Swept Away
Well, this lengthy report breaks my long Livejournal silence. I'm supposed to be working, but no one else is here and, anyway, I have to leave soon to pay for a tuxedo I can't afford to look pretty for a wedding I'm in tomorrow, so not much on the work front is going to get done regardless.
I guess I just stopped in to reflect on the rough month I and so many of my friends have had. One filled with a perplexing struggle between grief and cheer, and for whatever reason, all of this emotional input produced very little output during the time I challenged myself to be particularly productive.
At the end of October, by the suggestion of blueskyjuly, I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, wherein contestants attempt to write a 50,000 word novel between November 1st and 30th. As I am particularly long-winded, I figured this wouldn't be too much of an issue, and honestly, I had wanted to take part in the contest since I'd heard about it two or three years ago, but always remembered about the thing a month too late. I was on board this year, fully prepared to write 2,000 words a day for 25 days and have five days left for editing, when I'd likely cut the thing to pieces and lose the contest but have something with depth and character of which I was proud. 2,000 words a day is nothing. I'm often required to write 2,000 words in one day where I work, on top of all the other junk, to get things in when the deadline hits, but as of now, 4 days from the deadline (or just under) my word-count rests, pathetically, at 0. Shit, my November word-count at work stands at a measly 716. Clearly, even with the 6 days I've had off this month, this is a terrible number, but the point is: I haven't exercised my fingers or my mind at all lately and as a result, feelings of uselessness sit on my shoulders. When personified, I notice they wear little superhero capes, perhaps to remind me of the dedication it takes to fight such crimes as productivity, ambition, and pride.
Regardless, starting this journal off whining over NaNoWriMo stuff makes me look a bit pathetic, an image I don't disagree with at the moment, but I wanted to bring it up to Ms. Blueskyjuly and offer my sincere apologies for failing, miserably, to step up to the challenge. A challenge that should be fun, but one I saved no enthusiasm for. I told my friend Steve about the contest, and in an effort to inspire me to get cracking he said, "Greg, don't think about the number -- it's nothing. Last year I was writing 25 pages a day and not even realizing it." At 25 pages a day, Steve would've hit 50,000 words in about seven days (approximately 175 pages). He was writing his first novel, one that eventually started a bidding war, with the respectful hallmark Pantheon winning out. It was edited down to 384 pages (15 1/3 days). It will be released May 2005 as the label's flagship summer release. Jerk.
I've been wallowing in my thoughts this month, the month of my birth, playing peek-a-boo with the uglier tangents of life, love, death, and celebration. Being the nervous sort when it comes to large gatherings (it is so telling of my insecurities that my greatest passion lies in live performance), the holiday season always chases me up the tallest tree, and having lived my life with the benefit of a severe fear of heights leaves me alternately teetering over the cluttered pastures of social anxiety and blurry alcoholism. It is during times like this when I become particularly antsy, clawing away at loneliness and lack of place, and end up out of the apartment, vulnerable and defensive, asking myself why I left at all.
Nighttime walks often clear my head, but my feet have been complaining of the cold lately and I scold them for being too timid to slush down the sidewalks past industrial parks and all the generally un-pretty areas of Ann Arbor, areas I can wander through fearlessly singing without having to fake cordiality for the benefit of anyone I might run into. These walks are traditionally fueled by many different things, this time they began at the beginning of the month when my girlfriend and I split. I realized a few days later that we had dated from St. Valentine's Day to Hallowe'en, a relationship with holidays for bookends -- appropriate in their themes of love and terror -- and while we weren't together a super lengthy amount of time, it was very intense. It was very good too (for me anyway). There are always so many thoughts, mostly terribly selfish, to sort out when a dynamic changes like that, and a long, aimless walk has always been the most effective way for me to handle and entertain these thoughts. What never matters is how difficult the questions and thoughts become, which is a problem when I sit alone at home, precisely because leaving the house without a destination becomes a riddle, making the ultimate destination the very place I'm leaving. The matter then becomes a task, one as short or as long as I decide while also being a tiny thing to celebrate having done correctly. One thing is for sure: of all the things I fuck up in my life, taking a walk and making it back home has not been a problem. Yet.
Some of my focus was diverted by my foolish decision to put together a band to perform a set of previously unheard music I had written over the last few years. The stuff I write is no prog-rock craziness, but it's not simple music - lots of orchestrations, key, tempo, and other structural changes - basically a lot to ask of four musicians, who had no idea what the material sounded like, only one week before performing the set. The performance happened on my birthday, Sunday November 14, and the group did a tremendous job learning everything, even evoking some serious magic during two moments of the set. For those two moments, it sounded like we'd been playing together for 10 years, the rest of the set sounded like exactly what it was - four immensely talented musicians following a frontman too timid to throw caution to the wind and let it fly. In a word: restrained. It was a bittersweet birthday, to be sure. Just the day before, during my first cup of coffee, I learned the tragic news that a dear friend, Mary Beth Doyle, had died in a car accident at five o'clock that morning. Needless to say, the split with my girlfriend, the shotgun show, and my birthday were not what was on my mind that evening, although I truly appreciate my amazing friends who put all their grieving to the side for a couple of hours to support me and each other.
MB, as we affectionately call Mary Beth, was an amazing person. And although these words are said at almost every service, they are especially apt in this case, and if that is truly the case, one would imagine I should be able to say it with more eloquence than "amazing person," and they're right - I should. I can, but it should be noted that these words fit her memory far beyond the definitions of the words allow. MB brought to our group of friends, and many others, the feeling of conquest, joy, fearlessness, thoughtfulness, kindness, and love that lifetimes spend looking for. I, for one, was a project for her. She immediately noticed my timidity and lack of confidence and decided she would teach me to get over it. I made some serious strides towards bettering myself, and in turn, those around me due to her subtle teaching - when I say subtle teaching I mean that I didn't realize at the time that her advice was sinking in, probably because it never came across as advice, but as the most logical ideology and now, looking back, I can attribute many positive achievements to interactions with her. I just hope she knew I appreciated it.
MB was a dancer. She danced all the time like no one else in the world existed. I saw her complete confidence change a roomful of people on several occasions, so it was expected at the wake that people would be cutting up the floor in her honor - and oh, how they did! It began at the funeral where easily 500 people filled the church. It was standing room only. Before the service began, the P.A. played an album by Jeff and Vida, a particularly amazing duo from New Orleans who had played in town the week earlier and the most recent musical acquisition to MB's CD collection, when Dave, Mary Beth's beau, jumped to his feet, grabbed the first person he saw and started dancing. Many people followed suit while many others cried at the beautiful appropriateness of it all. I was completely dehydrated by the end of it. For the wake, the Del Rio was reopened for a few short hours before the party moved to the 2nd ward building, next to the Fleetwood. Before long, Ashley St. was taken over with a bunch of dancing fools - me included - all with open containers of alcohol as all our musician friends performed inside. The police rode by on their bikes and waved. They knew what was going on.
Yesterday at Thanksgiving dinner, my father's side of the family came together, this year at my parents' house. There has been much tension over the last few years between my father, his sister, and her husband, for reasons I won't go into here, but to give some context, our family did not speak to my Aunt Jan and Uncle Tim for a long, long time. Over a decade, I think. Four or five years ago somebody decided to bury the hatchet and Thanksgiving dinners with the greater family were restored, which is nice in some ways since I have learned how cool my Aunt Jan is, but it still stresses me out every year because I'm just waiting for someone to pick at the scab and the whole reconnection to unravel. For obvious reasons, I just didn't have the energy to deal with those kinds of emotions this year. Thank goodness everything was relaxed and nice, save for the beginning of a political debate that my Aunt Candy was wise enough to ice before it became anything more than a couple of shots in the arm. I also had a nice conversation with my Uncle Tim for the first time ever. Normally we just don't speak to each other because we have nothing to say - or so we thought. Regardless, I realized I couldn't address him as "uncle." All in all, the evening was a small success, certainly bigger than finding my way home in a city I know inside and out. I celebrated by reading selections from The Second Tree from the Corner by E.B. White.
Now I'm off to pick up my tux, paid for with money my mom loaned me, for another celebration. Friends Shawn Thomas Doane (aka S.T.D. or the Donger) and Margaret Koscolniak (I know I spelled it wrong. Sue me.) are to be wed tomorrow. In celebration I will drink in excess and try, desperately, to communicate with others without flipping out. Sunday I will celebrate by sleeping it off.
(By the way, this entry is just short of 2,000 words.)
I guess I just stopped in to reflect on the rough month I and so many of my friends have had. One filled with a perplexing struggle between grief and cheer, and for whatever reason, all of this emotional input produced very little output during the time I challenged myself to be particularly productive.
At the end of October, by the suggestion of blueskyjuly, I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, wherein contestants attempt to write a 50,000 word novel between November 1st and 30th. As I am particularly long-winded, I figured this wouldn't be too much of an issue, and honestly, I had wanted to take part in the contest since I'd heard about it two or three years ago, but always remembered about the thing a month too late. I was on board this year, fully prepared to write 2,000 words a day for 25 days and have five days left for editing, when I'd likely cut the thing to pieces and lose the contest but have something with depth and character of which I was proud. 2,000 words a day is nothing. I'm often required to write 2,000 words in one day where I work, on top of all the other junk, to get things in when the deadline hits, but as of now, 4 days from the deadline (or just under) my word-count rests, pathetically, at 0. Shit, my November word-count at work stands at a measly 716. Clearly, even with the 6 days I've had off this month, this is a terrible number, but the point is: I haven't exercised my fingers or my mind at all lately and as a result, feelings of uselessness sit on my shoulders. When personified, I notice they wear little superhero capes, perhaps to remind me of the dedication it takes to fight such crimes as productivity, ambition, and pride.
Regardless, starting this journal off whining over NaNoWriMo stuff makes me look a bit pathetic, an image I don't disagree with at the moment, but I wanted to bring it up to Ms. Blueskyjuly and offer my sincere apologies for failing, miserably, to step up to the challenge. A challenge that should be fun, but one I saved no enthusiasm for. I told my friend Steve about the contest, and in an effort to inspire me to get cracking he said, "Greg, don't think about the number -- it's nothing. Last year I was writing 25 pages a day and not even realizing it." At 25 pages a day, Steve would've hit 50,000 words in about seven days (approximately 175 pages). He was writing his first novel, one that eventually started a bidding war, with the respectful hallmark Pantheon winning out. It was edited down to 384 pages (15 1/3 days). It will be released May 2005 as the label's flagship summer release. Jerk.
I've been wallowing in my thoughts this month, the month of my birth, playing peek-a-boo with the uglier tangents of life, love, death, and celebration. Being the nervous sort when it comes to large gatherings (it is so telling of my insecurities that my greatest passion lies in live performance), the holiday season always chases me up the tallest tree, and having lived my life with the benefit of a severe fear of heights leaves me alternately teetering over the cluttered pastures of social anxiety and blurry alcoholism. It is during times like this when I become particularly antsy, clawing away at loneliness and lack of place, and end up out of the apartment, vulnerable and defensive, asking myself why I left at all.
Nighttime walks often clear my head, but my feet have been complaining of the cold lately and I scold them for being too timid to slush down the sidewalks past industrial parks and all the generally un-pretty areas of Ann Arbor, areas I can wander through fearlessly singing without having to fake cordiality for the benefit of anyone I might run into. These walks are traditionally fueled by many different things, this time they began at the beginning of the month when my girlfriend and I split. I realized a few days later that we had dated from St. Valentine's Day to Hallowe'en, a relationship with holidays for bookends -- appropriate in their themes of love and terror -- and while we weren't together a super lengthy amount of time, it was very intense. It was very good too (for me anyway). There are always so many thoughts, mostly terribly selfish, to sort out when a dynamic changes like that, and a long, aimless walk has always been the most effective way for me to handle and entertain these thoughts. What never matters is how difficult the questions and thoughts become, which is a problem when I sit alone at home, precisely because leaving the house without a destination becomes a riddle, making the ultimate destination the very place I'm leaving. The matter then becomes a task, one as short or as long as I decide while also being a tiny thing to celebrate having done correctly. One thing is for sure: of all the things I fuck up in my life, taking a walk and making it back home has not been a problem. Yet.
Some of my focus was diverted by my foolish decision to put together a band to perform a set of previously unheard music I had written over the last few years. The stuff I write is no prog-rock craziness, but it's not simple music - lots of orchestrations, key, tempo, and other structural changes - basically a lot to ask of four musicians, who had no idea what the material sounded like, only one week before performing the set. The performance happened on my birthday, Sunday November 14, and the group did a tremendous job learning everything, even evoking some serious magic during two moments of the set. For those two moments, it sounded like we'd been playing together for 10 years, the rest of the set sounded like exactly what it was - four immensely talented musicians following a frontman too timid to throw caution to the wind and let it fly. In a word: restrained. It was a bittersweet birthday, to be sure. Just the day before, during my first cup of coffee, I learned the tragic news that a dear friend, Mary Beth Doyle, had died in a car accident at five o'clock that morning. Needless to say, the split with my girlfriend, the shotgun show, and my birthday were not what was on my mind that evening, although I truly appreciate my amazing friends who put all their grieving to the side for a couple of hours to support me and each other.
MB, as we affectionately call Mary Beth, was an amazing person. And although these words are said at almost every service, they are especially apt in this case, and if that is truly the case, one would imagine I should be able to say it with more eloquence than "amazing person," and they're right - I should. I can, but it should be noted that these words fit her memory far beyond the definitions of the words allow. MB brought to our group of friends, and many others, the feeling of conquest, joy, fearlessness, thoughtfulness, kindness, and love that lifetimes spend looking for. I, for one, was a project for her. She immediately noticed my timidity and lack of confidence and decided she would teach me to get over it. I made some serious strides towards bettering myself, and in turn, those around me due to her subtle teaching - when I say subtle teaching I mean that I didn't realize at the time that her advice was sinking in, probably because it never came across as advice, but as the most logical ideology and now, looking back, I can attribute many positive achievements to interactions with her. I just hope she knew I appreciated it.
MB was a dancer. She danced all the time like no one else in the world existed. I saw her complete confidence change a roomful of people on several occasions, so it was expected at the wake that people would be cutting up the floor in her honor - and oh, how they did! It began at the funeral where easily 500 people filled the church. It was standing room only. Before the service began, the P.A. played an album by Jeff and Vida, a particularly amazing duo from New Orleans who had played in town the week earlier and the most recent musical acquisition to MB's CD collection, when Dave, Mary Beth's beau, jumped to his feet, grabbed the first person he saw and started dancing. Many people followed suit while many others cried at the beautiful appropriateness of it all. I was completely dehydrated by the end of it. For the wake, the Del Rio was reopened for a few short hours before the party moved to the 2nd ward building, next to the Fleetwood. Before long, Ashley St. was taken over with a bunch of dancing fools - me included - all with open containers of alcohol as all our musician friends performed inside. The police rode by on their bikes and waved. They knew what was going on.
Yesterday at Thanksgiving dinner, my father's side of the family came together, this year at my parents' house. There has been much tension over the last few years between my father, his sister, and her husband, for reasons I won't go into here, but to give some context, our family did not speak to my Aunt Jan and Uncle Tim for a long, long time. Over a decade, I think. Four or five years ago somebody decided to bury the hatchet and Thanksgiving dinners with the greater family were restored, which is nice in some ways since I have learned how cool my Aunt Jan is, but it still stresses me out every year because I'm just waiting for someone to pick at the scab and the whole reconnection to unravel. For obvious reasons, I just didn't have the energy to deal with those kinds of emotions this year. Thank goodness everything was relaxed and nice, save for the beginning of a political debate that my Aunt Candy was wise enough to ice before it became anything more than a couple of shots in the arm. I also had a nice conversation with my Uncle Tim for the first time ever. Normally we just don't speak to each other because we have nothing to say - or so we thought. Regardless, I realized I couldn't address him as "uncle." All in all, the evening was a small success, certainly bigger than finding my way home in a city I know inside and out. I celebrated by reading selections from The Second Tree from the Corner by E.B. White.
Now I'm off to pick up my tux, paid for with money my mom loaned me, for another celebration. Friends Shawn Thomas Doane (aka S.T.D. or the Donger) and Margaret Koscolniak (I know I spelled it wrong. Sue me.) are to be wed tomorrow. In celebration I will drink in excess and try, desperately, to communicate with others without flipping out. Sunday I will celebrate by sleeping it off.
(By the way, this entry is just short of 2,000 words.)