I have this little inside joke to myself where i steal a famous quote, or a tagline from a movie and use it as my titles and whenever people discover it's origins i have a conniption fit of laughter. I'm just so good at self-induced entertainment.
This is going to be real short. I've just met myself from the past two years ago I and i finally understand why they have that stereotype in movies where you cannot, will not and most certainly MUST not meet yourself in any time-travelling axis in the fabric of space and time.
Personally, i think I just made myself sick.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Hi, quick question...
I started out writing this like how the first European explorers would describe a foreign country they landed on. Some grand tirade with endless spouts of self-compliments. I thought it'd be a swell idea to portray me, an 18 year old underachiever and his first full-time job to Marco Polo and his discovery of the Silk Trade Road:
"Joe Nevin, the inaugural good-Samaritan extraordinaire - helping kids in 27 countries around the world, including here in Australia become self sufficient and independent so they can stand on their own two feet - just like you and I!"*
Give me a picture; standing tall and proud on a plateau, clad in Victorian explorer attire in a dry arizonian environment with a plethora of young African children staring religiously toward me. Now add in the desert hues of orange, dirt red and the nihilistically clad children. Staring off into the distance; with a determined and hard-edged look, a look that screams "I'm going to find uncharted territory and assimilate these natives to my own culture".
I was going to continue and create an entire farce about the salesperson industry, and how salespeople will manipulate and distort facts just for quite a bit of cash. For those thinking it, I know, wordplay and dispensing entertaining half-truths are two traits I modestly possess. But then I thought against it. Despite the fact that I was like a mosquito on a hot summers day to the everyday civilians in transit boarding trains, I believe that some good might have actually come from it.
Before we even start this deconstruction of my most interesting month, I'd like to warm things up by reminding everyone what a hustler is from the most credible Urban Dictionary:
Now the lightbulbs start shining and many of you will recall an unfortunate day in transit to/from a regular train station where there was this well dressed, slightly over-confident, over-exhuberant person trying to catch your attention and berate you with facts about some society or charity. I was one of them.
Let's face it, I was the biggest hustler. I hustled harder than Jay-Z back in his dope business, harder than those guys with window wipers and buckets filled with soapy water that stop in front of your stationary car on a busy highway to meticulously clean your car window. You call out your futile attempts of refusal and yet they still continue, plowing away with the assumption that their efforts will earn them a gold coin or two. Course, I wasn't very good at it, despite my overconfidence, but take note of the part of the definition written in bold.
I guess that gratifies myself as a true hustler: persistence. It's such an important concept it's incorporated into my then-company's own logo: Pride, Persistance (sic), Passion (which is just like being persistent, but the only thing your passionate about is scoring that last sale to hit your goals).
But point in case, I managed to garner the interests of strangers by asking obnoxiously annoying questions and or acts of attention; like the time my co-worker and I decided to re-enact a scene out of Enter the Dragon in the middle of Edgecliff Station on Wednesday noon. It's safe to say that Peter Chi has no shame. I'm straying from my point again: point is, despite all our efforts to annoy, sell and harass people, there were still those kind souls to stopped, listened and considered our very limited proposals about children and the Red Cross. Even fewer were those who stopped, listened, laughed at out attempts to build rapport and decided to give a portion of their income for the next two years to help out disadvantaged kids across third world countries.
That's proof of God's own mysterious ways.
"Joe Nevin, the inaugural good-Samaritan extraordinaire - helping kids in 27 countries around the world, including here in Australia become self sufficient and independent so they can stand on their own two feet - just like you and I!"*
Give me a picture; standing tall and proud on a plateau, clad in Victorian explorer attire in a dry arizonian environment with a plethora of young African children staring religiously toward me. Now add in the desert hues of orange, dirt red and the nihilistically clad children. Staring off into the distance; with a determined and hard-edged look, a look that screams "I'm going to find uncharted territory and assimilate these natives to my own culture".
I was going to continue and create an entire farce about the salesperson industry, and how salespeople will manipulate and distort facts just for quite a bit of cash. For those thinking it, I know, wordplay and dispensing entertaining half-truths are two traits I modestly possess. But then I thought against it. Despite the fact that I was like a mosquito on a hot summers day to the everyday civilians in transit boarding trains, I believe that some good might have actually come from it.
Before we even start this deconstruction of my most interesting month, I'd like to warm things up by reminding everyone what a hustler is from the most credible Urban Dictionary:
| | "People who are forced to use their Brains to make it in this world... Also they can be so sly that they can sell you stuff you don't need". | |
Now the lightbulbs start shining and many of you will recall an unfortunate day in transit to/from a regular train station where there was this well dressed, slightly over-confident, over-exhuberant person trying to catch your attention and berate you with facts about some society or charity. I was one of them.
Let's face it, I was the biggest hustler. I hustled harder than Jay-Z back in his dope business, harder than those guys with window wipers and buckets filled with soapy water that stop in front of your stationary car on a busy highway to meticulously clean your car window. You call out your futile attempts of refusal and yet they still continue, plowing away with the assumption that their efforts will earn them a gold coin or two. Course, I wasn't very good at it, despite my overconfidence, but take note of the part of the definition written in bold.
I guess that gratifies myself as a true hustler: persistence. It's such an important concept it's incorporated into my then-company's own logo: Pride, Persistance (sic), Passion (which is just like being persistent, but the only thing your passionate about is scoring that last sale to hit your goals).
But point in case, I managed to garner the interests of strangers by asking obnoxiously annoying questions and or acts of attention; like the time my co-worker and I decided to re-enact a scene out of Enter the Dragon in the middle of Edgecliff Station on Wednesday noon. It's safe to say that Peter Chi has no shame. I'm straying from my point again: point is, despite all our efforts to annoy, sell and harass people, there were still those kind souls to stopped, listened and considered our very limited proposals about children and the Red Cross. Even fewer were those who stopped, listened, laughed at out attempts to build rapport and decided to give a portion of their income for the next two years to help out disadvantaged kids across third world countries.
That's proof of God's own mysterious ways.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Love, actually
It seems to me that every word I’ve written here so far is aimed to farce the daily happenings that occur within my life. I suppose it probably is, I’m so good at making fun of things, I happen to take even the most basic of thoughts out of proportion and encase into a new and shiny nature. Sort of what M&Ms do when it’s Christmas.
I believe that’s how life should be anyway. You bitch, you brood, you mope, but in the end all you do is just make a joke about it and go on. In my case, you make a few witty remarks as well. That’s how Youth in Decline begins. I’m an 18 year old that feels just too fucking old for my age. It’s fine by me though, I never wanted to be any younger; any younger in my case would just add a whole new level of idiocy to my already openly impressionable life.
The way i saw it, through the eyes of my teen self, was that the older I grew, the less retarded and flatly self-dimentional I became. Looking back with my 18 year old peripheral vision, I’m able to see all the faults and screw ups I had as a kid. I still think I’m suffering from some form of mental retardation now, but a lot less of it than say, when I was a wee 15 year old.
I’m still going to open up the gates of my past the same way in the future. One day, the 25 year old me would have an open reverie on how certain actions I did or didn’t do contribute ultimately in my stupid mindset as an 18 year old. I’d look at the very first post in my blog for that. Despite the current feedback I’ve recieved, I don’t think anybody has every decrypted the initial meaning of my meaningless jabber when the residual hermit spoke. I’m not too sure on that one actually; I’d like to believe I’ve recieved an enormous fanbase, but I guess most the intellectuals on my MSN can keep it to themselves.See, my first post was a monumental self confession: an apology to the girl i love because I was an idiot with a brain span the size of a wheet-bix grain
Because, as an amazing stroke of luck, incredulous and all. I’ve found someone perfect. Words don’t describe her, and for all of 2007 she’s held responsible as a primary catalyst to finding a person within that jumble of words that is Peter Chi. She’s changed my entire outlook on life itself. I’ve made many misconceptions, many mislead facts about life and about people – just pure stupidity and a heightened ego when I look back. She’s changed all that.
There’s so much more to it than just what plainly seems like an 18 year old who is very, very whipped. But put it this way, under this asshole clown suit that people see but don’t see further beyond that, there’s a completely different entity. It’s a strange feeling when you wake up in the morning with a phone call, and you know that someone knows exactly how you’re feeling or wanting to know how well you’ve slept. Then there’s the comfortability. The accredited knowledge that when she’s around, you’re 100% Peter Chi. No fucking around, no need to play games and no fancy ploys. Just pure, unaldulterated me.
Sure one day I might open up my past, have a distant but nostalgic feeling of what it was like to be 18 again. The moments of triumphs, the excessively delusional self-confidence. You, the reader, you will see it again. You’re not going to see Peter Chi without his often blunt veracity, and his excessive need to reassert himself. You will have to because I won't let myself show that side of me. I won’t show you what i fear most. I’ll make you laugh, but I’ll never be entirely comfortable.
But that’s okay. You get to see what you need to. I’ve got someone to show those things too close to bear to. So if you the reader, happen to be Cathy, you know what to do.Give me a smile, because that's all i want.Being apart from you has made me realise how truly dependent i am with you. A public confession. Everybody else, what didn't you know?
Maybe we’ll be reading this together when we’re both 25. I have optimism, I can dream. But in typical fashion, i'm going to end it quoting a piece of western culture.
You're my wonderwall Cathy.
I believe that’s how life should be anyway. You bitch, you brood, you mope, but in the end all you do is just make a joke about it and go on. In my case, you make a few witty remarks as well. That’s how Youth in Decline begins. I’m an 18 year old that feels just too fucking old for my age. It’s fine by me though, I never wanted to be any younger; any younger in my case would just add a whole new level of idiocy to my already openly impressionable life.
The way i saw it, through the eyes of my teen self, was that the older I grew, the less retarded and flatly self-dimentional I became. Looking back with my 18 year old peripheral vision, I’m able to see all the faults and screw ups I had as a kid. I still think I’m suffering from some form of mental retardation now, but a lot less of it than say, when I was a wee 15 year old.
I’m still going to open up the gates of my past the same way in the future. One day, the 25 year old me would have an open reverie on how certain actions I did or didn’t do contribute ultimately in my stupid mindset as an 18 year old. I’d look at the very first post in my blog for that. Despite the current feedback I’ve recieved, I don’t think anybody has every decrypted the initial meaning of my meaningless jabber when the residual hermit spoke. I’m not too sure on that one actually; I’d like to believe I’ve recieved an enormous fanbase, but I guess most the intellectuals on my MSN can keep it to themselves.See, my first post was a monumental self confession: an apology to the girl i love because I was an idiot with a brain span the size of a wheet-bix grain
Because, as an amazing stroke of luck, incredulous and all. I’ve found someone perfect. Words don’t describe her, and for all of 2007 she’s held responsible as a primary catalyst to finding a person within that jumble of words that is Peter Chi. She’s changed my entire outlook on life itself. I’ve made many misconceptions, many mislead facts about life and about people – just pure stupidity and a heightened ego when I look back. She’s changed all that.
There’s so much more to it than just what plainly seems like an 18 year old who is very, very whipped. But put it this way, under this asshole clown suit that people see but don’t see further beyond that, there’s a completely different entity. It’s a strange feeling when you wake up in the morning with a phone call, and you know that someone knows exactly how you’re feeling or wanting to know how well you’ve slept. Then there’s the comfortability. The accredited knowledge that when she’s around, you’re 100% Peter Chi. No fucking around, no need to play games and no fancy ploys. Just pure, unaldulterated me.
Sure one day I might open up my past, have a distant but nostalgic feeling of what it was like to be 18 again. The moments of triumphs, the excessively delusional self-confidence. You, the reader, you will see it again. You’re not going to see Peter Chi without his often blunt veracity, and his excessive need to reassert himself. You will have to because I won't let myself show that side of me. I won’t show you what i fear most. I’ll make you laugh, but I’ll never be entirely comfortable.
But that’s okay. You get to see what you need to. I’ve got someone to show those things too close to bear to. So if you the reader, happen to be Cathy, you know what to do.Give me a smile, because that's all i want.Being apart from you has made me realise how truly dependent i am with you. A public confession. Everybody else, what didn't you know?
Maybe we’ll be reading this together when we’re both 25. I have optimism, I can dream. But in typical fashion, i'm going to end it quoting a piece of western culture.
You're my wonderwall Cathy.
Monday, January 7, 2008
'All animals are equal, some more equal than others'
Kerry Packer was worth $6.5 Billion AUD when he died. Before John D. Rockerfeller died, he was the first American man to be called a billionaire. Peter Chi is 18 years old and is worth a net total of about $5000 give, or take. Peter Chi doesn't even have life insurance, let alone a savings fund.
So what does Australia's biggest media tycoon, and the State's first oil entrepreneur have in common with the self-described witty and charming nobody?
Nothing. I just wanted to put my name in retrospect to two of the biggest money farmers of our time. No delusions of grandeur and fortune here. Just an introspect with a very vague outlook toward the future.
With so much going on in the world at times like this - the influx of information at rates faster than we could actually fathom or register in one lifetime, the cresses of modern society expecting everything from everyone. Slowly but surely, human lifestyle won't be about survival, it won't be about natural selection; Darwin's done his papers, and now it's outdated and made redundant. Human life as we know it, will be centred among the ultimate strive of perfection. The standards of living of life rises to an incredible degree; take a leap back to the 1700s where personal hygiene was spartan and primitive. Jump to 1970s, you've got your first television set, pop to 2008 where gigantic conglomerates Sony and Toshiba battle it out for the next biggest deal since the VCR. Big Sexy Blu-Ray versus the Bad-ass that is HD-DVD.
See, we live in a world where the system is the fast lane. At least that's what this collectively cool cucumber surmises. Hear about the story of the guy who made $17 million in fifteen minutes? All he did was watch the stocks of oil fluctuate, click a few buttons, and in fifteen minutes, he showcased his brand new Ferrari garage.
Ha! Did i say we lived in the fast lane? I'm sorry, that only applies for the societal elite who've actually accrued that massive amount of money, enough money to power a small third world country and sponsor those third world Kenyan children to become Olympic Athletes. There's all those greens floating on a non-existent plane. The rich will get richer, but for everyone who flies economy class, tough luck son.
So where does Peter Chi fit into the grand scheme of life? He's drowning in the pool of abstinence and apathy along with every John Doe, and Joe Smith who wants to get anywhere past a mortgage repayment. What he wants? Nothing really. Maybe to have a small share of Mister seven-teen-minute-oil-baron-billionaire. So the fact of the matter is that, evidently these stories of quick earned success may be a proven and successful motivator of working hard, of being intuitive, knowledgeable, and squillions of other factors.
Either way, I'm hungry for my piece of the corporate pie.
So what does Australia's biggest media tycoon, and the State's first oil entrepreneur have in common with the self-described witty and charming nobody?
Nothing. I just wanted to put my name in retrospect to two of the biggest money farmers of our time. No delusions of grandeur and fortune here. Just an introspect with a very vague outlook toward the future.
With so much going on in the world at times like this - the influx of information at rates faster than we could actually fathom or register in one lifetime, the cresses of modern society expecting everything from everyone. Slowly but surely, human lifestyle won't be about survival, it won't be about natural selection; Darwin's done his papers, and now it's outdated and made redundant. Human life as we know it, will be centred among the ultimate strive of perfection. The standards of living of life rises to an incredible degree; take a leap back to the 1700s where personal hygiene was spartan and primitive. Jump to 1970s, you've got your first television set, pop to 2008 where gigantic conglomerates Sony and Toshiba battle it out for the next biggest deal since the VCR. Big Sexy Blu-Ray versus the Bad-ass that is HD-DVD.
See, we live in a world where the system is the fast lane. At least that's what this collectively cool cucumber surmises. Hear about the story of the guy who made $17 million in fifteen minutes? All he did was watch the stocks of oil fluctuate, click a few buttons, and in fifteen minutes, he showcased his brand new Ferrari garage.
Ha! Did i say we lived in the fast lane? I'm sorry, that only applies for the societal elite who've actually accrued that massive amount of money, enough money to power a small third world country and sponsor those third world Kenyan children to become Olympic Athletes. There's all those greens floating on a non-existent plane. The rich will get richer, but for everyone who flies economy class, tough luck son.
So where does Peter Chi fit into the grand scheme of life? He's drowning in the pool of abstinence and apathy along with every John Doe, and Joe Smith who wants to get anywhere past a mortgage repayment. What he wants? Nothing really. Maybe to have a small share of Mister seven-teen-minute-oil-baron-billionaire. So the fact of the matter is that, evidently these stories of quick earned success may be a proven and successful motivator of working hard, of being intuitive, knowledgeable, and squillions of other factors.
Either way, I'm hungry for my piece of the corporate pie.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
S'all about the Benjamin's, baby.
I haven't written anything for nearly two weeks now. I guess i'm doing the world a great thing, i mean, a drought of my proverbial smartass is probably easing that cramp on society's aching back. But me being the uncouth person that I am, decided that modern culture's respite from my colorfully tasteful litany (think skittles; pop them in, then taste the rainbow) should be short-lived and unexpected (think the Spice Girls reunion concert). So adieu, C'est la Vie, the ranting shall begin and the benign shall weep.
My first rant comes from the fact I am piss-broke. The coffers of ye olde' gold are nearly depleted and income arrives slower than the Sex Pistol's new album. Add to the fact that the season of merry spending and plentiful giving is upon us, and you've got one desperate boy looking for the good greens. So how did my deliberate displacement of happen to arise? Apparently, when you're still a fucking teenager, you've no sense of responsibility of whatever happens to excrete itself from your wallet. Actually, I have no clue where all my hard-earned savings went. Bah, better well spent at Scruffy Murphy's or Greater union than saved for my retirement fund.
Secondly, I've become a full-fledged English tutor for year 11 and 12 infants now. No really, this shit is soon to be my permanent occupation starting from the next month or so. What do I know about teaching English? Squat. Zilch. Nada. But whatever, my employer (an actual, legitimate, human whose wardrobe contents have a net-worth more than my entire life. He's still a metrosexual in the closet) is paying me, most suitably a below-award wage to get me started. Any concerns? Worries that should I fail, I would probably drag my students into an academic oblivion? None whatsoever. I'm so confident, I've already used a third of this post to subliminally advertise my wares. And you thought the marketing crew at Burger King was shameless.
After all, Advertising is a moderated and rigorous practice with strict guidelines, while self-promotion is a welcome and esteemed act of personal righteousness. Put them together, and you get this post, minus the moderation. So to all the young children unadulterated by life's whims reading here. Come, you pay me, me teach you good English. Long time.
My first rant comes from the fact I am piss-broke. The coffers of ye olde' gold are nearly depleted and income arrives slower than the Sex Pistol's new album. Add to the fact that the season of merry spending and plentiful giving is upon us, and you've got one desperate boy looking for the good greens. So how did my deliberate displacement of happen to arise? Apparently, when you're still a fucking teenager, you've no sense of responsibility of whatever happens to excrete itself from your wallet. Actually, I have no clue where all my hard-earned savings went. Bah, better well spent at Scruffy Murphy's or Greater union than saved for my retirement fund.
Secondly, I've become a full-fledged English tutor for year 11 and 12 infants now. No really, this shit is soon to be my permanent occupation starting from the next month or so. What do I know about teaching English? Squat. Zilch. Nada. But whatever, my employer (an actual, legitimate, human whose wardrobe contents have a net-worth more than my entire life. He's still a metrosexual in the closet) is paying me, most suitably a below-award wage to get me started. Any concerns? Worries that should I fail, I would probably drag my students into an academic oblivion? None whatsoever. I'm so confident, I've already used a third of this post to subliminally advertise my wares. And you thought the marketing crew at Burger King was shameless.
After all, Advertising is a moderated and rigorous practice with strict guidelines, while self-promotion is a welcome and esteemed act of personal righteousness. Put them together, and you get this post, minus the moderation. So to all the young children unadulterated by life's whims reading here. Come, you pay me, me teach you good English. Long time.
Friday, November 9, 2007
'okay, hurl my innocent bones to the cruel machine of war'
So it's been proposed. Underway. Sort of like an early hiatus. I'm going to write a novel.
Sounds like a pretty ambitious idea for a kid just finished 13 years of education, with little to no experience whatsoever in the big jungle they call real life. In fact, each step of his own longevity is a carefully molded experience aimed to transition the child into an adult. This transience, they call adolescence.
So what facts did i end up learning about life? Add a shot of Chuck Palahniuk and Richard Price. Nothing too C.S Lewis, mix in the jaded experiences of teen angst, introversion and enough smutty jokes to make a crystal clear beverage clearly aimed to fuck social discourse harder than absinthe.
Maybe, just maybe - i might give nary a reader a slight tingle around the neck area with that.
That is to say, contemporaries these days might be asking for messed up shit. We're living in a society where we've become so desensitised, nothing effects us any more. We need something that'll make us feel. Make us think. Make us want to REACT. We need our fight clubs, our coke cartels and enough drug abuse to make ourselves feel much better about our slowly declining lifestyles. It's a trend, the heroic epics of The Odyssey or even Gilgamesh would be remembered - as a memory. Instead, you've got the daft nihilism of Tyler Durden - that's the statement.
I'm cool with that. I'm cool with the notion of racism; of entire holocausts centred toward the righteous and economically healthy; of sexual effigies where not even a dirty word is left out of a sentence; hell we need subversion against society; of situations so screwed, that you can't help but compel yourself to read on. On a personal level, I find it much easier to devour words of hate, distaste and bitter angst than of Austen-like proportions (much easier as in enjoyable, not more preferable).
Ultimately, it's my own opinion. My own bias based upon what I deem as enjoyable, what 'sells' will invariably affect the ways in which I write. Which brings me to my next problem. With that, the illustration of a father's child rearing ways surface. There is no definite consolidation that the father's child will grow up a good kid. Despite the father's own efforts, his work, his careful balance - the kid could turn into a societal menace. Herein, lies the problem. Perception. I can take criticism, within good reasoning and justification; but in when writing a novel, it changes.
My perception of a screw-up may be someone's own perception of weightless gold. Hell, 'at first you don't succeed, try and try again'. But like the mental psyche of a child, you can't just alter the composition suited to your needing. Or maybe you can, maybe it just takes a hellava lot of skill and effort which I've none of or am i even remotely qualified to at the moment. (read: 18 year old introspective youth. Not Hank Moody). If that's the case, no matter how hard I'll polish it, a turd will still be a turd.
In terms of perspective, here be two pieces of wise words, the first from my ever-intelligent, ever-sexy and always spoken about(insert whipping noise here. Go on, I know you want to) girlfriend and the second from a person who has probably a lot more experience in the fields of literature than I have:
"If you're going to write a book, make a name. Your first book is supposed to sell, appeal to the mass markets. Not about anything niche, nobody wants that - not until they realise who you are and how well you craft your writing" - Cathy. Always the intrinsic one, bringing down a feathery-headed boy to reality. I always adore this sort of neutrality and long-term objective mentality she's got. (make more whipping noises. I dare you.) Either that, or she just wants her name written on the front jacket of an international bestseller.
"You think shock value is important? Find meaning first." - Jonathan.
Hence my hiatus. My pseudo-writer's block. ideas and no direction, motivation, yet nothing tangible. Ready, yet procrastinatory. I need more time. I need more ideas. I need more opinions. I need a tape recorder. I need sources. I need to link my ideas. I need to shut up and get something started.
Sounds like a pretty ambitious idea for a kid just finished 13 years of education, with little to no experience whatsoever in the big jungle they call real life. In fact, each step of his own longevity is a carefully molded experience aimed to transition the child into an adult. This transience, they call adolescence.
So what facts did i end up learning about life? Add a shot of Chuck Palahniuk and Richard Price. Nothing too C.S Lewis, mix in the jaded experiences of teen angst, introversion and enough smutty jokes to make a crystal clear beverage clearly aimed to fuck social discourse harder than absinthe.
Maybe, just maybe - i might give nary a reader a slight tingle around the neck area with that.
That is to say, contemporaries these days might be asking for messed up shit. We're living in a society where we've become so desensitised, nothing effects us any more. We need something that'll make us feel. Make us think. Make us want to REACT. We need our fight clubs, our coke cartels and enough drug abuse to make ourselves feel much better about our slowly declining lifestyles. It's a trend, the heroic epics of The Odyssey or even Gilgamesh would be remembered - as a memory. Instead, you've got the daft nihilism of Tyler Durden - that's the statement.
I'm cool with that. I'm cool with the notion of racism; of entire holocausts centred toward the righteous and economically healthy; of sexual effigies where not even a dirty word is left out of a sentence; hell we need subversion against society; of situations so screwed, that you can't help but compel yourself to read on. On a personal level, I find it much easier to devour words of hate, distaste and bitter angst than of Austen-like proportions (much easier as in enjoyable, not more preferable).
Ultimately, it's my own opinion. My own bias based upon what I deem as enjoyable, what 'sells' will invariably affect the ways in which I write. Which brings me to my next problem. With that, the illustration of a father's child rearing ways surface. There is no definite consolidation that the father's child will grow up a good kid. Despite the father's own efforts, his work, his careful balance - the kid could turn into a societal menace. Herein, lies the problem. Perception. I can take criticism, within good reasoning and justification; but in when writing a novel, it changes.
My perception of a screw-up may be someone's own perception of weightless gold. Hell, 'at first you don't succeed, try and try again'. But like the mental psyche of a child, you can't just alter the composition suited to your needing. Or maybe you can, maybe it just takes a hellava lot of skill and effort which I've none of or am i even remotely qualified to at the moment. (read: 18 year old introspective youth. Not Hank Moody). If that's the case, no matter how hard I'll polish it, a turd will still be a turd.
In terms of perspective, here be two pieces of wise words, the first from my ever-intelligent, ever-sexy and always spoken about(insert whipping noise here. Go on, I know you want to) girlfriend and the second from a person who has probably a lot more experience in the fields of literature than I have:
"If you're going to write a book, make a name. Your first book is supposed to sell, appeal to the mass markets. Not about anything niche, nobody wants that - not until they realise who you are and how well you craft your writing" - Cathy. Always the intrinsic one, bringing down a feathery-headed boy to reality. I always adore this sort of neutrality and long-term objective mentality she's got. (make more whipping noises. I dare you.) Either that, or she just wants her name written on the front jacket of an international bestseller.
"You think shock value is important? Find meaning first." - Jonathan.
Hence my hiatus. My pseudo-writer's block. ideas and no direction, motivation, yet nothing tangible. Ready, yet procrastinatory. I need more time. I need more ideas. I need more opinions. I need a tape recorder. I need sources. I need to link my ideas. I need to shut up and get something started.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Get busy livin'
ID number: 17339338.
Center number: 253
DOB: 01/09/89
Convicted of: 11 years of effortless education, three counts of repeated failure to comply to subjects, one count larceny toward a business studies teacher, one count uncivil behaviour toward a Phys. Ed. Teacher, numerous counts verbal discrimination toward the ignorant.
Parole date: 5.11.07. Released upon completion of course. Behaviour levels minimal.
Reason for Parole Grant: 'I've been institutionalised. I can now enter the realm of society a safe and changed citizen with moral rights and an ethical upstanding.'
Center number: 253
DOB: 01/09/89
Convicted of: 11 years of effortless education, three counts of repeated failure to comply to subjects, one count larceny toward a business studies teacher, one count uncivil behaviour toward a Phys. Ed. Teacher, numerous counts verbal discrimination toward the ignorant.
Parole date: 5.11.07. Released upon completion of course. Behaviour levels minimal.
Reason for Parole Grant: 'I've been institutionalised. I can now enter the realm of society a safe and changed citizen with moral rights and an ethical upstanding.'
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