but how long can you keep it up?

It's been a hell of a week. Don't take that the wrong way. I haven't had time to read the books I told myself I would read, but the alternative option is pretty great at the moment.

My only worry is that the levels of bliss fulminating in my core are going to be destructive to my literary skill. There's a sort of stigma: that writing and creativity are best when they come from a dark and depressed place. It is easier to write when I'm upset than it is when I'm happy. Perhaps because it is my way of coping with everything. I suppose in that respect I should try to make it a habit of writing more when I'm in a good mood or good place in my life. What's hard about that is that it passes by so fast that I just want to sit there and feel it all and shut my brain off to the meandering that happens when I'm morose.

They tell you that when you're in the first stages of romantic bliss your brain pumps out the same types of serotonin/chemicals that you get from certain drugs. They're what keep you infatuated and focused on your partner - more hierarchically speaking - they help forward the genetic imperative. I find this dually fascinating and gross. I like the feeling - I don't know how I feel about where it's leading. Back to my issue though. When I'm morose - I generally feel more witty. I equate cynicism and anger with intelligence and hilarity. Maybe because most of the people I really like and identify with had or have an angry black humour schtick going for them. I have to break this pattern. I think I'll accomplish this by upping my amount of writing here by a significant chunk. I update pretty damn randomly, but I'm sure once school starts I'll be wanting to write more. Perfect.

In regards to what's been happening this past week? Sometimes you just have to jump in head first and deal with consequences later. I got lucky.

birthdays

Talking to a friend today - it is her birthday and she mentioned she felt "meh". I sympathize. I've not had any good birthdays really. There has been a small succession of slight failures on each one's part. So it hit me - the obvious: we're conditioned to think that birthdays are a big deal. That something amazing will happen just because our satellite has gone another revolution around the sun. The expectation of a giant internal clock striking twelve and suddenly feeling older, wiser, something - anything. Bullshit. It means nothing.

The real days of growth are the ones where we overcome hurdles and learn new things. This is when we age, grow wiser, etc. I want to say so many things in addition to that. But they're all really personal and ridiculous. Also it's early days of some of my own realizations yet and I think I'll ruminate on them some more before committing them to cyberspace.

I meant every word

So I am reading East of Eden by Steinbeck right now. It's quite a tome but it slides across my cerebellum like butter. I feel guilty, I should be reading A Confederacy of Dunces, but it's daunting for one reason or another - more on that in a bit. So - I'm a couple of chapters in and one of the reasons I am really loving it is because I feel as if I've been enveloped by that world. The language slithers into the corners of my being and it is lulling, peaceful prose. It can be graphic yet soft and makes me feel warm and cosy. Is that strange?

Two minutes ago I was complaining to Skye about how boring the internet was and then I decided to wiki Steinbeck. So here I am. And here's what I think.

I want to live in the era of Steinbeck. He was raised on a farm and went to Stanford but dropped out because he wanted to write. He was something of a drifter but then his father put him up in a house he owned and supplied him with money and paper and other needs. Steinbeck was able to write. He worked in between Stanford and being supported but - at jobs that we (and probably he as well) consider(ed) demoralizing. My point, though, is: it was a different time. Now, I, of all people am usually the first amongst us to say "man I love living in the future" but things are so rigidly structured in our time. We're expected to go to high school - and that education doesn't count for much, so we go get our degree, and then more degrees, but how much practical knowledge do we attain? Then we're saddled with loans (if we're not the lucky few) and spend our lives slogging through the weeds to pay them off. I know I'm looking at it from a really negative theoretical standpoint. I can't help it. I want to run away and just live. To fast forward through this university stuff - and just be able to live. Steinbeck, other than having millions of words inside himself, was a literary genius. If I knew that about myself - that I had those kinds of stories inside of me - I would leave in an instant. I guess the pervasive idea of my life for the past few years is that I have, in a sense, been stuck. Stuck in a relationship that I didn't know how to account for or get out of (for whatever reasons) and now - in a way - I'm stuck again, at university.

Please don't misunderstand tender reader - I am in no way trying to compare myself to Steinbeck. Now, back to my thoughts.....

In the time of Steinbeck, one didn't neccessarily have to go to university. People just went and got jobs. Some were more apt with words, some with their hands. The world was not so populated as it is now. Life - in a way - was more simple. I know I'm saying things that are glaringly obvious but still, I wish we could go back to this simplicity. So that I didn't have to spend all this time waiting. Waiting for my life to start. Because that's what it feels like sometimes.

I want to travel and see things that somehow bring those millions of beautiful words out of me. I want to be struck by ideas for stories and be able to follow my hunches and ideas and do research on things. Time feels precious. But to get time - you need money - and to get money - you need a good job, a career if you're lucky. A career means: university education. It feels like a hopeless cycle. And at the same time I realize that I actually like going there - U of T is pretty awesome despite what people have to say. But still. I want to concentrate on things other than 10 page essays on the treatment of "female bodies" in a detective fiction work. Sure it's interesting but, my mind tugs me in different directions.

And then who's to say that even if I do have a great idea for a book or a novel, that I'll be able to execute it properly. How long would that take? Will it be good enough? I know - I should stop dawdling and start writing. I suppose the career of a novelist is hard enough to come by - we can't all just wake up one day and be Steinbeck.

He had to work at it too. I guess I'll keep doing that.

you were my favourite moment of our dead century

I don't think I've written about this yet. A few weeks ago I went to see my mom at her office (which, incidentally, is around the corner from my apartment). I forget why I was there - I think I was picking something up, or just hanging out and getting food at the hospital food court. I do that every now and again - even though the food court kind of sucks, seriously, I always get an assorted sub and call it a day. Anyway my mom and I were talking and out of nowhere she asks "Remember Beata?",

me: "No?"

Mom: "The lady who took you to the High Tatra's when you were a kid?"

me: "Oh Teta Bea" (pronounced beh ah)

Mom: "Yeah! She emailed me the other day and..."

me: (cutting in) "I don't want to know! If another person is dying of cancer I'm gonna go nuts!"

Mom: "Nobody's dying, relax, actually she emailed me because your sister (!) wanted to know if she could have your email address and email you?"

me: "Uh, you mean....uh....my dad's ...other daughter?"

Mom: "Yeah, the older one, Reka (my middle name), I think she's 31."

me: "Oh, oh....oh...ye-es"

Mom: "Okay, I'll email her back."

Did I mention this was a few weeks ago? I waited until that night to tell Karen as we had a get together at Red Room. I didn't want to get my hopes up. I've never met my dad and I figured this was a good way to break the ice, if any. I wondered if the girl spoke English, or Slovak, because I sure as heck don't speak or read Hungarian. But I did get my hopes up. How could I not after all this time. I worry that I may have accidentally deleted an email that came into my spam filter. I worry that my mom didn't give Bea the email address. Most of all I worry that she changed her mind, and doesn't want to get in contact with me. I somewhat decided not to worry about that part of my life a long time ago - to put it away awhile. And then it got all stirred up. Now I think about it more, and I sit. And I wait.