I don’t know why movies even tried after 1986.
I’m pretty sure this is the song that’s played on the dance floor in Hell.
Anyone who delights in the world of grindhouse flicks will love this tale of a bunch of cult movie nerds who find the most obscure movie ever. Also, did I mention the bisexual love and demons?
The web series I’m producing is the top story on io9 right now. That’s the sort of surreal I’m not prepared for. This is not a drill.
Hi, go check this out and then maybe watch the show?
I was going to spend my time here worrying about my time slipping away. About all the dreams as yet unfulfilled. I was going to disappear into that navel-gazing fatalism that grabs so many and drags them down.
No. Not anymore. Depression is lying to me and I refuse to listen. It’s time to go to work.
I could be very sad. I could write odes to my depression and my fleeting youth. Or I could decide that life doesn’t end when you stop being twenty-two and I could get something done. My life and my decisions. Shut up and listen, world. I’m just about to be brilliant.
I still find joy in playing “Won’t Get Fooled Again” very loudly and letting the Moog dance around my head. I close my eyes and let my mind drift and see all the things I could be, all the places I could go, all the dreams I haven’t yet fully dreamed into life.
It’s a difficult process reminding myself that I’m still in many ways the creative and inquisitive kid I was decades ago. I’ve let that fall under the should-do and must-do of adult life. For some reason I’ve filled my head with social media and other people’s opinions and the sonic detritus of the modern age. I entered a Masters degree program and immediately let the stress of it get to me.
I remember when I spent whole Saturdays building space fleets out of Lego with my brother. I’ve spent the last two years writing papers on Saturdays. I’ve denied myself hours of just listening to music, of being very intentional about going to the movies, of writing just for the sake of it. I’ve spent the last few years killing the magic out of my life, strangling it under the guise of being an adult.
All I seem to do now is work and check Facebook-Twitter-Reddit-Tumblr in a loop. Ideas get shoved in a drawer so that I can spend more hours worrying about my academics and getting indignant about other people’s opinions. I read the entire post history of Reddit trolls because I hate myself. I get involved in Facebook arguments and click on articles by writers I despise because apparently my time is worthless.
I used to write nonstop. I used to create. What the hell happened to me? When did I decide to make myself miserable?
Maybe it’s not even about writing anymore, not about the space in public or the need to be acknowledged. Maybe it’s more about getting my mind right. It’s about finding that silence that has eluded me for years. Maybe it’s time to bring magic back to flood the spaces I’ve filled with things that crush me.
Harold Ramis did more to bring joy and happiness to this world than your average human. When even your comedy about war is full of goofy optimism like this moment, you know you’ve done something right for the human condition.
Some nights you’re reminded that you’re 418 days sober and you go out and break your best time for a mile run after coming back from severely screwing up your knee and you sit down to write something that’s not school related for the first time in weeks and you remember ideas you had years ago and you come up with new ones that could severely alter the course of your life and you realize that you’re running again and you’re moving again after hours of thinking you were dead in the water.
I made a pact with myself that this time I’m going to stand up to fear and to addiction and uncertainty and my own demons. I am going to turn around as they try to rush at me and I am going to punch them in the fucking face.
I’m in this race. I’m running it. I’m going to catch up to my friends and my heroes and those I love the most and together we’re gonna change the world. And there’s not a single thing that will stop me.
Four hundred and eighteen days away from that which was going to consume me and leave me for dead. If I can push that away from me, then I can do anything.
"You are the orchestrator of it, but you’re not in it. Let your characters do the suffering."
David Lynch on suffering, stress, pain, and creativity is something we probably all need to hear.
(My Italian and Huguenot sides have no dog in this fight, spirit or regular-type.)
But then again, that’s just how I feel. You can’t police how anyone feels. You can’t tell someone they’re wrong for their offense. You can’t be the tone police. You can’t tell everyone how they get to be affected by your actions and words out in the world.
I don’t have a spirit animal. I’m just some dude. I’m always trying to learn, and I know that I’m not very good at many things. I want to know about this world and I want to leave it a better place than I found it. I’d like to know what makes people happy more than what offends them, but I want to know that too so I can avoid it.
I’ve read The Way of the Shaman and didn’t think much of it. I’ve heard the same stories and same research from people the world over and loved them. I’ve dug into my own cultures and backgrounds and found things I loved and things I didn’t. I’ve met people who have impressed me all over the world, and I love a ton of them. Doesn’t stop me from having dumb opinions I’ll learn to regret and grow apart from later in life.
I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve always become a better person when I stopped being indignant and I started listening. Sometimes I didn’t change, and sometimes that was much to my detriment. But I try to listen. And I try to change. I try to make myself better.
Sometimes that’s all you can do.