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Bloggedy-Blog-Blog-Blog

by Usziel ... Melancholy Muse

Rated: XGC · Book · Other · #1448018

Recording musings to annoy and patronize ...

It's a friggin' blog, duh!

Show Recent Comments

3 Most Recent Blog Comments:

MetaphorSquared

Jul 14, 2008 at 5:37pm
In response to "Hello, Me v1.0"

The shallow pool cannot look deep, and the ocean defies measurement by the eyes alone; it's only with probing that one comes to understand the difference.

As for masks...they only come alive when worn.

If that clarifies, or confounds...?

To these thoughts, I'd add, it's not the human psyche which is simple, or shallow--ever, but it's the perceptions of the psyche that are limited by the observer. People are complicated creatures, colored by moods and shaped by circumstances; all nature, nurture, and nobility entwined in a coil encompasing and defying DNA and the Cosmos at once. Don't sell yourself short by trying to sum yourself up. For you, or for others.

And if you must, at least credit yourself with being the sum of a beautiful complication of bio-chemical mathematics, an equation devised by divinity.

Usziel ... Melancholy Muse

Jul 9, 2008 at 4:09pm
In response to "Hello, Me v1.0"

The masks are, from my own observations, as much ourselves as we want or need them to be. I guess the real problem with this situation is if these splinters of ego develop a life unto themselves. How we react to certain situations can be problematic insofar that we allow ourselves to react as opposed to conscious decision making. Impulse is always difficult to control.

I don't think truly shallow or simple people have the ability to be anything other than what they are. As for the complex and profound amongst us, using a mask of their polar opposite doesn't make them that, but may help with understanding.

Hmm ... I can't help but wonder if any of that made sense.

Allyson Lindt

Jul 9, 2008 at 11:50am
In response to "Hello, Me v1.0"

Contemplations of self can be draining - at least that's my excuse for avoiding them whenever possible. The question is - are the masks a lie, or just another component of 'I am'? Are we as individuals so simplistic that we can be summed up in such a way? Okay, some people are. Writing is the window to the soul - but does that make those of us who write about shallow things, shallow people?

Sorry, not sure where this is going. To steal a line from chicochica

from just a few days ago, sorry to blog in your blog. I should probably go pretend to work now.

July 7, 2008 at 5:55pm

#595095

Hello, Me v1.0

You’ve no idea how difficult this is.

A wise man … or at least a very loud man … once instructed a community of budding, idealistic authors to write about what they know. Considering this piece of gibberish is about me, I’ll just assume you’re under the impression that I’m somewhat egocentric. Ha! The joke’s on you!

I’ve no earthly idea who I am. OK, that’s not entirely true, recent life experiences have provided me with a handful of clues … a few pieces of a puzzle I never knew was there.
You see, I’m what you might call a ‘social chameleon’. Whatever shape, texture, and colour you need me to be, that’s what I become. And I’ve no control over it … this behavioral characteristic is always on auto-pilot.

The neighbor boy threw an Independence Day party last night. It was a small gathering of 20-somethings looking for an excuse to drink and set off bottle rockets … or as I saw it, a reason to confirm his alpha-male status amongst his pack of furry, little friends. The depth of esoteric conversation ran the entire spectrum of “Dude” and “Waz up” and even included startling revelations about “That sucks” and “Fucker”. On the back porch, I watered the only surviving member of last year’s summer heat and quietly hoped this gathering of his shared at least one key element with Jonestown. And then it happened.

“Hey, gotta light?”

The switch flipped on and I disappeared. I spent the next half hour chain smoking and confirming an overlooked omega’s suspicions of “That sucks”. I can’t describe how grateful I was when a small herd of cows appeared to drag him off as their escort. And there I was, alone in a PVC chair that I once spray painted metallic blue, immersed in self loathing.

So what’s the moral of the story? The point to this quaint observation? When I write, I tap into something primitive … the fundamental components of “I” that have managed to keep me alive and reasonably sane for the last 3 decades.

Can you guess what they are? Can you see the real me?

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