Echo

Holy. Crap.

http://alabangers.blogspot.com/

Scroll down to the stain-glassed window picture.

A Saturday Night In!!!

I don’t care if people think I’m a nerd. I love staying in sometimes and just having things be quiet….

But when you’re in the city, it’s never really quiet. If you’ve ever been out camping, then you know how noisy a city is. Being in the city is like going camping with that kid who doesn’t shut up. You end up blocking him out so you don’t notice him anymore, but he’s still talking. In the city, even at its quietest, there’s always something buzzing in the background at a low frequency. I wonder if that’s really bad for us–that kind of noise pollution. [Mental note: search web for research on that]

Anyway, this is what I’m doing in this post. I’m sitting here writing my script. And I’m home alone so I’m scared. But I have to be alone to write. So I’m leaving this open to keep me company. It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? But frankly, it helps. So this is gonna be a total stream of consciousness post because I’m going to be jumping back and forth between the script and this, and I get a lil’ crazy when I’m writing at night.

Writing this supernatural script is freaking me out. I have to be honest with you guys. A writer’s journey is scary. I’ve never tried acid, but from what I hear about it, it sounds like what the writer’s process feels like. You’ve got to go deep in there, find a world that you created and make it so convincing to yourself, that you might truly believe it exists. But you always think you’ve got a safety line pulling you back into the real world before the other one drowns you. I believe that for writers, it’s very important for them to be in a safe environment with people they trust. Just to have access to a trusted network for reality checks. Like Stephen King having his wife who obviously looks out for him. I think he would have gone insane within the writing process if he had delved into the process as intensely as he did, but didn’t have that kind of support.

I wonder if this is why I’m always afraid of really committing to being a writer. You have to dip into insanity for grueling periods of time. And you’re relying on other people to be able to pull you back out. I guess it’s really about trust. Trusting that the people around you will be able to keep you connected to the real world while you’re writing. People who are determined to be around those who are writers must be saints. Or sadists. Ooh…watch out for the sadists…

Recurring nightmares. I personally never thought I had them, but then I would have one and then think, oh yeah. I’ve had this dream before. And then I’d forget again. They’re like obsessive thoughts in your dream self. Whatever they represent must really freak you out. I personally have recurring dreams of being chased and thrown down a well to drown. Persecuted. By bullies.

So I went to a psychiatrist who hypnotized me to talk about the dream. I told her that I was some fat guy wearing straw or something loose on the bottom and I wasn’t very smart, but I noticed things. And that no one took me seriously. That I had laughed at the King’s men’s shoes as they rode through the courtyard (their shoes were fancy and made out of some nice felt-like fabric or something and really red, which was so impractical because the moment they dismounted outside here, their shoes were going to be covered in mud.) And then someone must have told them that I laughed because they came and grabbed me when I was out minding my own business and I was caught off guard and scared, and they dragged me to the well and threw me in. And they looked down at me, being cruel, and I was so scared and I hated them so much because I knew that no one in this world was going to help me no matter how scared I got and I realized that I was going to die, and everything as I knew it was very soon, for sure going to END. And there was absolutely no way around it.

I just remembered all of this. This happened years ago.

Man, I’m totally stream of conscious-ing tonight. Having my brother around required so much attention, that now that he’s gone, I have so much bottled up creative energy that I need to get out. I wonder if sex gets it out. I wonder if I would be less creative if I were having a lot of sex. Like George Costanza when he becomes really smart when he abstains. I know that I get NO writing done when I’m in a relationship. I just don’t have the creativity in me. So I know that if I need to finish a project, I have to be very very careful of not being interested in anyone or falling into a relationship. Ironically, the most creative time is after not getting someone that I really wanted or losing something that I desired. Like post-break up or finding out the person I have a crush on doesn’t have the same level of interest. That’s the best time for creativity…the time between when the bad thing happens, and when it really sets in. It’s like surfing the creative wave. (I also have a lot of dreams about surfing). But it’s so masochistic. This process is so masochistic. It requires that you purposely fall for people you are pretty sure you can’t get, or get into a relationship where you know you’ll be unhappy or things will end up badly. You’re trying to ensure inner conflict. Work up frenzied need and desire that gets denied an outlet. The sparks that create the raging fire that can translate into creativity if you so choose to use it in that manner. Be wary of writers, people. This is my honest advice to you. We often subconsciously but intentionally fuck up our own lives to give us the fuel for creating our art.

Anyway, I’m going to go pour myself a glass of wine, get a nice fire going in the fireplace, put on some soft classical music and knit. Or go through Brian’s room to see if he has any porn. I’m not sure which yet.

Okay, I’m back. He didn’t have any.

I’m kidding, Brian. I didn’t really look.

But I did check in on your favorite lil’ man of the house, and I’m worried about Peyote. His shell is starting to get these weird, reflective plates. I don’t know if that’s just what happens when they get older, or if he’s sick or something. Or what if it’s cancer????? Do you take a turtle to the vet? Is that strange? What if he’s dying? I know; you’re rolling your eyes at me, saying, you know what we should do? We should just kill that fucking spastic bastard. But you know what? Maybe the things you say really hurt his feelings. Maybe he cries about it all the time in that tank but we just can’t tell. Maybe he’s depressed because he’s living in fear of you, knowing that you hate him and would kill him if anything were to ever happen to me. He’s tired of being degraded and berated by you. You’re making him sick, Brian. You’re making our baby sick. Why don’t you just put down the newspaper for just a few goddam minutes a day and talk with him. Find out how he is. Who his friends are. If the bigger turtles are offering him drugs at school. He’s YOUR responsibility too, you know. What? NO. Don’t walk away from me. DO NOT WALK AWAY FROM ME! Okay, fine. DO NOT GET IN YOUR CAR. DO NOT GET–NO YOU BETTER NOT START THAT ENGINE! I KNOW YOU’RE NOT GONNA START THAT ENGINE! DON’T YOU DARE DRIVE OUT–STOP!–IF YOU YOU BETTER BRING ME BACK SOME FUCKING TAMPONS FROM THE STORE YOU ASSHOLE!!!

Or, I could stop licking my turtle.

Let’s Take a Little Station Break for a Friendly Disclaimer

Friends, loved ones, strangers. Even ex-boyfriends who secretly check out my site on a daily basis but don’t think I know. I’ve realized that when I started this blog, it was just for me. No one knew about it; it was like open mic at the poetry showcase every time I posted, with me opening up about really private, naked things for an audience full of strangers. Yes, I’ll always continue to post very private things, because I’m just embarrassing like that. But now it’s gotten so big, and I don’t know who’s on here reading. It’s like spending a whole rainy day afternoon talking to yourself in the basement, having entire wonderful and funny and tragic conversations with yourself, and then turning around and suddenly finding that you have an audience. It’s a really weird feeling.

But I wanted to say that I don’t want anyone who knows me in real life and reads this blog to be offended. I tell mostly anecdotes because they’re funny as hell, but out of respect.

I also just want to let the people who interact with me in every day life, who have come to know me through day-to-day living rather than putting together who I am from the clues of this site, to know that I don’t post about you not because I don’t care about you, but because I actually care a lot. I think the things a person really cherishes should be kept private. Wouldn’t you agree?

And please understand that I live in my head a lot so most things on here are what my simple robot brain deems intellectually stimulating, funny or confusing (I don’t understand emotions). I’m not calling anyone out or communicating to anyone through cryptic messages. Anymore. Not for a while. Okay, not true. But what I mean is, please don’t take what I write too personally. I honestly don’t think that much when I’m writing these things.

In other news, some people ask me what it’s like living with a male roommate. And I say, “Brian and I are like brother and sister. Except I’m the brother and he’s the sister.”