Thursday, August 2, 2007
We Don't Want the Loonies Taking Over
This is an email I wrote to Fishy last Monday, when I was on what felt like the Mount Everest of all manic upswings (and I don't mean that at all in a good way). Well, it wasn't quite Mount Everest, but it was definitely up there on my mood spectrum. Whatever it was, the email apparently amused Fishy to the point where she told me I had to put it up here (Oh, and before you even ask, yes I do know that Shakespeare wrote in verse most of the time. I'm not stupid, I was just too focused to go back and change it before I sent it):Dude, you have to call me. These men have got me trapped inside the
house and I don't know what to do. They're the landscape guys, so I
guess they're supposed to be there, but I can't show myself at any
windows, because this morning they rang the doorbell, but I wasn't
dressed because it was an ungodly hour, and so if I show myself,
they'll wonder why the hell I didn't answer the doorbell, and I don't
know what to do. I only got down to the basement to type this email
by using some serious spy methods, and moving quickly from wall to
wall. I don't think I can go back upstairs, though, and I only
managed to snatch an apple from the kitchen and that's all I've had
to eat today.
I went back on meds yesterday and felt really horrible the whole day.
I haven't taken any today, because I can't go in the kitchen. This
is not good.. Lauren, this is not good. This is very, very not
good. I think I should go somewhere I don't know where and die in a
hole. I don't think that, that's just what Angela's been repeating
inside my head for quite some time know. I mean now. I mean I can't
fucking type and I'm starting to wig the fuck out. Wigging out.
What a strange phrase. Where did that even come from? Wig. Wig.
Wig. After awhile, that word sounds ridiculous, if you keep
repeating it to yourself. Well, any word sounds ridiculous if you
keep repeating it over and over again. You start thinking, where the
fuck did those sounds come from? And how did they come together, and
how did those sounds together come to mean that? Why that? What is
that? That's silly. That. That. That. That means nothing, that's
just a weird sound that comes out of your mouth. But it's not coming
out of my mouth right now, I'm just hearing it inside my head. How
am I hearing it, if I'm not saying it out loud? How can I hear
anything? Inside my head, I mean. Nothing's vibrating my eardrums
(well, yes, things like the computer and creaks in the house, and
other random noises, are vibrating my eardrums, but you know what I
mean. Don't you?), yet I'm hearing the definite sound of that.
That.. That. That. Okay, it's beginning to drive me crazy. Not
that I'm (Gaah! That word again! Fuck! There it is again!) not
already crazy, you understand, but I can't stand the way things keep
repeating themselves in my head. Things like that. You know. I'm
beginning to absolutely despise that word (Gaah! Not again!). The
that word. I can't even remember what part of speech it is right
now, fuck it all. It's a, it's a, pronoun? No, it's not a pronoun.
It's something more complicated than a pronoun, if pronoun is the
word I want. I mean if complicated is the word I want. Shit. I'm
thinking way faster than I can type, and it's tripping my fingers up.
Oh well, at least they're getting a workout. Maybe obscure is the
word I want. No, it's not. It's a demonstrative something, isn't
it? Shit, what is it? I have to know, I have to know now. And no,
I can't just look it up on Cop-out-ipedia right now, because I have
to keep typing, I have to get these thoughts down on paper. I mean
up on the fucking screen. Fucking computers. Why do they exist?
Pen and ink's much better. I think I need a fountain pen. A
beautiful, personal fountain pen. I could name it something and it
could be my constant companion (Be my companion! Don't hurt me)
wherever I go. And then nobody would just be able to say my
handwriting's crap. No, then they'd all be saying, "What a gorgeous
pen! Too bad her handwriting's crap." And I would think to myself,
"Ha ha, you lose. You don't have a fountain pen." Because everybody
knows fountain pens trump handwriting. Or maybe it would magically
give me beautiful calligraphic abilities. As if the very fact of
holding an amazing pen in my hand would inspire me to suddenly become
a writer on par with Shakespeare himself. Not that I have any idea
whether Shakespeare had good handwriting or not. For all I know, his
original drafts looked like pigs dipped their hooves in ink and
trampled on them. But that's not really what's important. Not the
physical appearance, but the inward quality. Sure, Shakespeare's
pigs may have had something to do with his plays, but does that
matter? Does any of that matter when we read them and understand the
full beauty of his works? No, being a good writer doesn't mean good
handwriting. Who gives a shit about handwriting? Especially in this
day and age, when everybody uses computers and nobody bothers about
beauty and style, let alone even the basic rudiments of grammar,
spelling, and punctuation? If Shakespeare could see us today, with
our brb's, and our "omg u no ur teh best lol," verily, 'twould make
each particular hair to stand on end like the quills upon the fretful
porpentine, and he would let despair of the human race feed upon his
damask cheek like a worm i'the bud. No, when faced with prose like
that, nobody gives a crap if pigs wrote it or not, it's still damn
good. And that's what I mean by good writing, and what I mean when I
say I'm going to be a good writer. Not that I'm planning on
emulating Shakespeare, mind you, I could never pull that off. But
what I intend to write will reflect the good, the true, and the
beautiful, because those three things are what's worthwhile in this
life that we call home. And that's what I'll spend my life pursuing.
Or maybe die in the pursuit. Whichever one sounds better to
you. I plan to do both, since, as we all know full well, life's just
a lingering death. And now that I've found a suitably morbid note, I
think I'll leave you. Have a nice day.
Spudge at 10:29 AM