; someone whom invites others with open arms, but at the same time would be harsh to those whom she loved. This harshness was not out of bitterness or spite, but from a desire to be an “honest and open person as possible.” She desired to see the people around her to be pleasant, and with any host of a house.

Aunt Ophelia’s residence was similar to her personality, the meeting of a tornado and a street cleaner, but with a touch of neatness. Sandra’s aunt’s house was continuously filled with the same mishappenings night after night: red wine, music, and dancing. It usually did not matter too much who would be there for Ophelia to enjoy a few glasses, and begin to dance to some of her favorite songs. This specific night was not much different from those nights except for a conversation that would soon send Jonathan searching for answers in the love of his life.

“Oh, I just love that song! I know, to you youngans, it is just some 70’s—crap, but to me it’s just the most awesomness song in the world!” exclaimed Ophelia with much jubilation. This excitement was drawn from the warmth that her niece and her niece’s boyfriend would visit her for Thanksgiving.

“It’s our pleasure Ophi. You know we love to come and see you.” Sandra said with utter warmth. “Oh, but now it is my turn to choose a song.”

“What are you going to choose babe?” Jonathan said with his usual, slight tone of curiosity when it came to Sandra’s choices to music.

Sandra proclaimed with much excitement, almost to the extent when philosophers are absorbed in modes of though and ways of living, “I am going to play Miss Independent by Kelly Clarkson. Ah, I just love this song!”

“I love that song too!” Ophelia blurted as she rose her wine glass towards the sky.

As the music was playing, Sandra started to idealize and vocalize a life she seemed to have been dreaming of.  “Oh, it is just a pure testament of how I want to live; completely free—completely independent.”

With the idea of where this discussion would lead Jonathan couldn’t help but wince; but, as was his custom, to him, he would take such an argument like this and bear it with him, and would not share his opinion with the ones, here with him, whom he loved with utter passion. He thought to himself, “That makes no sense! It would be impossible for her to be completely independent. For if she was to be ‘completely free—completely independent’ she would perish, because there would be no one to save her. The world is a cruel and chaotic mess; she can’t be serious about living independent form the rest of us, could she? Even though, I think it is a silly idea, if she wants this independence so bad, then she can have it.”

Jonathan tried not to think of this in a malicious way. He didn’t wish to have her struggling on her own, but instead, he thought, that he was doing something of higher consequence, something better not just for her but them both. Even though he might not have completely respected her taste in music, he still respected the ways she wanted to pursue her life choices. Something in him would not allow himself to take away such a “testament” from this angel in his presence. He may not have liked the idea of this, and, somewhere in the recesses of his experience, he knew this would probably tear the relationship apart. But, what was the most important aspect to him, for the relationship he thought, was seeing that she got what she wanted, even if that meant releasing himself from her presence.

Assassins of the Heart

Seriously, inspiration can strike anywhere at anytime, and this happened to me during my run last night. About 2 miles into my run I thought of this poem (FYI: the achievement description came from a famous quote by a famous poet, try and find it who it was!):

Target: Love
By Shane Grayson

Blood pumping through veins;
Heart beating at an increased rate;
Nerves shocked with excitement;
These damn stairs are never ending.

She is draped over my shoulder;
At moments tickling my ear;
“Hold her close for dear life”, I tell myself
She is the only friend I have left.

We finally make it to the room, and
I lay her on the bed with gentility;
I begin to undress her piece by piece;
I see that she is in pieces,
And I propose to put her back together.

She is the only friend I’ve ever known;
We have been through so much together;
Seen the world through each other’s eyes;
Hers more clearer than mine at times, but, as I believe,
I am the only one in control, not she.

Even though she is a puzzle to others,
I am the only one whom can put her back together;
Only I can’t put her back together,
And use her in the way she was meant to be used.

Once again, we are and ready to dance;
Opening the window for our preparation,
Even though at times these moments cause trepidation;
Opening the window soothes my soul;
Or maybe this is just one of our preparatory habits.

I find the testament in her dress, and
It reads like a laundry list of famous men;
With names, or, are they words?
Are they scratched out?
No, they are words, words thrown away without pause.

There is one word left on this list;
All the others have been scratched out;
She truly is a work of art, this incarnate love;
We peer out the window with endless bliss;
Our target has been spotted, and we shall not miss.