The whole “inspiration” is a fickle thing. I mean, sometimes, reeling off 3,000 words is the easiest thing in the world. Something hits, I got to a computer, and boom, the thoughts flow. I like those days. After all, besides being a platform for eventual world domination, this whole blog thing should be FUN, right?
I don’t mean that the writing should be always funny, of course. God knows I’ve been short with the funny lately. The phrase “the funny” is a particular one to me that I associate with all things Joss Whedon related; specifically, “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel”. I like copping to this source, if only that these are the two shows I appreciate above all for their writing. I appreciate shows such as “24” and “Alias” for their plots, but not always for the actual dialogue. Where Team Whedon succeeds above and beyond the call of anything we as a television audience can possibly hope for is the blending of “the funny” and “the serious”, usually within the same scene. It’s the only television universe that revels in communication so much; they are drunk on language and words and turns of phrase. It’s kinda hot.
I mention all of this as a way of me rationalizing “out loud” as to what makes all of this blog stuff work. I’ve taken a habit of looking back at the month that was for the site, just because even I forget what it is I’ve said over the past month. I’m too busy living my life to remember what it is I actually do for those 24-hour periods, after all. What struck me was how, on the last days of both September and October, I shaved my head. I don’t know if there’s symbolism in that. Maybe I like to start fresh after every 30-odd day cycle. Maybe I just wanna make my bottle of shampoo last longer. Who knows. October wasn’t the emotional clusterfuck that September was, thank God, but provided a host of new and bizarre and (not always) unpleasant sensations, encounters, and drunken revelry.
So, as a way to wrap up the month that was, I’d gonna turn it over to the writers of Team Whedon for a little illumination of the month that was for yours truly. (All quotes derived from this site.)
Xander: Okay, let's not say something we'll regret later, okay?
Cordelia: You crazy freak!
Buffy: Vapid whore!
Xander: Like that!
“Homecoming”
There’s a particularly fine line one has to walk when writing a publicly read series of articles with a mix of people you both know personally and have never met. I guess lines, really, more than a singular line. It’s almost like writing a continuous sequel to a movie or a book, where some people know a foundation of material, but some people are coming to it fresh. You have to try and not exclude the newcomers without boring the old fogies. OK, that came out wrong, that whole fogie bit.
Especially when the subject is you. I avoided the topic of me for so long, that once I realized it was acceptable reading material, the proverbial floodgates opened. Hard to stop talking about yourself once you think someone actually gives a rat’s ass, especially for yours truly. (I should put that as point 6 of “Annoying Ryan Traits” a few days ago, I guess.) If I’m happy, I let you know. If I’m not, I let you know that as well. Usually, I avoid specifics, because the specifics are incredibly uninteresting except to me, and I lived through them, and as such, don’t need to recap which bar, with which person, with which beer. I guess in some ways it’s better to locate the story in a bar rather than an igloo, because the story didn’t take place in an igloo after all, but really, who cares? And I’ve just spent 200 words on something you shouldn’t care about. Moving on, quickly…
Airing unhappiness on the blog has always bit a bit of rough sailing, but usually I’ve been lucky enough to traverse the waters without a hitch. Pretty remarkable, in hindsight, since nearly everyone I have the power to affect knows about the site and reads it on a general basis. Well, all good things must come to an end, and October was the time for that streak to halt. Words hurled, feelings hurt. Not good times. Terrible times.
But hey, a new month. Patchwork on that little glitch already in progress. An important safety tip though, Egon. The blog is such a safe place for self-expression, thanks to all of you, that maybe I got a bit too comfy. Which gets us into the next quote:
Buffy: Xander!
Willow: Oh, wonderful Xander!
Buffy (while giving a group hug): You know we love you, right?
Willow: We totally do.
Xander: Oh God, we're gonna die, aren't we?
“Primeval”
(This is the part of the essay where I break kayfabe and pray to the Casting Gods to give Nicholas Brendon some post “Buffy”-work. OK, moving on…)
The trick in creating such a safe psychic space is that it can create a false social atmosphere. Ironic, since one of the inherent lures of a blog is to have a type of interactivity lacking in most other forms of expression. More immediate that journalism, farther-reaching that a chat room, longer-lasting than the leading deodorant, blogs implicitly need a community to remain self-sustaining. In a sense, they prop each other up. Look on the side of the main page, and you’ll see a dozen or so daily reads of mine. They in turn have a dozen or more, and it stretches out, tendril-like.
I don’t mean to beat the dead horse of “you read my blog, but gosh darn it, you can’t know me”, because if my stance on that isn’t clear by now, well, I’m gonna give up, quit my job, and just start watching “Passions”.
That being said, the type of community that has built up, through a combination of comments and seeing who’s linking me throughout the Internet, has had a bit of a scary effect. It’s along the lines of, “Christ, people actually read this, don’t they? I best not suck.” Need to be prolific. Need to be witty. Need to be earth-shatteringly amazing. (Luckily, I get great deals on cocaine, so the prolific part is taken care of.)
I guess above all, though, is the fear that, one day, that the comfort inspired by such a community will let my guard down enough to write the things which still lay dormant in my mind. Paragraphs and paragraphs of honest emotion dying to get into a CSS code. It’s all a bit Jack Bauer at the end of this season’s premiere of “24”; all sweaty, panting, wrapping the rubber band, tapping the vein, getting the syringe ready. (No, Dad, I don’t have a drug problem. Put down the phone.)
So I guess I’m a little like Xander in the quote above: surrounded by friends, enveloped in warm fuzzies, yet terrified. This is the one thing I do really, really well (well, this and cake decoration…and fan dancing…and Kofi Annan impersonations) and I’d rather keep doing it well.
(Did I really just type “warm fuzzies”? Yeesh. No more “Queer Eye” for me. Although Thom says can never have too many votive candles, and I just used my “out-loud” voice again, didn’t I? Damnit.)
Willow: I knew it! I knew it! Well, not 'knew it' in the sense of having the slightest idea, but I knew there was something I didn't know.
“Innocence”
I just love this quote. And Alyson Hannigan. And if I keep saying that enough, she’ll date me. Power of positive thinking, y’all.
Willow: 'Cause The Bronze is nice and familiar. It's like a big comfy blanky.
Oz: I was under the impression that I was your big comfy blanky.
Willow: Ahhh, you're my person blanky; this is my place blanky.
“Wild at Heart”
Again, I heart Alyson Hannigan. As the Spanish say, “Yo heart Alyson Hannigan.”
I love the idea of a “person blanky”. This gets back to terrifying “warm fuzzies” talk again, but bear with me. Maybe it’s cuz I can keep loose change in my forearm hair, but I like anything to do with the equation “Fuzzy=Good”. By the transitive property, I inevitably end up “Good” if we agree to this theorem and as such, let’s just agree to this and move on, shall we?
A “person blanky” is great because it need not imply anything sexual, although it certainly can. A “place blanky” is of course any ol’ place where you feel at home. It can be your physical home/apartment, or be a hangout. For me, lately, Manhattan has been said “place blanky”. For some of you, it seems, this ol’ site is your “place blanky”, and I highly encourage said attachment, since I need all the visits I can to prove to “Those Who Might Pay Me To Write” that I gots mad audience, G.
As far as the “person blanky” goes, well, the jury’s still out on that one. I don’t think I have one now, per say. I mean, I dig the Commander and all, but if I called him my person blanky he might not let me ever crash on his couch again. In essence, we’re talking about that person (and I think the meaning here is singular, you can’t have multiple blankies, and let’s forget I’m making such a serious point using the word “blanky” and run with it, OK) who makes you feel as safe and secure as possible. It could be through friendship alone, it could be through naked morning spooning, whatever. That person is your emotional armor against the world. “Person blanky”: a silly name for an incredible important function.
It’s all, in the end, about making that connection to reach this status. Because, really, unless one of you is psycho, y’all arrive at this blanket arrangement more or less concurrently. That should be the way it works. Sometimes it takes a few months, sometimes a few years…and every once in a while, it takes a mere number of days. And it’s always scary, because to admit to having this person is to admit you’re vulnerable. The fact that they can protect you means they are that much more able to hurt you. And that’s a risk some people simply aren’t willing to take. I’ve been on both sides of this particular conundrum, and Lord, it ain’t pretty.
It takes almost as much nerve to admit it to yourself as to confess it to your partner. You make a conscious decision to fight your unconscious impulse to give yourself over to another person. It’s instinctive, it’s instinctual, and sometimes, unfortunately, it’s downright impossible. You want to give, but you can’t. Or you give, and they can’t or won’t receive. Hardest thing in the world. But just because it often fails is no reason to never try.
You know, I’m leaving my mid-20s officially soon. Less than two weeks from now and I’ll be 28. Hardly old, but no longer young, really. And I’ve been on the go so long: almost 20 years of bouncing from one activity to another, days filled morning until night with things and events and games and homework and theatre and parties and love and heartbreak and, at the end of it all, here I am, on a quiet Sunday in downtown Boston. I’m in my office, the lights are buzzing, and the world is still. And after all the commotion of my day, my weekend, my week, my month, my year, hell, my life, I sit here knowing there’s only two things in this world I was put here to do:
To love and to write.
That’s all I think I’m good at, and that’s all I wanna do. You’ve given me the chance to do the latter, so I’m halfway there already. As for the other part, well, sooner or later, I think. I’m in the end a romantic with the exterior of a cynic, and every once in a while I molt and expose myself for who I really am. So there, you caught me in a monthly molt. (This metaphor sounded much nicer in my head that it does on the screen. Hmmm.)
We’re all really good at making our lives more complicated than they should be, but really, I’ve got two things I want to do, and I structure my life around those two principles. They’re pretty much worth giving up a lot of my current life to achieve. On the other hand, if I achieve these goals, I’m only gaining, not losing. Every once in a while I lose sight of these goals, but usually, someone’s there to remind me, whether they meant to or not. Some people make it so damn clear that the light is blinding.
So, for me, I’m gonna walk towards the light, and see where it takes me. I’ll let you know what happens on the way.
I promise.