September 18th, 2003

pencil

putting the caveat before the seahorse

If asked, I would never have said that my words spring from dissatisfaction. However, I find somehow that when I am content I'm nearly silent. The impulse is there, the desire to write is there - but that freely flowing spate of commentary that tends to accompany most waking moments I find somehow stilled.

I had an idea once (not original, I'm sure) that humor mediates discomfort - I think in a related way the stream of internal documentation I'm used to is a way of mediating between my internal state and an uncomfortable exterior world. So when I'm pleased, or happy, I'm less likely to have that automatic documentator on/present.

An unfortunate side effect of this is I often fear I come across as a big whiner. It's nice not to have the power of speech desert me when I'm angry or upset, but sometimes I wish I felt as facile describing pleasant, positive occurrences in my life. Forty-five minutes of contented reverie in front of a blank screen (accompanied by gentle humming) does not constitute incisive commentary, alas. And see how easy it is for me to get going once I fall into mild self-deprecation! Tsk tsk.

Maybe it isn't just me, maybe that's a bit of why it's so much easier to find reviews slagging off various entertainments in organs like the Stranger or the Weekly - though that thought does not absolve a certain B. Miller in the latter of his abusive disregard for any movie content containing emotional depths greater than one millimeter. It's harder to praise something creatively than it is to pick it apart - but I would maintain that it is worth the extra effort.

All of which is an extremely convoluted means of excusing my woefully inadequate musings on a variety of pleasant occupations on- and off-line. Excuses, excuses. Or rather: excuses! excuses! get'em while they're hot!!