ass-lazy tropicana of the mind
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2002-07-27
sleep, ebay, and revelations
I've been tired recently.
I know that's unsurprising. I mean, hell, I'm writing this damned entry at 7 am on a Saturday -- I keep on waking up early and going "I'll just check my email..."
It's partially because it's summer and the sunlight creeps through my windows and I think "Shit, it's late, I better wake up" when, y'know, it's 6 in the morning, and it's partially because I can't check my email at work, and all that spam really adds up like no freakin' tomorrow, and it's partially because I'm just weird.
So I'm tired. A lot. Which is okay, because it's nothin' new and, heck, eventually it'll get cold again and I'll want to spend all my time asleep but right now, while it's hot and muggy and sunny, I might as well spend as much time as I can awake, huh?
Or something.
I need to stop being an eBay addict. I really do. Although I'm mellowing out a bit, I'm still bidding on twenty gazillion things in a vain hope to purchase all the strange and surreal stuff that I love.
Well, right now I'm trawling for comic books and band t-shirts, but, hey, aside from that, I'm doing better. No more Afro Ken (except for what I'm bidding on now), no more Battle Royale (unless one of the t-shirts comes up), I'm clean, baby, clean.
Yeah right.
But, hey, I got Mac OS 9 and an *NSync lunchbox. eBay's good for somethin', right?
Still buried in Anarchy For The Masses, which stands to reason, since I'm still trying to get my little head around it.
Ended up picking up The Posthumanism Reader at the library yesterday. To continue upon the entire "mind being blown" thing. It has Donna Haraway's Cyborg Manifesto in it, which I've read bits and pieces, but I am going to sit my ass down and actually read the entire thing and think about it.
I don't know. Re-reading all The Invisibles and Anarchy... and everything is making me think about the inherent possibilities in writing yourself a better existence.
There's a Doctor Who book -- well, it's less of a Doctor Who book and more of an original character book -- the author was part of the group that wrote a bunch of Doctor Who books containing original characters then, when the licensing dropped out, just continued to write about the original characters. Anyways, it's called The Mary Sue Extrusion and that's what I'm thinking about.
Writing yourself a better existence. Possibly in the reality you're in, possibly in another one.
Kay did it in The Invisibles. She sat there and wrote and went into the liquid logic processors and thought and shaped The Invisibles, a book she read, writing Ragged Robin in until it all became real.
Jonathan did it in Buffy. He scripted a spell and made it work and he was the greatest man on the planet.
Sometimes I wonder if it's possible. Like, really possible. Most of me is just going "pfft. Yeah, right," because I'm firmly programmed into this reality, but a little part of me is just...
Y'know. Tempted. Maybe I can write the world where my sitcoms aren't rejected and I live in a big house and all my friends live nearby.
Maybe I can write the world where the cultural revolution of writing your own realities has taken over. Maybe I can help bring that forward.
The year 2012: Where everyone gets what they want.
I've got to stop reading The Invisibles. People are probably thinking I'm going crazy, that I'm too full of myself, or something.
But it's...it's like I'm skimming on the surface of some major revelation, and I'm almost there -- I can feel it, but I just can't make it yet.
And I keep on poking at it, like a loose tooth or a spot or whatever -- you push and you push until finally, something breaks free and whatever's inside flows out over you.
And heck, I know I don't know enough to make sense of it all. I don't know why I'm prodding when it'll be just out of distance. I ought to trawl Barbelith -- they all seem to know what they're talking about.
I don't know. It's almost in reach. I want to know more.
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