The Deal
Tom: So I think I figured out a way to force myself to write.
Satan: Okay?
Tom: I told myself that if I don't start writing every day I'm going to make myelf go into therapy and figure out why I can't bring myself to write out the great shit I have in my head.
Satan: Maybe you don't really think it's that great?
Tom: Of course it's great but... what's the use?
Satan: Oh hell.
Tom: Dude, I have it under control.
to be continued...
20111110
20111005
The Transcendentalists and, by extension, Walt Whitman
Satan: I've noticed you have a penchant for being interviewed. Like you were someone famous.
Tom: I'm ready. Go.
Satan: You claim the Transcendentalists have played a part in your writing?
Tom: I was introduced to them in 1995. I was a junior at Poway High. We were required to take a semester of American literature. I've always been friendly with books, and I enjoyed the class.
Satan: Who was your favorite?
Tom: Emerson. I find it interesting that Thoreau seems to have firmly supplanted him in the public consciousness, and yet I was initially attracted to Emerson's writings more so than his. I do love Thoreau, however.
Satan: Since we're on the subject, can you tell me who is your favorite 19th-century American writer?
Tom: I'm sure it changes, but off the top of my head I'd have to say Walt Whitman.
Satan: Any reason in particular for that?
Tom: "On the Beach at Night Alone."
Satan: Why?
Tom: I think the timing had something to do with it. It was 2005 and with a collection of Whitmann's poetry and other writings, I chanced upon "On the Beach at Night Alone" as I was on the beach at night alone, saying goodbye to my hometown and everything I loved in it before I went off to live in France. Plus it's just a beautiful poem.
Satan: Shall we include it?
Tom: I can't think of a better way to end this post, but aren't there legal issues to worry about?
Satan: Ah, fuck it. It anybody says anything, just tell 'em I made you do it.
Tom: Sweet.
ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE
by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
Satan: I've noticed you have a penchant for being interviewed. Like you were someone famous.
Tom: I'm ready. Go.
Satan: You claim the Transcendentalists have played a part in your writing?
Tom: I was introduced to them in 1995. I was a junior at Poway High. We were required to take a semester of American literature. I've always been friendly with books, and I enjoyed the class.
Satan: Who was your favorite?
Tom: Emerson. I find it interesting that Thoreau seems to have firmly supplanted him in the public consciousness, and yet I was initially attracted to Emerson's writings more so than his. I do love Thoreau, however.
Satan: Since we're on the subject, can you tell me who is your favorite 19th-century American writer?
Tom: I'm sure it changes, but off the top of my head I'd have to say Walt Whitman.
Satan: Any reason in particular for that?
Tom: "On the Beach at Night Alone."
Satan: Why?
Tom: I think the timing had something to do with it. It was 2005 and with a collection of Whitmann's poetry and other writings, I chanced upon "On the Beach at Night Alone" as I was on the beach at night alone, saying goodbye to my hometown and everything I loved in it before I went off to live in France. Plus it's just a beautiful poem.
Satan: Shall we include it?
Tom: I can't think of a better way to end this post, but aren't there legal issues to worry about?
Satan: Ah, fuck it. It anybody says anything, just tell 'em I made you do it.
Tom: Sweet.
ON THE BEACH AT NIGHT ALONE
by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
The Worst Fear in My Life At the Moment
I unconsciously think and act like my individual existence is more important than any other. I've done nothing significant in my life (cured cancer, wrote the Great American Novel, etc.), nor have I ever had a thought that was original or at least helpful to someone. And yet, I live my life as if I were on the verge of some big break, as if I were on the threshold of fulfilling some great potential that will be both impressive to the layman and beneficial to the world for generations to come.
Beneficial is an entirely subjective term. Am I going to do something that benefits the world in its current manifestation (as my own finite mind understands it)? Or will I leave something that is more beneficial to future generations? Do great people think like this, or do they just get to work doing something they feel called to do, something they consider higher than themselves, and let the cards fall where they may?
Perhaps I've set my sights too high. No matter. I intend to die trying. Trying to do what? Apparently I'm not supposed to worry about it.
I unconsciously think and act like my individual existence is more important than any other. I've done nothing significant in my life (cured cancer, wrote the Great American Novel, etc.), nor have I ever had a thought that was original or at least helpful to someone. And yet, I live my life as if I were on the verge of some big break, as if I were on the threshold of fulfilling some great potential that will be both impressive to the layman and beneficial to the world for generations to come.
Beneficial is an entirely subjective term. Am I going to do something that benefits the world in its current manifestation (as my own finite mind understands it)? Or will I leave something that is more beneficial to future generations? Do great people think like this, or do they just get to work doing something they feel called to do, something they consider higher than themselves, and let the cards fall where they may?
Perhaps I've set my sights too high. No matter. I intend to die trying. Trying to do what? Apparently I'm not supposed to worry about it.
20110930
Remember who you wanted to be
Tom: So my plan was to write feverishly for the next two weeks. One week is already gone, and I feel I've done nothing.
Satan: Oh?
Tom: Yeah. It feels like I'm working on a thesis again, only this time it's worse because I don't have to finish anything: I don't have deadlines, I don't have to answer to a supervisor or a jury, etc.
Satan: Yeah but from another perspective, you absolutely must write. The stakes here are infinitely greater than for a mere master's thesis. Your self-worth is at stake. After all, what really differentiates you from the vast majority of people you encounter, individuals who seem to be leading lives of quiet desperation? Isn't failure a far better option than passivity? Don't you remember what Bukowski said about his father? That his father had told him that a man buys a house, then passes it on to his son, and then the son does the same, then his son does the same and so on, and that is how wealth (and prestige, self-worth, etc.) is eventually acquired.
Tom: Bukowski said something to the effect of, "Fuck that, I want a hundred houses RIGHT NOW."
Satan: Yes, something like that. You're not writing for riches or literary glory, not primarily at least. You're writing so you can live with yourself. Eating, shitting, sleeping, fucking, etc. are, unfortunately, not enough for you.
(Pause)
Tom: Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that read, "Remember who you wanted to be."
Satan: Hmm, that must have brought it home a bit.
Tom: It did. I feel that one of the great themes of my life (it sounds so epic when I put it like that) has been to become a man of which my childhood self would have been proud.
Satan: And how's that workin' out for ya, champ?
Tom: Well, I'm writing now, aren't I?
Tom: So my plan was to write feverishly for the next two weeks. One week is already gone, and I feel I've done nothing.
Satan: Oh?
Tom: Yeah. It feels like I'm working on a thesis again, only this time it's worse because I don't have to finish anything: I don't have deadlines, I don't have to answer to a supervisor or a jury, etc.
Satan: Yeah but from another perspective, you absolutely must write. The stakes here are infinitely greater than for a mere master's thesis. Your self-worth is at stake. After all, what really differentiates you from the vast majority of people you encounter, individuals who seem to be leading lives of quiet desperation? Isn't failure a far better option than passivity? Don't you remember what Bukowski said about his father? That his father had told him that a man buys a house, then passes it on to his son, and then the son does the same, then his son does the same and so on, and that is how wealth (and prestige, self-worth, etc.) is eventually acquired.
Tom: Bukowski said something to the effect of, "Fuck that, I want a hundred houses RIGHT NOW."
Satan: Yes, something like that. You're not writing for riches or literary glory, not primarily at least. You're writing so you can live with yourself. Eating, shitting, sleeping, fucking, etc. are, unfortunately, not enough for you.
(Pause)
Tom: Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that read, "Remember who you wanted to be."
Satan: Hmm, that must have brought it home a bit.
Tom: It did. I feel that one of the great themes of my life (it sounds so epic when I put it like that) has been to become a man of which my childhood self would have been proud.
Satan: And how's that workin' out for ya, champ?
Tom: Well, I'm writing now, aren't I?
20110927
Satan: An SOS file? Whats that?
Tom: Ah. Been sleazing around my yahoo mail again lately, have we?
Satan: Ahem.
Tom: Oh, sorry. I'm supposed to be flattered that you've been skulking about one of my inboxes. How vaginal.
Satan: (Silence)
Tom: Okay. The SOS file is a folder I made into which I plan to place video clips, bits of literature, inspiring JPEGs, etc. I think that might make me happy when I'm feeling particularly depressed.
Satan: Hahahahahaha! And you really think that's going to work! Ahahahahahaha!!!
Tom: Hey fool. I didn't choose this.
Satan: Ooooh, how profound.
Tom: Wow. You are a nasty one.
Satan: Thank you.
Tom: You're welcome. Dick.
Satan: Ass.
Tom: Ah. Been sleazing around my yahoo mail again lately, have we?
Satan: Ahem.
Tom: Oh, sorry. I'm supposed to be flattered that you've been skulking about one of my inboxes. How vaginal.
Satan: (Silence)
Tom: Okay. The SOS file is a folder I made into which I plan to place video clips, bits of literature, inspiring JPEGs, etc. I think that might make me happy when I'm feeling particularly depressed.
Satan: Hahahahahaha! And you really think that's going to work! Ahahahahahaha!!!
Tom: Hey fool. I didn't choose this.
Satan: Ooooh, how profound.
Tom: Wow. You are a nasty one.
Satan: Thank you.
Tom: You're welcome. Dick.
Satan: Ass.
20110920
Satan: So you were out on a walk, which you undertook in an effort to stave off weight gain, and instead of walking to 30th as you'd intended, which in itself was less than you'd originally planned to do, you stopped short because your boxer shorts were in a twitch, one ear bud didn't work, you had a Katy Perry song stuck in your head, and you suddenly found that you were so hungry you were jittery.
Tom: Yeah, so?
Satan: Then you went to the liquor store and bought beer and booze. Instead of getting food. Or at the very least food and a bit of drink.
Tom: Well? I did what I did. And I tell you this, you horned fuck: After drinking two 7% beers on an empty stomach, I feel... better.
Satan: Yeah but is this how you really planned to start this blog up again? After such a hiatus?
Tom: Dude.
Satan: What?
Tom: You like, missed me, didn't you?
Satan: Shut the fuck up.
Tom: Ha-ha, you little bitch.
Satan: I'm going to align dark forces tomorrow such that you suffer an excruciating paper cut. To the balls.
Tom: God I'm almost interested to see how it happens.
Satan: Keep giggling, assface.
Tom: Yeah, so?
Satan: Then you went to the liquor store and bought beer and booze. Instead of getting food. Or at the very least food and a bit of drink.
Tom: Well? I did what I did. And I tell you this, you horned fuck: After drinking two 7% beers on an empty stomach, I feel... better.
Satan: Yeah but is this how you really planned to start this blog up again? After such a hiatus?
Tom: Dude.
Satan: What?
Tom: You like, missed me, didn't you?
Satan: Shut the fuck up.
Tom: Ha-ha, you little bitch.
Satan: I'm going to align dark forces tomorrow such that you suffer an excruciating paper cut. To the balls.
Tom: God I'm almost interested to see how it happens.
Satan: Keep giggling, assface.
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