song opening

"she folded the napkin lengthwise"

I'd love to begin a song with that first line. I do not know why. But it sounds like a song of hopeless apathy. I'm not uncertain Elliott Smith once thought of those words. And obviously the song would have to have the word "harbor" in it. Harbor - my favorite lyrical word in the English language.

random thoughts, gibberish and the stress of writing

Everything I attempt to write comes out about the same. Actually, it's not just the writing that's pretty much the same. Consistency is good though. You have to love the consistent nature of a poor man's sympathetically morose aura and being. Yes?

I started writing when I was about 14 or 15 years old. Probably did it more frequently in my early 20s. Now, even the thought of writing wears me out, mentally and physically. I sweat, I curse and get the urge to hide under the covers. That's overly dramatic but more embellishment than fiction. The less I write, the less I'll screw up the story. Or script or poem or whatever it might be. Why would even the thought of writing give me such stress? When I'm not at all a writer anyway. I'm gonna think about that absurdity a while. While not writing.

blogging

Sometimes I just don't get blogs. I like the idea of it, for me personally. But truth is, I just don't have that much to say. Most anything I have to say I'll say to my family. It's in a moment, it's said and we move on. I'm talking about everyday stuff, casual stuff - stuff I might otherwise relay to a blog. Try as I may, I just don't see doing it with any regularity. It's too journal-y, too diary-y. Not me. Now if I had a wealth of interest and knowledge, maybe I'd be more willing to post a regular and ongoing state of my mind. But I haven't those things. I'm not unique. I'm not special. I'm just a guy. A father. A normal dude. I'd like to have more to say but I just don't. Sometimes I think it's better that way. Sometimes I wish for more words but then, often I'll wish for less.

25 January

January is an odd looking word. I just realized that. The spelling does not look quite right. Lots of words of that way. I'll never understand "conscience" - con science. No way that's a word. But it is. No way Hunter would have been 31 years old today. But he would have been. Five and a half years. Long time, but not really. One of those always / never; sometimes / maybe things. Like the Goddamn shadows and flickering lights and pennies and inconsistencies I cannot comprehend. January 25. Once each year. Carry on my brother.

Hunting is not a sport

It's just killing. I saw on Facebook some lunatic posing with his "trophy", grinning from ear to ear. What type of weapon did the deer killer's adversary carry? Sickening. A deer killer once asked me if I was a vegetarian, noting that if I'm not, I'm a hypocrite. Not true. Sure, I'm a hypocrite on many levels, sure, but not this. If I want meat, I go to the store. And I've heard the argument that without "hunting season" the deer will starve in the winter. Bullshit. Shooting an animal, a deer, is just mean and simply wrong. To pose in a photo with the newly killed "trophy" is beyond sickening.

Living through a lens, mic or pen

I like to write. Rather, it's something I am compelled to do from time to time. But it seems the more time spent writing, the more of real life is missed. Perfect example is anything involving the children. You have the camera, video camera, you want to capture this moment. But in the capture, you lose the experience. I'm not sure one is worth the cost of the other. Does this experience - be it monumental or ordinary, either of which defines beauty - matter most on film or in our hearts and conscious mind. Rhetorical ? there, thus no question mark. As with most anything, balance is generally the answer. But what the hell do I know.

Waiting for the next big thing

The problem is the Next Big Thing just isn't coming. You can apply this to really anything - art, poetry, fiction, music, especially music. But it's movies I'm thinking of now. I'm an eighties kid. Grew up with eighties and I'm damn happy about that. I love the eighties. Loved pretty much the entire decade as a teenager. I love the nostalgic thoughts those times give me still. Problem is, I want more.

But there is no more. There can't be another Bull Durham. There will not be another John Hughes. Cusack is older and makes generally lame movies now. The cool kids that shaped my fragile upbringing for better and worse are now middle age dads and soccer moms. It's pathetic. And I'm not getting any younger either. But I do want and almost expect more greatness from film that I just cannot find. I am aware of good films, great ones even. But it's not enough. It's not the same. Even with the age of Say Anything and Ferris and Breakfast Club and Field of Dreams - eighties films all - they still ring true and show beauty and truth and passion and move me to tears. Am I a nancyboy for stating such? Sure, I guess I am. But those films meant something and they mean something still. I'm still waiting for my next soliloquy from Crash while ironing, Annie busting in the front door. I'm still waiting for Dobler to tell me what he's not looking for in a career. I'm dying for another tough girl drummer with bangs and black gloves.

But they've all gone away. They've aged and they've died. Those who could have given more and should have given more have moved on. I may sound bitter because I am. I'm an eighties kid and expect to be entertained. Thank God the cable networks play some of these classics on an annoyingly semi-regular basis.