(no subject)

I remember reading some years ago a collection of statistics about gamers (probably some grad student's thesis), but what stuck with me was the statementto the effect that they (we, who am I kidding?) will spend hours and hours on ways to influence imaginary worlds, but little to no time influencing the world they inhabit. I'm pretty sure this stuck with me so long because it had the sting of judgement, and the sting of truth. Of course, it's easier to change worlds in which you can know the rules just by spending your $30 and reading the manual, and of course, it's much much easier to be bold and daring when the greatest penalties you might suffer is the death of a fictional character.

That thought, combined with my literary pining to live in the textures of certain fictional worlds raises the very curious/serious/peculiar/daunting question; why not try to make this world like those? I don't mean things like the ability to toss cars around, or to read minds (though both of those would be cool), but something about the... the flavor, the intensity, the notgettingboggeddownindailydetails-ness of it all. I'm not quite sure what I mean, but I mean it definitively.

I'm not sure this is strictly a perceptual thing, though surely that's part of it; I'm not sure what else. There is always a connectedness in that which I envy that all too often seems lacking in my corner of the world; I know that's a part of it, but I'm not sure how to change that, exactly (yes, I understand some of that is necessarily the reflection of point of view; it's easy to feel connected in third person objective). Perhaps part of it is routine, or anti-routine; that certainly feels like a stranglehold on creativity and vibrancy at the moment.

I know that I am addicted to words; I'm not exactly sure how much of a problem that is, really. I keep toying with the idea of writing people out, but I keep holding back. Possibly because it would feel.... sad, maybe? to only be able to lovingly cherish some in written words, words aimed not to them, but as appreciation made manifest in the only way I feel comfortable. It could be that I don't want to reduce people into character sketches; though I know it's not truly reductive, I'm afraid it might feel that way. I'm always incredibly leary of mixing fantasy with my reality; already the lure of fantasy is strong, and I don't want the temptation to retreat into it to be any stronger by virtue of a cast of familiar faces and circumstances, only better. And yet, this urge/impulse keeps coming up. This may be related to that symbolic magic Grant Morrison keeps talking about; I'm certainly one for (over)symbolism (and also for semicolons).

The writing impulse remains, though the aimlessness of this is frustrating to me at the moment. More later on this, probably.

Addendum The hesitation might well be my reluctance to leave evidence of things, as well.

And so it begins

Try and regard it kindly, for it was written as such...



Perpetual motion was the preferred way of keeping doubt and disdain at bay; words have trouble sticking to a moving target, or so the thought went, anyway. It was a peculiarity of self-perception that one of the most rooted and primally solid of people became self-convinced that the life of a cyclone was preferable (granted, a small, benevolent cyclone). Recognition seemed to be a curious thing, both gladly noted, but evaded or retreated from in the instant after it was noted. That the difference between solidity and stillness, between vulnerability and accessibility, was confused remained a tragedy to all who were, or would be, near.