Words At Arm’s Length

Warning: This is a nigh-incoherent, self-absorbed rant (what else is new?). Proceed at your own risk.

I’m not particularly sure where writing fits into my life.

I came to a conclusion walking home tonight from a pleasant evening that ran the gamut of the seven deadly sins, with heavy emphasis on sloth and gluttony: writing to me, is much like a bowel movement, causing discomfort when obstructed and relief when it has passed.

Pardon the graphic imagery, but it serves its purpose. Relief is not pleasure. I’m not sure that the pleasure comes from the act of writing itself, only the release, the feeling of pressure released, of a noose cut from the gallows.

The rest is pride. That’s where the real pleasure comes from. The accolade, or the disgust, or the confusion or anger. The incitement is where the pleasure lies. The acknowledgement of others. The audience. You.

That’s why I think blogging gets to be too much for me. It’s all relief and no release. A tonic to cure the symptoms. That’s not to say I won’t continue. The reason I set up the “blog schedule” is to continue to provide myself relief in hopes that one day I’ll write something that will cause a continent or two to shift. To finally satisfy my pride.

I restarted this particularly blog entry four times. Four. Each time I felt as if I was writing absolutely nothing. I complained about my lack of acceptance, my attempt to find a place in this world. All bullshit. I know what niche I fill and how decorative and inconsequential it is. I don’t need to write about it. My frustration about it has run its course, and thus a new topic needed to be addressed. I defaulted, of course, to the one thing all writers write about: writing. I’ve never had writer’s block like that before, not with the blog. My problem with the blog was never my lack of things to say, only my lack of urge to utter. This seems initially contradictory to my vain and preening nature, but consider that I often think that I’m far too good for the blogosphere, or just too good for anything in general, and my sloth becomes a bit easier to understand.

I’m something of a fraud, you see.

I honestly believe that I’m meant to write. The more I do write, the more I know that it’s true. But the problem comes from my sense of entitlement. That I should be immediately good, immediately accepted and praised and fretted about and railed against oh yes please do tell me I’m so fucking good and so fucking bad.

I don’t deserve to skip a step, but I often think I ought to be allowed to and therein lies yet another one of my fundamental problems.

And thus, from the chaos of this clusterfuck of self-examination, a goal is set. To find the worth in the work. To appreciate the craft of writing and derive pleasure from its making. Not to mentally elevate so that it’s “good enough” for me, but for me to understand what the act is and become defined by it. I think I may have tasted it from time to time, but the time has come:

I’m going to find out what it’s like to be a writer. For real this time.

Creaturesque by Throw Me the Statue.

I’ll admit it right now, I’m easily swayed by indie pop. I loves me a catchy hook, a jangly guitar, good-but-not-great vocals delivering lyrics that are far too depressing for the major key synth melody. It’s a tried-and-true formula that keeps me coming back, although rarely if ever to the same artists. Exceptions exist, naturally (The New Pornographers and of Montreal come to mind immediately), but generally I’ll be enamoured with these bands for all of two full album listens and then drop them outright. The problem, I think, is that so many of these bands try to get by on gimmick or charm alone and forget that whole song writing thing (I’m looking at you, Black Kids. “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance” was quite the tease). Even fun music can have gravitas, but so few bands manage to hit those highs, whether it be musically, lyrically or both.

Not so with Creaturesque. The second album by Scott Reitherman’s band Throw Me the Statue is a wholly affecting album. All of the tricks are there (the synths, the retro guitar) but the songs never devolve into pastiche and always manage to sound complete. They have a heft to them, and yet the whole album breezes by rather gracefully. “Tag” and “Snowshoes” especially embody this. Both songs clock in under 3 minutes, but managed to stun me as I bopped along to the beat.

Try it out if you like Belle & Sebastian or the New Pornos (check out “Dizzy From the Fall” for the Murdoch- and Newman-isms).

And for those keeping track, my play count on this album is already at 12 after only a few days having it on my comp. Take that as you will.

You Should Be Watching This:

Airmaster

Yes, an anime. I’m really late to the game on this one, but I had to point it out for obvious reasons. The series follows Maki, a muscular, 6-foot-tall high school gymnast who becomes too large to compete in her age group. Addicted to the thrill of competition, she turns to street fighting to try to get her emotional high back. Adapted from a seinen manga (roughly equivalent to a long-running graphic novel rather than a no-end-in-sight serialized comic), the series excels because of its audacity. It knocks off pretty much every fighting anime that came before it, and manages to balance its ridiculous fan-service with moments of epic badassedness. The art style is beyond retro, and the mascot-esque Renge is possibly the most horrifying character in existence (even though she was supposed to be the cute one), but the animation is solid, the fights are well-choreographed, and the characters are fun to watch. 27 episodes long. Check it.

I think for the rest of this summer I’m gonna try for a consistent blogging schedule: three times a week minimum Monday, Wednesday and Friday, with each day devoted to a specific subject:

Monday: You Should(n’t) Be _____ing This. Reviews and recommendations from the various media I consume.

Wednesday: Personal blog/poetry.

Friday: Bitching about politics/gay rights/et cetera.

I believe this to be a workable plan and will start tonight for my first post tomorrow. I’ve been listening to new music like crazy so I have a lot stockpiled to rant and or rave about. The only thing I’ve been consistent with in terms of blogging is my utter inability to keep my promises and keep up the pace, but I think a more topical approach will keep me on the ball.

Wish me luck.

I honestly think their strategy is to bait her into the “meltdown” that Graham claimed would be the only thing keeping her from SCOTUS. This strategy: 1. is going to alienate latino and latina voters, 2. isn’t going to work and 3. is generally insane. I think they told Jeffery Sessions to play the racism card to greatly increase the amount of frustrating hypocrisy getting thrown around so Sotomayor would simply get up and walk out due to pure frustration. Sotomayor, wisely, is gritting her teeth and shutting them down one by one, making the Republican senators look like bigots in the process.

It’s still shocking, though, to see how unabashedly condescending and outright racist the proceedings have been thus far. Kinda sucks for Sotomayor that her record is sitting there, hardly remarked upon. Oh well, once she’s in, Americans can hope for a fer realzies leftist activist judge for the next nomination.

Sainthood is a dubious honour. From my understanding of the term, sainthood is achieved by being called to holy service for a god or gods, and performing miracles. I thought of this when, during the training class at my new job, one of my co-workers from a previous call centre job came in, as a MANAGER, and began addressing the class. This man, intelligent in his own right but difficult to take seriously, had achieved a form of call centre sainthood. His canonization comes in the form of three call centre miracles:

1. Staying at his previous call centre for several YEARS before switching over, somehow avoiding being laid off in that time.

2. Maintaining a blog for his tenure at both call centres without getting fired for it.

3. Rising in the ranks of his new call centre to manager status, effectively breaking his multiple year run on the phones as a customer service agent.

That this process, in my mind, elevates this dude over the typical call centre worker is a testament to both my warped imagination and the incredibly limited expectations for call centre positions.

That I’m putting myself through more call centre drudgery is a testament to both my masochism and the state of the job market in this town.

I was about to call it a “god-forsaken” town, but truly the call centre gods have smiled upon the Niagara region. People of almost any qualifications will be considered for employment at these places. A true miracle for the under- and over-qualified alike. Although, from a perspective of long-term employment and actual career fulfillment, these gods are at best idols and at worst trickster demons, luring the lazy, confused and desperate educated masses back into their waiting arms over and over again to keep us from escaping “Just-over-minimum-wage” limbo.

Solid exit strategies are a must. It seems that I’m one of few in my training class who has one. Terrifying, that perhaps call centre canonization is the best some of these people have to hope for. It’s not the worst thing ever, of course, but who dreams of one day landing somewhere squarely in the middle? Why be a martyr to the gods of call centredom, even if they do throw you the occasional bone of inbound customer service?

$13000 in debt and counting.