“There are no tricks. Run because you have to. Run because you love it. Run because you want to be fast. Run because you want to be skinny. Run to find some quiet time. Run to sweat. Run to eat. Run to hear your heart pound in your ears. Run because you’re a runner. Run because you gotta keep the streak. Run because you don’t know why the hell you’re running. Run because you fought with your partner. Run because your job is cruddy. Run because you got no money. Run for the sunrise. Run for a race. Run because it’s impossible. Run because it’s easy. Run instead of doing laundry. Run instead of watching TV. Run because no one else understands. Run because the cool kids are doing it. Run because you’re tired of talking. Run for numbers. Run for feel. Run to prove something. Run because it freaking hurts. Or don’t run. If you got something better to do.”—Jeff Edmonds (via emergeabutterfly)
“I’ve been in the habit of making things for public consumption so long now that a lot of the mystery that is bound up in Creative Endeavor evaporates. Patrick Rothfuss had me on as a “beta tester” for Wise Man’s Fear, which I was more than happy to do: I wrote NO in thick black sharpie over entire pages, and I think I even shook my fist at one point at an impotent God. I don’t know how the book turned out because I never read the “real” version, but this very act horrified Gabriel. He thinks of books as being Absolute Things, like Sandwiches, as opposed to something that vibrates or shifts in any particular. I didn’t find it particularly weird, but you come into this stuff with a lot of your own shit. Perspective is, to him, more or less inviolate. That’s something I get.”—
I love Tycho’s position on editing. Words are his thing, and he wields considerable power both on them and how other people use them.
It’s the third day of war and already I must admit a grudging respect for the enemy - for it hath singlehandedly (pawedly?) administered a great many defeats unto me. First came the storming of my villa - before sun’s light had even cast a glow upon the world - and lo! in that moment I beheld several portents that filled me with dread.
Was it that my mousy foe, it of the diabolic disposition and intellect that I had formerly reserved only for collective intellects (re: corporations, thinktanks, etc, etc..), was not content to simply make me aware of its presence in my room - allowing itself to be captured before darting nearly quite literally out of these hands - and in doing so, displayed a pride that reminds me of Man?
Could it have been the taunting on Day 2? For upon breaking my fast, I found my companion’s eye both constant and critical - it wanted to observe me having my oatmeal. That’s fine. It doesn’t behoove a gentleman to go about chasing a legged bottle-rocket, anyway. It didn’t bother me - oh no! Starved of company as I am in this seasonal intercession period, its company would have nearly been comforting. The fear of its gnawing on my valuables….ate…away at my heart, though. As it sat there, sarcastically observing me taking my meal, I resolved to kill it through a game of wits.
Turns out that’s easier said than done. I imagine I could have much more easily murdered my dog (perish the thought! …and all the puns) - but regardless of my intent, little amount of malice and practiced lore has come in handy. It seems that either my subconscious like for the little thing has interfered with my desire to truly see it die at my hands (or because of my hands), or my pace is actually being set by a taskmaster so devious that no deficiency of size will permit it the lack of a good meal of peanut butter (let the record state at this point that the mouse has no apparent interest in apple chutney; though perhaps its nose is better than mine in sniffing out the expiration of items left in our fridge by roommates). Neither the “ramp leading up to the bucket filled with watery doom” nor the “toilet paper roll with treats on the end that tips into your watery doom, damn you” method has yielded much results, though the rim of the bucket filled with aquatic malice has in fact been cleaned much more thoroughly than I might have managed by myself; as of several minutes ago the same can be said for the edge of the toilet paper roll.
I consider the ante upped. Last resort (offensive to both my character and want of wit to win) are the sticky traps, but for now the game goes on with gravity as my weapon of choice. Stay tuned.
Just as I have found myself in this house, so too do I find myself on this tumblr. What I thought I would do with this and what I haven’t done aren’t that similar; the only thing I can think to say is that if intentions were responsible for governance the world might be a better place and I would be a full fledged novelist by now. I still have some hope for at least one of these things.
I did not expect it to be so easy to find happiness. I was twenty one years old when I met her. I still drank Bailey’s Irish Cream and I still listened to Oasis. I feel funny even writing that down. Six years later, I don’t do these things. I pour M red wine and we put on Ethiopiques. In the morning we kiss goodbye and in the evening we ride our bikes over overpasses, along canals. You cannot see the stars in the city but still we lie on our backs in the grass and we pretend we can, like when I was twenty one and she swept me off my feet. Six years. I did not expect it to be so easy to find happiness.
Last night she turned to me with colour in her cheeks and she said something that felt complicated and direct and unwavering, like she was taking my hand and putting it in a fire, and taking my eyes and making me see that our hands were in a fire. As she spoke, I listened without any confusion, because she is M. I watched each expression flicker across her face. Colour in her cheeks. In my heart I said, secretly, Okay, enough. Let’s. Let’s. All our lives, we shall lie in the grass and see certain stars that one-another has imagined.
"The only thing I've learned is how to be a student!"
I suspect that we are circling some kind of grand truth. The way we are raised to constantly judge ourselves based on how well we do versus the performance of our peers lead me to dissatisfaction. What I hated most about myself over the years was that my enjoyment of events hinged less on who I was with than on how I stacked up compared to them. Each time I found myself circling the cause of my unhappiness, I denied even to myself how important performance was to me. This behavior is ingrained within me, and I have worked harder to rid myself of these chains than I have on any homework assignment short of the classes that I truly cared about (as opposed to those I was arbitrarily made to take). With all of that being said, I think that you will enjoy the following video. It truly lines up with how I feel about my recent exit from the educational system.
There is a method of speaking that uses no words. An eyebrow raises. Foreheads crinkle in consternation; in complaint; in comedy. This constitutes the missing dimension from my dialogue with you, and for that I apologize. Read this as sardonically as you dare.
I live with a married couple in a single room in a large house. I couldn’t honestly tell you how many other people live with us in this house. What I can say is that I live in the belly of the beast - I have no problem with the people that I live with, nor do I have qualms with my roommates; yet I spend as little time here as possible. Our basement living space is not intimidating aside from the logistics of three people living in a room meant for one.
My time is spent divided between my job and my labor of love, and so far I have few regrets. For now, my time is spent trying to be a better man.