Thursday, October 21, 2010

Fragment: Searching for an Outlet

Searching for an Outlet
(C) 2010
by Vance Goffman

I knew the day was going to be long when I couldn't even sit still reading my e-mail.
It wasn't even seven in the morning, and I was already shaking my legs as if I'd already sucked down two Red Bulls.
That's how I felt last night. Yeah, I was in bed for eleven hours, but all I remember is tossing and turning all night long. Every time I had to move the sheets so I could also move my body pillow. Even in sleep I am restless.
After my e-mail has been checked, I put on a pair of shorts and my running shoes. I need to get rid of this nervous energy somehow.
It's not until I am nearly home, after the 20 minute run, that I know it's not going to help. I didn't get rid of that feeling deep inside me. I still wanted to rip apart my body to release this energy.

I sit down at my computer and open a new document in TextEdit. I like writing in the most basic programs. Yeah, in the end it will end up in Word, but for now I like to think of the writing by itself, without attachment to the tools of the 21st Century world. Yeah, I'm writing on a computer, but I'm just using it right now as a glorified (and very advanced) typewriter. As a plus, there is no type writer sounds. Very peaceful.
One pictures a writer going to town on his laptop, maybe sitting in some semi-public space. Others see the writers alone in the apartments, their faces only illuminated by the glow of the computer screens.
Gone are the days we think of writings sitting in a well-lit room as they think by chewing on the end of their pen. Go back further and you can imagine the great writers dipping their quills in wells of ink.
Right now, as I write this, I am sitting in my room, which happens to be illuminated by the natural light pouring in from the two south-facing windows. The light can freely fill the room because I have been putting off buying and installing new curtains. While I find the light annoying at certain times of the day, for the most part I can't see giving up such wonderful light. I never used to like natural light, but as it has given new life to my bamboo plant Pete (Pete the Plant) I feel like more natural light has given me a boost.
I turned from the living room (& the TV) so I could write in natural light; in my room with the hope that getting something, anything, out of my head thru my fingers would zap the restlessness in my body. I write that sentence, and my legs stop. Crazy. Mind over matter?
Only seconds pass before my legs starts slowly moving around then seconds later my right leg is at it again, jumping up and down.

Only those without thought can't understand my problem. I have too much energy from sitting at home all day. I should walk more, get out more, and, most importantly, find something to do everyday so that I can actually apply this energy to something constructive and good.

Easier said than done. But now that it's out of my mind, something will happen. Now it's just time to wait and see. Shitty, I know.

As the clock nears one in the afternoon I start to think about life. Today has gone by in a mixture of slow pace and speedy moments. I watch House and it seems to go on forever. Then I see it's not even 1 yet. Time is a bitch who I think is now fucking with me.
I wish I could make my words sing. The lady in the strange land of HappyCandyMoca is the sexiest pilgram Lincoln ever saw in a Bowtie! Castle Greyskull! How about those apples.

I am torn between screenplays and novels. Both speak to my soul, but the movie needs other people. And while novels have editors and all that bullshit, it is mine. I don't speak through some actor. I write the words the reader will read. That is the power of the written word. There is only you and your reader.
I am feeling the words I write as I type them out. I am not looking at the screen, nor I am looking at the keyboard. And while I feel I have messed up a few letters there and there. I am finally listening to the voice that I want to make heard. I'm not going to like it but the most honest feelings I have are being pulled out of my by the idea that I am cant think before I write. I have taken that filter aways. And by doing so I have taken away the chance to edit. the feeling lights me from the inside. I am alive again because I am not writing for anything else, I am doing it all for me. I need to feel the power because I feel i like I am not being able to teype fast enough to get my feelings aout to the world. Tursing my findghers. Een when they may be wrong but it is what I need to do to better feel my world. I am shaking with power and somethings that power makes my fingers type faster than they can. Thus mistakes are made, but by closing my eyes I can undersand the art behind the words without having to worry that I have fukced something up because I am moving too fast. Help me figure otu how to keep up with my crazy mucking fafkne'a efnjc FI/JO GHLCN ASDDSOHVOFBEH 08RSDFIUHIO/B

Cam tries to explain why he is feeling so crazy.
"I just feel like my mind is trying to do things my body can't handle. And by doing such crazy things, I can't get my body to work with my mind. They are always at war. My mind wins, but my body can't do anything without my mind. But my body is the one always falling behind. I don't resent by body. It's what makes me, me. I just wish I could better deal with the energy that is trying to rip my heart and soul from my flesh and blood.

The art of the written word is dead. But the ideas and feelings it has communicated are not dead. So it is up to us to discover a way to share these feelings, thoughts, and events.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Title TBD and/or MIA

Well, if this doesn't bring back the memories of college, nothing will. Blogging in the middle of the night. If I was Mark Zuckerberg, I would be creating some crazy thing right now. But I'm me. So I'm trying to write.

And while I have hit a block on the story I am working on, I thought I could come here and just shoot the shit with myself. I don't have much in mind to talk about. Nothing in fact. I just need to tap these keys and form words. I just feel the need to empty my brain and my soul. I can't put words to the feelings. I try and tell stories to express these, but I can't. I can't put my finger on it. I just am missing something. I need to work my word choice. I need to work the language to sound great! Sorkin!!!

And I must shout out, in yet another social/Web media, that James Franco's new book Palo Alto is great so far (I haven't finished it yet). Is there nothing he can't do? Act, write, look like he does and so much more!? How?! Mad props because he seems very down to earth. Talented and humble. And sane. That's a gift man!

I love the book's short shorties because it is how I have been reading lately. Just reading 15-20 pages at a time, and this book is great for that. I get my mind to work out, but I don't over heat it. I must say my mind has been working overtime lately (for some unknown reason). But I did read Micheal Cunningham's new novel "By Nightfall" and I loved it. It was a great easy read. Which was great. Cunningham can be hard to get into and get through, but this newest book was very accesible yet no less brillenct. It was shinning for the simplicity of both the style and the truth of always longing for more and different and new. Love it.

With my passion for politics and policy it is not out of the realm of reasonable thought I would someday run for some office. I don't see myself running, maybe helping someone run, but not myself. But never say never. It's one of the few slogans I really follow. Never say Never!

But with this in mind, these journals, as well as others on the intertubes would be crazy to deal with. And everyone of my generation is going to have this problem. And if not us, the next is surly to deal with everyone knowing nearly everything about each other. It is the need to know what your neighbor is doing at the same time you want to reach out and tell your friends want is going on.

I am writing so my brain can chew over the bit of story I just read. Going back for more. I promise to get right back like I'm not even gone...

And I still here. But I'm going to finish the book later. Some now before I sleep, and then the rest tomorrow. Then I will spend the next few days rereading it. Taking it in. Then I will write about it. And maybe "By Nightfall" too at some point. Yes. That would be great.

Now, this is mostly just what i thought as I was typing. It's true. I haven't edited for grammar or mistakes. Enjoy I guess.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Not a dull week

I'm not even sure where to begin. The events of the last few weeks (maybe even months) have driven me to be a different person.

It reminds me of the old story of the frog in boiling water:

If you drop a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will of course frantically try to clamber out. But if you place it gently in a pot of tepid water and turn the heat on low, it will float there quite placidly. As the water gradually heats up, the frog will sink into a tranquil stupor, exactly like one of us in a hot bath, and before long, with a smile on its face, it will unresistingly allow itself to be boiled to death.
- Version of the story from Daniel Quinn's The Story of B (from Wikipedia)

Whether or not it's true (I doubt it), it still points to the idea of something happening slowly over time isn't as obvious and/or noticeable. That's been my life, changing slowly, so that (it would seem) that sometime around Tuesday or Wednesday (Sept. 28 or 29) I saw myself as the new me. For better or worse. I have acted more boldly than I thought I could, yet I still feel the nearly instinctual pull deep inside me to run away when I feel I'm losing control.

That pull (a feeling mostly in the center of my chest, but also a buzzing throughout my body) has always been there. I remember it best as the feeling my freshman year of college. I didn't want to go to class (my art class, Principles of Design, I think) because my body was freaking out. It was almost as if a hand reached out from my chest and held me down. I couldn't make myself go to class. Anyone who knew me in high school would be a little shocked by this. I know I was.

But, I started taking pills for depression and seeing a shrink. The pills helped dull my buzzing anxiety, but talking didn't. And the pills made my mood swings odd and strange. Not better, but different. I just thought it was what I was suppose to feel. Then I started drinking. And doing other things. That freed me. Or at least it felt like it freed me. I didn't think too much, and now I could talk to people without totally freaking out.

But those things were just pushing down my feelings so I didn't have to deal with them. Not that I avoided the issues that fueled this anxiety, but I didn't learn to deal with it. I just made it go away.

I've been totally sober since October 1st. Well, that was my first full day. I'd quit a few days before that, deciding I needed to find the real me. It wasn't going to be easy, but I needed to do it. Then I found out some news, and I kinda gave it. So Oct. 1. That's when I really started to be totally sober. I just need deal with the crazy in my head.

I went to the doctor Friday as well. He put me on Paxil. It's gonna help with the social anxiety. Which I think should have been the target all along (not depression), but you try fighting with doctors.

So the point of this post was two-fold. I wanted to document the start of the new me. The real me. Me.

Second, I wanted to write. I started this blog to do just that. I haven't really had anything I was willing to share with anyone until now. So, here it is. Me.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life...