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.

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