Well aren't I just up on things. Looking back I guess I said once a day seven days a week not once every seven days or so. Anyway, due to my OCD with listening to my CD's, for the past couple of weeks I've been listening to things like this, this, and this. If you want to ask I'll explain but it would take too much space right at the moment. So after listening to various people sing various holiday tunes for the majority of the morning I decided it was time to get up and walk around. Now that's not too unusual, Mark and I usually make a circuit of Oakland around 2ish every day. However, Mark had the day off today. So, I decided to walk out on my own.
I realized something on my walk. When you're walking with someone else, there's usually some type of conversation going on. Mark and I talk about everything from work to family to news and back again. However, when I walk alone I find that I tend to be very introspective. Which for me is never good. Instead of walking alone, I find that I walk with all my assorted demons. There's the little yappy one who does circles around me asking why I haven't dropped the number of pounds that I'd like to lose. There's the one who springs out of the rational part of my mind asking why I haven't investigated a mortgage/house yet. There's the one that's constantly reminding me that I'm currently 3 tests and one assignment behind in my Managerial Accounting class. There's the one sitting on my left shoulder reminding me about housework that needs to be done. Of course, his partner on my right shoulder reminds me of all the yardwork that needs to be done as well. There are the twins that bellow "Are you being the best dad you can be?" "Are you being the best husband you can be?" in an alarming cacophony of caterwauling (which is redundant I know, but they're demons). And that doesn't even speak to the thousands of lesser demons all screeching their own little personal message of hell.
Then there's my personal favorite, the one that hangs around my neck on what feels like a 3,000 lb weight swinging back and forth asking why I can't put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, or voice to tape. That's the one that I hit out against today. Metaphysically I wanted to know why the demon hadn't given me a good concept to work with or a bit of story to develop. What did I get back? Lord Byron.
Now, for those of you that don't quite get that, you might want to read this. For a long time (and even to some degree more recently) every time I went into a restaurant or bar I'd inevitably end up scribbling down a few sentences or snippets about "She". I suppose "She" was born three-fold. Part every woman that I'd ever run across, an amalgam of beauty you might say, part Byron and part this.
"She" started out cliched and stayed there. The various napkins, placemats, scraps of paper, and matchbooks reside in a box filled with other assorted "writings" as well as several poems that this guy hated beyond all belief. So, I'm back to arguing with the demon. It's damn near impossible to to develop a concept that at it's core is cliche, at least to the point of selling it to other people. Thankfully the demon didn't win, I arrived back at the office and the majority of the argument was over. However, that nagging residual feeling still remains, so hopefully I can excise one demon by posting this. But I doubt it.