There have been many times in my life that I have bought sketchbooks... and let them lay, sometimes for years, because I didn't feel that I had anything worthy enough to put on those relatively expensive pages. So I waited and waited and waited for inspiration. Needless to say, that inspiration never came. I just don't see those images coming out of my mind and through my hands onto that... canvas, or whatever the medium might be. Now, of course, my canvas is cheap, cheap, cheap. Fleeting electrons on a hard disk drive, on a server, on a wire, in a radio wave, anywhere in the world. And flung into space, for all I know. And I'm thinking, I'm still not worthy, not worthy, *not worthy*... but neither are all of these other jackasses, and lookit them go! And my canvas has turned into a page, a blank sheet of paper, kinda, and so very very cheap, and how, no matter how worthy, no matter how brilliant, can Fifteen minutes of fame? Hah! 15 GB of fame? Man, that's a lot of fame! Way to much for me to even contemplate. The most prolificate of writers ere now have probably approached one tenth of that number... no, don't hold me to that, I'm just making up numbers to make a point anyways. Yeah, I'm too lazy to do the research. So, at the most, I could write maybe ten best-sellers, and then I would die. And ten is probably stretching it a little. Anyway, the whole point here is that I've decided that I don't want to make a living as a writer, especially as a journal-writer. Everybody else has a great big head start on me, after all. I actually decided that years and years ago, and I do think that I already told everyone, but it doesn't hurt to repeat it, heh, some of you might not have listened the first time. And that inspiration? Never struck my head, or anywhere near me. I would still love to be an artist, though... just to get those pictures out of my head. I can't write them out, or I would try. Well, I've tried, and then I looked, and then I burned those electrons before they could escape. I think more of the world than that. Woody Allen said it best:"I don't want to become immortal through my work, I want to become immortal by not dying." He was not always so sensible in living his life, though... but few of us are, and mostly those who are deeply regret it. Or so I like to think.... JD and Tyler are coming Thursday! I am chuffed, I am! And dictionary.com is not up to date on my usage of chuffed, so they're wrong, wrong, wrong! I have a lot of repeated words in this entry... trying to keep the word count up. I *will* be remembered, if for nothing other than my word count, heh. And I really don't want you to think that this entry is about my own personal mortality. Well, though, come to think of it, *every* entry that I write is about that... I didn't think that this one was more so than usual, but I might be wrong about that. I might be wrong about a lot of things, but I'm right about everything else, and don't you forget that. I just wish that I had some way of telling them apart. Heh, I just re-read this, and a *real* writer would go back and make it sound not so choppy and maybe even make it cohesive and coherent all at the same time. Heh. Me, I'm late for bed already.... O'yeah! Karen and I watched a movie! See the short review below, in that space that has been blank for a long, long time! Excellent, excellent! Everyone has already seen this movie, so I won't say much more than that. I cried a lot. In the Mail: On the shelf:
one individual stand out in this morass of voices, of images, of the renderings of the stuff of life?