Listening to: I Could Have Lied - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Reading: Wolves of Calla - The Dark Tower V
Watching: Donnie Darko
Eating: Chicken Ceasar Wrap
Drinking: Mountian Dew.
I would like to start by saying: Goddamn, this is a long journal entry. Remember that it is here merely for posterity, if you want to read it, be my guest, it's a long road ahead.
This is more like a three part Journal entry, and I wanted to put the first part (chronologically) last, just because I like it more and would like to leave you, the reader, on that note. The other two things are just neat musings I had that I kind of wanted to share. And I've been trying to get into the habit of getting my ideas into permanent form before they slip away for good. When I was a child, my father used to insist constantly that I stop drawing on lined paper, and get some blank paper because it would be more professional and some other reasons that I don't quite remember anymore but I am sure I agree with. As I've become more serious with my art, I realize that blank paper is the way to go, and, by association, I can't even find any of my art that I had done on lined paper anymore. So, in light of that, now that I'm taking my creative mind more seriously I can begin to make real progress hopefully. Sorry for the long winded prologue. Without further ado, whatever.
Tonight as I made my way up the hill I thought of how torn I was with all my relationships, and how I don't even have that many. I thought of childhood, when everything was easy and I didn't need other people, just my mom and dad, and now that I'm older I seem to have tried to fill those roles with friend, uselessly shoveling people endlessly into the gap that they left when I had to grow up.
But I digress. When I was a child the only 'friends' I needed were right in my head. And that was good enough then. What happened? I mean, I suppose if I just kept right along having those imaginary friends I would be deemed what society labels 'mentally deranged', but besides that, what kept me from sticking to those friends in my head and forsaking expansion into the real world? Curiosity? Human Nature? Could it have merely been the way I was raised by the world around me? It couldn't have been the doing of my father. No, he is a great man I would never even imagine that he would mislead me. I guess I was formed to believe that by society. But more probably it was a natural desire for human contact and acceptance. And in a way I was never really convinced or, (a term I like to use) indoctrinated. What I mean to say is, I never let go of the friends in my head, I just.. portrayed them differently. As characters in my stories instead of people I spend time with, which, by now let's face it, is what, no, WHO they are.
I suppose all of this information is racing around in my head at lighting speed and I find myself looking for Russel again on the hill. The moon is full tonight so as I run I feel that the conditions in my vision are met. (Now, when I say vision, I mean, a little day dream I had, I'm not tripping balls freakin insane here) And now, sitting here, typing, I realize that I'm just beginning to accept Russel and Jack and Huxley and Rosenbaum and Azreil and Lien and Alice and Rade Thatm and Hook Hawkins and Claus and Seth and Chaud and all of them for who they really are, grown up versions of what, when I was a child, I was allowed to call imaginary friends.
Well, I already have Jack, in a way. And now, I'm working on Russel.
Like any good friendship, I will have to invest time in him. But I KNOW it will be worthwhile.
Russel, I'm looking forward to meeting you again soon.
I saw in the clouds a lion crouching, sitting, looking up at the moon in awe, and I said to him "Oh,no. You can eat up the sun, but the moonis mine. Don't touch it." Then I noticed next to him in the clouds, a maiden, looking up also at the moon. I feel like my words impacted him because as he drifted by as a cloud it appeared as if his eyes stayed, fixated on something he could never have, even as it slipped slowly and gradually and definitely away from him. I looked away, hearing noises on the other side of the hill. dire voices. When I looked back again the maiden had raised her hands to comfort him, and I looked at the lion, who was bent backwards with longing. Then I scanned the hill to see if anyone of my friends had followed me, I found nothing but the pipes jutting out from the overgrown trash heap that was beneath my feet. I looked back a third time at the affairs of the Lion, moon, and maiden, and was concerned to see that the lion was reeling and the maiden's hands were pulled back as if she was looking at them, as if she had drawn blood or found her hands were drenched in it. I was reminded of Rosenbaum, and mused that she had destroyed her own empire unintentionally. I looked at my surroundings once more and decided to go back home. As if to bid the skies farewell and thank them for their performance, I glanced back up at the moon and night sky, only to find that the play was not over, and the final act was in progress. It looked as if the lion lay on it's side in a heap, and the maiden was weeping, face buried in her hands, still, no doubt, covered in blood.
As I turned to walk home, I saw the light of a factory or streetlight or something in my eyes, and it was then that I thought of the following:It seems common belief that it takes great nerve to walk away from 'the light', however, in my experience, walking towards it can be much more frightening. For instance, when you walk away, your path, although less glamorous, is lit out before you, whereas walking into it is uncertain. you can see nothing else, focus on nothing else. That's all there is.
And then you start to wonder. "is this the *right* light? could this be the work of some trickster or spirit or will 'o the wisp? It takes a lot of faith and bravery to walk toward the light.Which is why, I suppose, bravery is often lumped together with foolishness.