A Post About Many Things
This post is going to pretty much be exactly like my mind: a jumbled up chaotic mess that jumps back and forth between 650 topics at once.
First off, today is a really sobering day for me. Clark Gable died 53 years ago today. As many of you know, Gable was the star who first got me into classic Hollywood. I began to watch his films at a time in my life when I stuck out like a sore thumb (and not in a good way) at my rich, shallow girls Catholic high school. I did not fit into any of the criteria that made a girl “popular” at that school: my family wasn’t exorbitantly wealthy, I didn’t wear the right designer labels, I didn’t have a Blackberry (Blackberries were cool back in 2007), I wasn’t stick-thin, I wasn’t some Italian princess, I didn’t have long spaghetti-straight hair (I had a short chin-length bob then. Now my hair is down almost to my elbows! But it’s still as big and as curly as ever.) and I didn’t party much at all. In many ways, I’m still that friendless, lonely, quiet girl. Because I’m from Brooklyn, people tend to think I should be loud and flamboyant all the time, but most of the time I actually don’t really speak. I’m that girl that sits in the corner of the bus, her eyes downcast, blasting a loud, eclectic mix of rock and rap through her headphones, and reading a book that’s well over a thousand pages. And even though I tend not to trust people easily and I choose not to connect with them on any level whatsoever, I feel like the Clark Gable that lived so large both inside and outside of his films is the friend I’ve never found amongst the living. A man who has been dead for over half a century still resonates with me more deeply than many of the shallow, silly, pointless souls that walk the earth today. He, to me, is more alive than a good 90% of my generation: all fakers and posers and idiot savants. One of the reasons I want to travel back in time so badly is that there were people like Gable who were so genuine…how many genuine people do you know today? Unfortunately, I can count them on just one hand. In short, it is very easy to be saddened by the death of your favorite classic star. But you should always remember how beautiful they were in life and what they did for you.
The second thing that’s weighing heavily on my mind is my novel. Writing would be so much easier if I had the time and support. I’d much rather be writing about what’s in my heart than punching out articles about topics I don’t much care about. But I just don’t have the time to continue with it anymore, because alas, I am getting graded on the quality of my articles and not on the quality of the scribblings in my little black Moleskine leather notebook. I also feel uninspired. I have no motivation, no muse, no creative impetus. I feel that no one is encouraging me to continue writing, so what’s the point? I am very very VERY strongly considering abandoning the whole stinking project, ripping and shredding all the pages in my notebook, and permanently deleting everything on my laptop. I kinda want to publish an excerpt on here before I would do something so painful as destroying my own work, but I have a fear of publishing creative work on the Internet because I always have the thought of people just copy/pasting it and then slapping their own name onto it. I am also deeply sensitive about others reading my work. People have contacted me privately asking to read what I’ve got, but I always come up with a hundred different excuses because I’m that damn shy. Clearly, my feelings about writing and sharing my work are contradicting themselves…maybe that’s just the thing creative people go through. But I’m not that good anyway, I may as well just destroy my work and save the world from reading just another cringingly awful story.
On a much lighter note, I went to see Macklemore and Ryan Lewis in concert last night and it was absolutely the best ever. At the end of the show, Macklemore jumped into the crowd and called for everyone to get out of their seats, flood the aisles, and carry him back as he crowdsurfed. I was trampled, punched, kicked, and elbowed in the mosh pit, but I trampled, punched, kicked, and elbowed back and I was able to get within a foot of Macklemore’s perfect being. Now, I am practically crippled and I have a voice as hoarse and crackly as that of a pubescent 12 year-old boy (damaged my throat screaming my lungs out for him), but it was SO worth it. The man can put on a good show, and he is magnificent.
The last thing that’s gnawing away at my mind is that I’m going to study abroad in Australia this January (Yes, you read right. Yes, I’m nuts.) Tomorrow is my orientation, and I’m SHITTING BRICKS OF FEAR. I’m going to learn about my registration, my housing there, visa and flight info, etc. What if I have to have a roommate? What if my roommate is a roommate from hell? What if the Australians laugh at me and rip me off once I open my mouth and they hear the brassy Brooklyn accent? What if I get lost when navigating the city all alone? What if I get kidnapped and raped when navigating the city all alone? What if my fucking plane crashes and I die? Now that I’ve got only a month and a half before I’m amongst the people of Down Under, I’m getting really, really nervous. Half of me is scared, but half of me remembers that I’m from Brooklyn and Brooklynites are the toughest, most thick-skinned people on earth. I can probably assimilate in a snap, but still…it will be an adventure nonetheless! Maybe the hardest part for me will be to try not to smuggle home a cute little koala!