Titles while I remember them

My autobiography will be titled "ACRID." No quotes or period, and in all caps, like this:

ACRID

Darien's, when I get to do one, and if I choose the title and he doesn't pick one for me, will be "[sic.]." It's a term in writing, has a cool definition, and is pronounced as "sick."

[sic.]

Phenomenon in writing

Every now and then I ponder things and in my path I encounter an idea I feel needs to be shared. I've come across this concept before, but I've never had a real way to express it until this moment. Oddly enough, shitty pop rock invoked the title for it.

The Foreigner Effect

So named for the 70's super group. You may remember such hits as "Juke Box Hero," "Hot Blooded," and "Double Vision." Writers are a versatile bunch, and our topics range from peak to valley. Somewhere contained in the world of writing are topics best spoken on by philosophers and wise men. However, they do not get the total rights to the topic. Just because you're some kid going to state university or community college doesn't mean that your input on, say, ethical ramifications of DNA alteration within a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, is any more valid than Aristotle's or Gary Gygax's. They may be more informed and well known, but if your view is fresh and valid, it is as valuable as anyone else's. You don't need to be an actor to write about the inherent risks of method acting. You don't have to have killed someone to write about the ethical ramifications of murder. Pretending to be so skilled or important and assuming a pompous voice to create your work can negatively affect your performance. If you're not an expert, don't pretend to be one. Otherwise, you'll sound like a garage band attempting to seriously play "Jukebox Hero." If you're not one, than playing it is appealing in only an ironic way. Each of us is as important as any other in writing. Write what you need to, and if it is as good as any best seller, you are as good as any best seller, even if it sells 2 copies.

Ramblings of a sort

Today was both sides of the coin. Wonderful and terrible, yes. It began with a team of men dragging a large chunk of wood through city streets. I assume we were quite the spectacle, though I'm a bit tainted on discerning these things at this point in my life. All went well, until the parade actually began. Our skit was well-rehearsed, my jestering spot on, and all club members performed admirably, with particular mention of Sebastian. Here is what caused him to be required to do so:

THE WHEELS BROKE

Not all at once. The parade began, and we pulled it, and I was a jester, and et cetera. Then, the back right wheel was suddenly gone. It cracked or something, we did not have time to assess the damage. We pushed/pulled harder, and soldiered forward. Then, the other back wheel followed suit. This was an emergency. Darren stood on the front wheels, of which there were 4, to provide the weight distribution, and I and others simply shoved from behind. And it was going well, until we noticed that burning smell.The group behind us yelled at us to stop, and Tussy's dress nearly caught aflame from the sparks. The metal wheel brackets were sparking, and the body of the cart was wood.

We officially had a problem.

Curses! Curse words abound. Exasperation and panic set in, but only momentarily. Alex and I looked at each other and shared an epiphany: we had many men, many men wearing armor, many men with arms, and shoulders, and bodies, and legs, and we could have locomotion, and we did. A team of 6, powered the cart up, sans king now assisting in lifting, and we man-powered it straight ahead and through the parade route. There were countless bruises, one mild cut, and a lot of moans and groans, a great number of them from yours truly.

The skit went excellently, I hit a man with a pumpkin pie. I may have found my true calling in life.

And we nearly won, as well. Best club or organization, but lost the overall to BME, a fraternity. Considering our comparatively small numbers and dwindling funds from a too small piggy bank used to construct the lot, that we placed is admirable. And hey, money is money.

MARRS has arrived.

I and a few friends, all club members also, played spontaneous meta dungeons and dragons. I don't know how to better describe it, honestly. In person it's better. A short meal was had with said friends. Erika tagged along both times, often laughing at my antics. She is evermore frustrating to me. She is quite attractive, but her personality's glamor has faded the more I've known her. She is truly a coward, and I shall not hold court to such behavior. It is maddening, since I am always honest, with the exception of lies of omission. Tussy invited me to a gathering at her residence and I went with Alex and Sebastian. I stayed on campus longer specifically so that I could go to it.

Victoria allures me, quite honestly. For a long time she was not available, and thusly, I did not consider her. But, despite everything I've heard and know firsthand of her past, she is still appealing, on many levels. She is an artist, and that is a big deal to me. I treat artists the way I imagine parishioners treat living saints, or would, if they could at least. A tricky analogy, that one. I have reverence for creativity. I consider art the purest form of this, next to music and writing, and feel great regret knowing I cannot create on canvas anything I can see in my mind's eye. But moving forward, she is quite stunning, physically. I think most people would consider her chubby, but I do not. Her face, particularly her eyes, are beautiful. Her hair is immaculately messy. Her skin and slender curves are not without their charm at all either. Her voice is light, and dulcimer, a quality I've heard attributed to my natural voice, the one almost no one is allowed to hear, but hers truly is. It's her warmth. It penetrates all she does. It's...like a fresh hot glass of apple cider on a brittle November morning. Warming.......throughout. The same way I feel when I'm really happy. She's soft, and sweet, and I think perhaps even spectacular. I considered acting today, but hold conflict. The many random tomes I consulted and books of chance each held similar responses, summarized quite colloquially as, go for it! But, I didn't. But....I think she knows I wanted to. I know she is conflicted over something, someone, too. I feel assured it is not me.





My room is unusually cold, tonight.

percolating upon possibilities

I think perhaps it is time to show some kindness towards the kittens. I speak simply of the childish girls. Kitten being just a word I like using, and one that sounded nicest in proximity to the word "kindness." I am often a slave to alliteration. Except for there, and in this sentence. And this one. Moving on.

I'm writing a letter to Erika. A truce of sorts, though I've little if anything to apologize for.

Exhaustion.

Zombies, everywhere, zombies....

A long gap between my last update and this one, I know. I've been heavily occupied as of late, mostly with responsibilities placed far in front of me but which I chose to undertake now, or even earlier, out of frustration, and a desire to be utterly done all the time. So much happened, so much didn't. My best class is about British Literature, a subject I am not well versed in. Yet, I am an excellent student, contributing ideas and answers often. My first test did not reflect this, as Professor Rosso grades severely. Were his lectures and demeanor not so charming, I'd dislike the man. Alas, he is brilliant, and I'll find a way to deal with his grading accordingly. American Poetry, expected to be my best, has shown itself to be my worst. I am overqualified. Far overqualified. Going through the motions depresses me. Especially when discussing talentless hacks like Walt Whitman. The professor is hopelessly behind in our discussions, and I am pointlessly ahead, covering Ezra Pound while the discussion is still straddling atop Dickinson's subtle imagery. A pity, that. Ah well, I'll find some way to entertain myself. Perhaps more debate with that incorrigible born again Christian girl, or a heavy dose of more sewing.

I can sew now, you know. I taught myself haphazardly how, like a child learns how to shoot a gun at his enemy: out of necessity. The results are predictably shoddy, but my jester hat is quite a sight, and I'm very happy with the outcome I'll concede. It could be better, but I am but a courtier. It is acceptable, therefore. My tunic needs minor repairs I'll imagine into being quite soon. And I have green fabric left over for whatever purpose I wish.

Strange feelings have permeated me recently. I sent an extended love confession poem to Brittany in imperfect Iambic Pentameter. I am proud of it. It is good. She's yet to respond, so far. Inevitably there will be something in answer. I think this anxiety is causing my strange feelings. For example, I am rereading Slaughterhouse 5, and for the first time in months, the urge to cut came on strongly, purposefully. Not for release or hatred, just a desire to create in destruction. His famous tombstone, the best epitaph:

"Everything Was Beautiful, And Nothing Hurt"

Only it was on a stone, and there were no lowercase letters. It just sounded like a great idea. I did not, nor do I plan to, act upon it. But it was there, and that is troubling in and of itself. But my medication is still working, pretty well. I've had somewhat mean days, somewhat strange days, somewhat silly days, somewhat unknown days. But no evil days, no bad days really. Things continue, like always. I wonder if Brittany will understand my words. I felt verse was necessary. That...feeling I get when I think I've synced up, seeing time correctly, and the correct and really, the only thing I'm able to do, is what I'm doing. And I feel pulled forward into my words like a bell on a string, batted by a kitten in time. Of course, we always are, but the words I wrote, they were right and important, and flowed from somewhere unseen. Like an oracle, speaking in cryptographic tune.

Literal things of important to read if surreal subjects disappoint or entangle:

-Grades doing ok
-Car seems alright
-My helmet arrived finally, which means I'll soon be fighting
-Chrononauts arrived, and thanks to the pool, cost not a cent. It looks very fun
-I'm seeing Zombieland tonight with my sister and step-father. Unusual, since the last film I was with him was Godzilla, the 1997 version, I believe.

That's enough of that. More exposition: I feel rudderless, and doing homework and cleaning and laundry only seem to assuage this temporarily. I'm worried about some things. Most of my friends seem more or less alright. Darren has shown a lot of rage, a lot of irritation, but he's handling it...enough. I and others will keep him soothed somewhat as long as required. Lindsay is, well, status quo at least. New injury but no worse than her last. Tristan has been distant, Robbie and Bryan as well, if a bit less so. Alex and Sebastian have been warmer than usual.

I've heard barely a word from Darien.

I worry about Jess's emotional and healthful stability. She's under a lot of pressure. She'll probably be alright. Had I any funds, I'd visit. New friend, this Jon character, seems quite nice. Liz's brother Ray and I are getting along well. Galen I've barely seen. Overall though, no more pressing news in these areas.

Hmm. I felt there was more I should have been discussing. Perhaps later.