Picked up Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road”. Got through the introduction. Sounds like an interesting book.
A friend is having me assemble an audio track for his mostly-silent short film. We have some great ideas.
I have several short stories that are in the works. One is mostly finished towards a second draft, the others are a handful of notes.
Have a few song ideas, some that have been going unfinished or unrecorded for almost 4 years. That’s a long time to get nowhere.
Walking through the second season of “Farscape”; after seeing a handful of episodes, I fell in love with the show, but never managed to see the entire 4-season run. I watch it when I can.
My job is taking my mindshare away from me when I’m off the clock, and is getting no traction when I’m on the clock. Impossible deadlines, broken infrastructure, and chaotic management abound.
So many projects in my pocket, most of them creative. I take them out at the end of the workday, put them on the table, decide what I want to do that night. And all I want to do is turn off and do nothing. The creative execution is difficult, the joy fleeting, the reward impersonal. I feel dead. Does it get better?
Five years on this gods-forsaken rock. FIVE. They sent me here for a year-long tour to research the local culture, some “earnest measure” to evaluate the consequences of first contact. My early reports weren’t too favorable, so when the inter-solar economy went soft, the axe came down and my manager got shitcanned for poor performance. Not my fault that jackass sent me here without doing his homework. He just delegated that research to me to be done in situ and waited on my field reports.
“See that world!” he exclaimed. “Gain valuable experience!” he cried. “It’ll be a great résumé builder!” he implored.
But he and anybody who knows I’m here is gone. My only hope now is if I’m still on the payroll. Maybe some mid-level accountant will look over the books, notice the checks going out, but not see my ass sitting in the hive. “Hey, where’s Funar Densnak?” he’ll ask. If I’m lucky, they’ll send a transport and rescue me.
I swear by the red shores of Senastes, I will seek punitive damages for pain and suffering induced by overexposure to Humanity. I would pull all three rows of teeth to leave this place.
I don’t know about you guys, but part of me is getting turned off by this social media thing. Law of diminishing returns, I guess.
I mean, I like keeping in touch with the people I know from near to far, from now to then, but it goes with the territory that reading up on their lives involves reading about their lives, that reading their thoughts on things involves reading about their thoughts on things. People have opinions, and they express them. As hard as Facebook works to make sure we’re all enveloped in an echo chamber of like-minded posts from like-minded friends, you’d think it would go down easy to read each and every ideology that cascades down my news feed…but it doesn’t. Everybody talks, and it’s work to go “well yeah, but nope” as I skip through the posts without bothering to read the comment threads (Internet comments are the worst, even in situations where you know the real name of the person commenting and could punch them in the face later that day).
Lately, my job has gotten heavy enough on me, psychically, that I just don’t have the mindshare or bandwidth to even go “yeah; no; yeah; you’re stupid, but I still like you; no; hide post; no really, just hide this post”. I’m actually closing the Facebook tab for hours at a time. Work time is work time, social time is social time. Maybe I’m growing out of it; maybe I’m worn down by the constant stimulation and distraction. Maybe I just don’t want to make expressing an opinion an uphill battle when I have more important matters in the real world to attend to.
It requires a good bit of personal energy to keep it current, and I get little of it back — most of that in the form of “Likes” from the same ol’ folks (God bless ’em). So, yeah, diminishing returns.
At least MySpace got me laid once.