Dear Anonymous

"Quit Quitting"- Anonymous

I would hate to say that it is harder to write while in an elevated mood. That would imply that art in general comes from the bowels of the body, that creation spawns from the inescapable insipidity or inevitable sludge of existence.

But to he honest, I am having trouble proving otherwise.

One of the first aspects of Non-Fiction they teach you is that writing cannot properly be done if one is still personally invested in the subject matter. We need to be distant and emotionless to that moment of our live we try to write about. I do not agree. Moreover, I do not think it is possible. Though I understand I am taking the lesson to the Nth degree, I also realize that a good writer should not feel distant or emotionless. Ever.

Writing isn't done better or worse while happy. Rather, it would seem to me, a writer is less inclined to write while happy. There is always the constant battle within the artist of "Life Lived" and "Life Understood". Meaning, at what point to you stop reading, stop thinking, stop questioning, stop analyzing and just do. Just life. Which is better for the writer? Which is better for the writing?

I don't have an answer.

But I do have an update. I am Just Living.

I do not feel distant or emotionless. If anything I am overwhelmed right now in how close and emotionful I am. I am in a new city with new people, and I spend everyday with someone who I care for, more than I knew it were possible for humanity to care. The passion of a million suns. So much so that it becomes unbearable at times. That it is possible to love so much, you can hate love.

Everyday I take in so much new information that I am having difficulty deciphering the data. And there is a lot of data.

Some random thoughts and updates:

-Philadelphia is a very nice cross between New York City and Long Island. NYC in that there is always something to do, somewhere to go, someone to meet, and someone to see. LI because everyone knows everyone else. It is quite amazing to see an actually city have a very traceable social web. And though I did not come here for it, I am a part of it. The only difference, Philly is one dirty motha fucka, with great character though.

-I have further realized that I am not a city kid. I grew up in the suburbs and have a pension for nature. Cities are far to cramped for me. Far too fast. I cannot relax. I mean completely relax. Where, with each exhale you know every last molecule of air escapes your lungs. Where you can hear your heart beat. Where you can tell if it is the mockingbird, or the call the mockingbird mocks. The catch is, I cant do what I've been doing in the country. I can network. I cant gain experience. The country is when you have already written the first book and need a nice quiet place to drink and go batshit crazy in privacy. I am not there yet.

-I write for 215 magazine. Some local Philly spread that lifestyles and parties and reviews. It doesnt pay much but it allows for some opportunities.

-I work at The Toothless Cat art gallery for beer.

-I work at Urban Outfitters for money. I kind of like it. It is extremely easy and low key. In New York I worked the most stressful job imaginable for the most vindictive person imaginable. Now, I barely have to do shit. And I get paid like it. I've meet some good people though. They all hate the job, which is funny, because there are five stacks of applications about the size of War and Peace, and about ten people that I see filling out new ones each day. We pretend to be better than these people, making fun of them for writing in script or wearing Ugg boots, but in reality, we suck at life just as much, we just get paid minimum wage for it.

-My sweat smells like weed and my farts smell like Pringles.

-Someone broke into my car last and stole a box of rocks. Again, someone broke into my car last night and stole a box of rocks. Allow me to elaborate. My aunt, in all her wonder, is perhaps the only family member of mine who truly gets me. Yeah, Momatron knows I write and have a wanderlust and such, but my aunt, she just knows. While she can't relate, she knows the pressures I feel in life day in and day out. Anyway, for my birthday she tells me she is really happy with the present she got me, says she likes getting gifts for me because of my emotional and heartfelt nature (so she says). She gave me the gift of a Pier-1 box with a bunch of rocks in it and a sharpie. She said it is for my travels. That whenever I am in a new place, to pick up a rock, write the date and the place, and put it in the box for when I am older. Cute right? It was to me at least. I never did pick up rocks and date them. I never thought of it. The box just bounced around my car for the last couple months and was a mild inconvenience to any back seat passengers. Those curious enough to open the box only came out of the situation with more questions. This morning I come to find the box gone. Everything else still in place. They riffled through my glove box, my change cup, and my center console. Left the radio. The Diana camera. The cigarette lighter outlet. The $20 in change. But stole the box of rocks from my aunts backyard. Someone broke into my car last night and stole a box of fucking rocks. WTF. FTW. FML. I'm going to put a sign on my windshield tonight that just says, "Seriously?"

-Ashley and I got Tibetan prayer flags. They are suppose to be good luck and grand wishes. The different colors represent different elements of the earth and there is a whole rule book of stipulations of when and where to hang them. Its like a rubber piggy bank. I have commitment issues.

-I was in the bathroom of a bar the other night. It had mirrors on all the walls infinitely reflecting the reflections like the box in Queens Science Museum. It was the first time I truly got a good look at my rat tail. I also realized then that my friends aren't as great as they thought they were. Now, I am in constant anxiety whether I have food in my teeth or TP on my shoe.

-I have a house. I live with Ian Paul Guzzone and Connie Hill (most (if not all) of you reading this blog won't know Connie, she's cool in my book). The house already smells like old milk, but its huge. I mean huge. The basement alone is bigger than any place I've live in the past 5 years. So my neighbor moved out today in a, seemingly hurry, and put just about everything they had on the curb/ driveway. I mean everything. Couches, guitar amps, bags of beer cans, old food, cameras, printers, desks, other couches the smell like cat piss. Needless to say my roommates and I went crazy. I now own an old ass Pevey amp (to be sold on Craigslist), a queen sized boxspring and mattress (to be deloused and used), and a nice suitcase FULL of contempo clothes and shoes (to be sold ASAP to Buffalo exchange for food money, I just paid rent and believe I am in the negative). And there is something weird about a strange suitcase full of clothing. Any one of these items I would be much more inclined to wear had they not been found on the curb. If said clothing was purchased at the thriftstore, not a moments hesitation in my mind, but from a curb... eh. But hopefully I can fetch a few bucks for it so I don't have to eat tuna for the next week until I get paid. All in all, pretty okay day for 'dumpster' diving.

-I haven't not been updating my blog recently. It didn't seem like anyone was reading it anymore. Nor have I really been writing recently for the reasons already specified. But I am here. Living. Loving. Taking in and interpreting. There is much to take care of in my life right now, and will give attention to those aspects which ask for attention. 215 Magazine is a great resume builder. The Toothless Cats is really fun and great for networking. Urban is for the money, and I can strenuously call that networking as well.

I suppose what I am trying to say is, if you want me to write in my blog, I will.

This isn't a call for comments. Or you tag me in a picture and I'll tag you in one. Or a n00d 4 n00d (but if you send one we'll see what happens).

This is me saying... If you really like what I write in this blog, if you want me to write in blog, show me. And I'll write.

This entire post is because of an Anonymous comment written for a post made a month ago.

I'll leave with that.


And this has nothing to do with anything, but its cute and somewhat response to B. Heyman...

Remember to ret her rin to rour rart