Fan’s Complaint

In the absence of anything interesting to write about, I’ve decided to use this space for the big project that I’ve always wanted to do: The Story of My Father. This is sort of an ambitious undertaking, and I would not be surprised if I were to give up as early as tomorrow. But as of right now, I truly do feel as though we have entered a new era here at Fan’s Complaint.

Driving to work yesterday morning, I was thinking about how I could better utilize this space. My initial idea was to write a full report of my latest failure, and its resulting psychic trauma. Upon further introspection, however, I realized that there isn’t much psychic trauma at all (the bourbon fixed that), and that there is nothing about this failure that is different from previous ones. It’s about time to stop dredging up the recent past, don’t you think? It’s time to look forward! Yes! Look forward to the distant past!

Prepare for the rentrée chaude…

I think these little conversations I have with an imaginary person are doing me some good. For my writing, anyway. Well, for whatever it is I’ve been doing here these past few weeks, writing or not.

I feel like there is stuff enough here to be the basis for something “real,” but the conversational style that I’ve been using to draw this stuff out just isn’t gonna cut it.

Would editing take something away?

No, of course not. I’m just lazy.

“What do I remember? I remember being sad that I couldn’t bring my bike here. It was a little red thing, red frame, red tires, yellow plastic rims–kind of communist colors, now that I think about it–but I was damned attached to it. And I guess, in retrospect, it was probably the worst bike that I’d ever owned, but it was my first bike, you know?”

“I remember seeing my dad for the first time in four years, and instinctively knowing who he was, but at the same time… It was like he was a stranger.”

“Well, my mother once told me that for about a year after he’d left for America, I’d go around pointing at men with moustaches on the street and ask her whether that was dad. I don’t think I ever cried about it though. I don’t cry, really.”

(more…)

These little monologues that I’ve been writing to assuage my guilt are getting worse and worse. I should’ve stopped after the first one.

My latest excuse is that the heat is too much. Winter is a better time for writing anyway. Think about it: if Spring is birth and the Songs of Innocence, and Winter is death and Songs of Experience, what does that make Summer?

Summer is early middle-age: that really boring time when you’re already kind of old, but not old enough to see death coming (that’d be Fall). As a matter of fact, that’s kind of where I am now, isn’t it?

Shoot me.

***

In other news, Autonoetic has introduced me to this wonderful blog. It’s kind of sad that I can develop a crush on someone just from reading their blog. Sure the writing is excellent, but I’m supposed to be trying to be more manly–last week I installed an air conditioner all by myself–and getting a crush on someone without seeing that they’re hot is not manly at all. Nor are crushes, in fact. I think we just lust and hunt, club and grab.

I thought about putting her on my blogroll and e-mailing her, but not only would that be weird, it’d also be embarassing for me, because her writing is so much better than mine.

Until I can consistently post quality material here, I will just admire from afar.

“I’ve been having these horrible dreams lately. Daydreams, rather. I’d be in the fileroom, shelving another cart of crap, and I’ll take a break, and then start imagining myself spending the holidays with her. And then all of a sudden it’ll be ten minutes later, and the automatic lights will have turned off because I’d been standing still the whole time.”

“I know that sounds sweet, Doc, but trust me. I can tell you from experience that I’m doing much better if I’m having purely sexual fantasies.”

(more…)