no logic, just hormones
Aug. 15th, 2002 03:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanI blame the fluxy estrogen.
So the thing is, I have selective attention. I know this. And it's not even conscious - I don't actively discriminate as to what receives my undivided vs. impossibly wayward brain cells. Some stuff gets through, tunneling bone-deep while other information seems to bypass *every* one of the senses and the unconscious besides, really no mind or matter how necessary for survival. Out in the wild, I would've been lion fodder (oh god, the imagery) long, long ago.
Lucky for me, dark alleys, strangers with candy, and cholesterol aside, if I don't marry into the mob or become an officer of the peace statistics are on my side when I say that life won't go out on a limb to fuck with my well-being. God bless the fall of literal Darwinian evolution. Metaphors can be evil too, but there's usually irony involved, and one should be nothing if not appreciative of a well-executed stunt.
Apparently, it's Bad Pun Day too.
I'm too much of a surprise to myself. Don't think it was in jest when I said I almost feel like a ticking time bomb sometimes, where the slightest provocation could trigger the mechanism that unleashes the mouth that doesn't check in with the brain that couldn't think far enough ahead to keep up anyway and then it's all water under the bridge if I'm lucky and an unwitting recurrence of the fate of London's pride as I ponder who thought to give me anything vaguely resembling fire-making materials.
Sometimes, even McGuyver's got nothing on me.
The world is incendiary to my imagination. Miranda calls it being "highly impressionable." The psychoanalyst lurking latently (ha!) just beneath all our skins begins to tinker and sort, trying to reason out what trauma/sexual hang-up/bit of childhood angst could be to ferret out and blame into oblivion. Facing something head-on is not nearly as daunting as having it chase you from shadow to shadow. What does it say about me that I walk around like a human sponge, watching and absorbing and *unhappy* unless I'm doing just that? Pop culture obsessions and fanfiction and traveling to sit in the cafes and libraries that the people of that place frequent and it all means something deeper, as most everything does.
It's just escaping me at the moment.
*
Second person seemed like such an odd way to tell a story. And then I read some, and it's even better than first person for being in the action. Maybe it's the part of me that likes being told what to do, which if you know me at all you'd swear on a stack of sacred objects didn't exist.
Off-topic:
'Flangst' is a good word. Except just then, it sounded more like guilt-induced masochism than the lovechild of Fluff and Angst. Like this.
So the thing is, I have selective attention. I know this. And it's not even conscious - I don't actively discriminate as to what receives my undivided vs. impossibly wayward brain cells. Some stuff gets through, tunneling bone-deep while other information seems to bypass *every* one of the senses and the unconscious besides, really no mind or matter how necessary for survival. Out in the wild, I would've been lion fodder (oh god, the imagery) long, long ago.
Lucky for me, dark alleys, strangers with candy, and cholesterol aside, if I don't marry into the mob or become an officer of the peace statistics are on my side when I say that life won't go out on a limb to fuck with my well-being. God bless the fall of literal Darwinian evolution. Metaphors can be evil too, but there's usually irony involved, and one should be nothing if not appreciative of a well-executed stunt.
Apparently, it's Bad Pun Day too.
I'm too much of a surprise to myself. Don't think it was in jest when I said I almost feel like a ticking time bomb sometimes, where the slightest provocation could trigger the mechanism that unleashes the mouth that doesn't check in with the brain that couldn't think far enough ahead to keep up anyway and then it's all water under the bridge if I'm lucky and an unwitting recurrence of the fate of London's pride as I ponder who thought to give me anything vaguely resembling fire-making materials.
Sometimes, even McGuyver's got nothing on me.
The world is incendiary to my imagination. Miranda calls it being "highly impressionable." The psychoanalyst lurking latently (ha!) just beneath all our skins begins to tinker and sort, trying to reason out what trauma/sexual hang-up/bit of childhood angst could be to ferret out and blame into oblivion. Facing something head-on is not nearly as daunting as having it chase you from shadow to shadow. What does it say about me that I walk around like a human sponge, watching and absorbing and *unhappy* unless I'm doing just that? Pop culture obsessions and fanfiction and traveling to sit in the cafes and libraries that the people of that place frequent and it all means something deeper, as most everything does.
It's just escaping me at the moment.
Second person seemed like such an odd way to tell a story. And then I read some, and it's even better than first person for being in the action. Maybe it's the part of me that likes being told what to do, which if you know me at all you'd swear on a stack of sacred objects didn't exist.
Off-topic:
'Flangst' is a good word. Except just then, it sounded more like guilt-induced masochism than the lovechild of Fluff and Angst. Like this.
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no subject
Date: August 15th, 2002 08:25 pm (UTC)You know, that isn't entirely a bad thing. Have you been reading Thamiris's essays? I was floored. Also inspired to brush up on my Freud and classical literature references, possibly even make it through that King James thing yet. But the attention has been distressingly monopolized. Sigh. There really is nothing to do but go with it, very much like a rip current in that way. Fighting it will only leave you miserable and achey. What needs to happen is the real world needs to get half as interesting.
you know, there's a starbucks really close to my house. you should travel here and observe the locals
Hee. :) Now truly -everyone- wants to have coffee with me. I'd love to, hon, honestly. However, the Goat skipped town yesterday and I'm leaving on Saturday afternoon, starting le distraction that is school.
what happened to the drifter, the free spirit who embarks on road trips at the drop of a hat?
That's Jack's line, and tell me you got it from him or else I might really feel like I'm losing my touch. But I've been drifting! All the way to Chicago, and then Orlando, not to mention Logan's last weekend. The tides just haven't cast me your way yet. Miranda and I will see what we can't pull off though.