While I sit at the Gerald R Ford international airport terminal a memory comes to mind, sudden, unbidden. I had a strange class called filmic bodies which was a dance class, and a few others. I called it my si-fi theory class, because that's what it was. One of the many books we had to read was 'Terminal Identity' which tried to convey the idea that life is very much like a terminal at an airport, or computer screen with respect to how things around us seem to change, yet stay the same. For example while I sit here lots of people get in and step out of planes, people I will probably never see again, yet this place remains the same unchanged, a terminal for people to pass through. Also like a computer terminal that remains largely the same, yet new people step up and use it. As though what matters is the terminal rather than the faceless person using the terminal. There was a bunch of other stuff it talked about within its 420 pages, which I must admit I didn't read at all. Although I have plans to do so.
The whole point of this was to artificially create a seeming natural start that would lend it self 'organically' to a segue to my present position inside an airport.
But now that I've told you... ah shucks.
So yeah, here I am in the middle of the terminal sitting in the corner, writing, with my iPod in, listening to heavy metal cellos (Apocalyptica), trying to think of something really cool and poignant to say.
I got nothing, however.
I am going home to So Cal for two weeks or so to celebrate my birthday on the 15th. I'll be... 27... Wow. Where did all the time go? Did I mention Alexander the Great conquered the known world by the time he was 25? And that Copernicus... ah you know the story. I'm trying to convey to you the feeling I have in regards to my age and how I haven't done anything earth shaking yet. I feel destined for greatness--also aware of how cheesy and naive that sounds--and I also feel immobilized by fear, perhaps of failure. Imagine I do my best and I think its amazing and others read it and think its a joke, or bad or stupid or [insert pessimistic thought here].
I see now as I write it down it is stupid to think this way, the largest obstacle in my way is me.
"What if they..." Screw them. Write without fear, grab them by the collar and shake them, dare them to read. That is the only way to get the really good stuff, you know like when you dance when you think you are alone, but someone is watching nearby, impressed by your secret skills.
I haven't read anything really good lately. And I haven't written anything really good lately either. It makes me sad and confused, I mean this is what I do, and yet at the same time it isn't. I think in terms of writing. When I tell a story I tell it as though it's been written down already to maximize its gravity or punch or what have you. I think this lack of... certainty? Direction? is the main reason I applied to grad school, I think there I will be pushed, prodded and urged to face this anxiety/directionless and understand where to go/what to do. If not, I will be forced to figure it out. Then I can make lots of money from my best sellers and give all my friends Ferraris and have fun all day. YAY!
New topic: For my birthday Loo took me to my first Burlesque show. It was pretty cool I have to say. The venue was not so good, the sound was atrocious, perhaps because the sound guy was updating his FaceBook status during the show, or because he had seven jack n cokes before the first act. I lost track after nine because I was watching the dancing girls who were cute, limber, talented and topless. They were doing some cirque de solei stuff with yoga like balance and stretching and some impressive hula-hoop stuff. But they used the fat guy too much. I think once it would have been ok, like they whet your whistle with the first act than say, "you ain't seen nothing yet!" and a whole bunch of girls in a ring come out hiding someone in the middle. The music builds up, the spotlight illuminates the center, the girls drop and this 400 pound man in a bikini is there with a blond wig and he imitates the cute girl that he followed on stage. I'd be ok with that because I think its funny, but they used that fat guy a lot, at least six times. Anyway it merits another visit I think when it hits a larger stage with better sound.
Anyway, when I got home from the burlesque show My roommates were throwing a ground hogs day party. I came right as it was dying and I went to bed, and then somehow it got resurrected and the music came back, and the yelling and the girls talking about lesbian experiences to the boys who played the interested anthropologist archetype for their stories, perhaps in hopes that in sharing in the lesbian experience with them they will have bonded in some way and sex is on. Sometimes it works.
Also, there is a big map on the living room wall of the USA and that means that the party people in their various levels of inebriation must approach the map and strike it with their finger and say, "I been there. Where have you been?" Then another finger strike, "I been there," to which the other says, "I haven't been there. I been here," to which the other one repeats the first one a few times before it changes to places they have heard about and would like to go. It is never anything more than a location. Like it would never be, "I want to go to Yellowstone to see the geothermal activity/see the geysers/check out the lava tubes," it is, "I want to go there," followed by a finger striking paper sound.
Where was I? Oh yeah, it was around 4am and I was able to tune them out and I was almost asleep when someone said, "Hey, the plural for octopus, is it 'octopuses' or 'octopi?'"
To my pillow I said, "It's octopuses."
"I think it's Octopuses," someone says. But they didn't sound sure, which leaves room for the loudmouth to declare the answer in such a way that others will believe him.
"No, it's octopi," someone says, "I know for sure." What follows next is surprise at being so smart and knowing lots of interesting stuff.
"you liar," I say to no one in particular. I wanted to get up and tell them that the plural of octopus is octopuses because the plural form follows the Greek suffix, and it wouldn't make sense to add a Latin plural ending to a Greek suffix; in order for that to work the word would have to be Latin in origin, 'octoped' in which case the plural would be 'octopedi,' but instead of getting up I rolled over and tried to bury myself under a pillow.
Sometime later there was a debate, so far as drunk arguing at 5am can get close to a debate as there was some semblance of civil discourse. The topic of discussion was the difference between alliteration and "the other one" (assonance). But they were getting it wrong. The urge to get up, correct them for their erroneous use of literary terms and yell at them to go to bed was getting stronger. I expected their topics to jump around to politics, pop culture, music or sex, but they stayed on literary terms. From Assonance to hyperbole (or hyper-bowl as they said) they failed at every opportunity.
Luckily my computer was nearby and in the dark I felt my headphones and plugged them in and fell asleep to Metallica's Ride the Lightning album.
I awoke to nature's call, stepped over the bodies to pee and walked to the living room to look at what seemed to be the aftermath of the epicenter of a grenade. People were sprawled over the couch, one another, and between the table legs. Many were still wearing their shoes. I went back to bed and woke up again around 11am to the sound of arguing.
Some part of me said, "They had questions about literary terms and the plural of octopus," and in my semiconscious state I marched out there and stood with purpose before them. They were all barely awake and with bleary eyes I said to them, " The plural of octopus is octopuses because it has a Greek suffix, conversely if it was octoped the Latin plural ending would be octoped rather than octopeduses." I had their full attention now. Apparently my subconscious recorded the literary terms they tried to define because after setting them straight in regards to octopuses I defined for them alliteration, assonance, palindrome, hyperbole, irony, sarcasm, sardonic and satire. Then I went back to bed. They were so dumbfounded that they didn't make another sound. Operation render them speechless was a complete success and I reaped the benefits with a much needed slumber.
Wow. Where did that all come from?
